Blind Submission: Neck Bites & Throb

The rain hammered against the windows of the old Victorian house, a frantic rhythm mirroring the frantic beat of my own heart. Just hours ago, I’d been swept away by a date that had quickly spiraled into something dangerously close to obsession. A stolen kiss, a lingering touch, and a shared glance that held the promise of a delicious transgression. Now, the aftermath was a burning, insistent ache, a desperate longing for the release I knew was just beyond my grasp. As I reached for the wine in the kitchen, a shadow fell across my back. You, my desired, my tormentor, my everything, had chosen the most opportune moment to unleash your possessive charm.

Your arms wrapped around me, a possessive embrace that stole my breath. You tugged gently at my hair, pulling it back from my face, and then unleashed a torrent of soft kisses, each one a tiny, insistent invitation. The nibbles on my neck, playful yet demanding, sent shivers through my body. A slow, deliberate spin, and your lips found mine, escalating from a gentle caress to a deep, insistent pressure. The world narrowed to the feel of your mouth on mine, the intoxicating scent of you filling my senses. It was an exquisite torture, a tantalizing tease that left me breathless and desperate.

You began to pull at my dress, your hands sliding up my thighs, squeezing tight, a gradual, deliberate act of control. The sensation was exquisite, a delicious violation that ignited every nerve ending. The sheer exposure, the heat building beneath my clothes, the wetness gathering there, fueled my panic and my desire in equal measure. As my brother unexpectedly burst into the kitchen, the world shifted on its axis. The thrill of the moment shattered, replaced by a wave of shame and a desperate need to escape.

The frantic retreat to my bedroom felt like an eternity. Throwing myself onto the bed, the memory of your touch lingered, a burning brand on my skin. “One more week,” I whispered, the words a desperate plea for time, for another taste of your forbidden pleasure. My body throbbed with heat, a testament to the raw intensity of what we had just shared. The thought of enduring another week, denied the release I craved, felt unbearable.

Standing before the mirror, I stripped off my dress, letting it fall to the floor in a decadent display of vulnerability. My gaze traced the curves of my body, the swell of my breasts, the soft curve of my belly, my attention drawn to the sensitive flesh beneath my clothes. Running my hands over my nipples, squeezing them tight, unleashed a torrent of pleasure, a primal response to the memory of your touch. The pull of my stomach, the tickle of the hair covering my genitals, intensified the anticipation, driving me closer to the edge of oblivion.

With a sigh of surrender, I spread my legs wide, embracing the feeling of your fingertips tracing the wetness of my lips. The swollen nub of my clitoris, throbbing with anticipation, became the focus of my attention. A frantic, circular motion, faster and faster, brought me closer to the brink. Finally, two fingers found their way inside, penetrating the delicate membrane that veiled my pleasure. The sensation was exquisite, a slow, building crescendo that threatened to consume me. Just as I felt the veil give way, a sharp, agonizing pleasure ripped through me, a release that left me gasping for air. A substantial amount of my juices poured forth, a testament to the intensity of the moment.

The surge of pleasure was overwhelming, a wave of euphoria that left me shaking and breathless. As the echoes of that release faded, I heard a thud against the exterior of the house. Looking out the window, I saw a viscous, white liquid tracing its way down the glass. It was undeniable, the unmistakable sign of a man’s cum, left behind by someone who had clearly lost control. A slow grin spread across my face, a perverse delight in the knowledge that our desires had left their mark. Closing the window and drawing the curtains, I took steps to conceal the evidence, yet left the window ajar, a silent invitation to anyone else who might seek out our abandoned pleasure.

A few minutes later, I reached for the phone, my fingers trembling slightly as I dialed John’s number. The connection was hesitant, the line crackling with static, but he answered quickly, his voice strained. “Is everything alright?” he asked, his tone laced with concern.

“Yes, and why are you out of breath?” I giggled, savoring the moment.

“I, umm, had to run to get my phone. It was left in the kitchen. I just called to say sorry for tonight and I love you. One more week.”

“I love you and one week can’t come fast enough, baby.” The words hung in the air, a promise of future transgression, a testament to the intoxicating power of our shared desire. The rain continued to fall, a constant, insistent rhythm that echoed the urgency of my longing, a reminder that the struggle was real, and the pleasure was worth fighting for. The thought of returning to the kitchen, anticipating another encounter, filled me with a desperate anticipation. The desire burned within me, a relentless fire that demanded to be fed, and I knew, with a thrilling certainty, that I wouldn't rest until I had succumbed to its irresistible pull. The week stretched before me, an eternity of longing, but within that time, I would savor every stolen moment, every desperate touch, every tantalizing tease, knowing that our twisted game was far from over. And as I hung up the phone, a silent promise to myself, I knew exactly what I would do. I would wait, I would yearn, and I would prepare myself for the inevitable, glorious return of my desired, my tormentor, my everything. The rain continued its relentless drumming, washing away the remnants of our shared transgression, while within me, the flames of desire burned brighter than ever before.

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