Page 21 of Audacity

And look at me in a way that suggests you’re doing it not because you know I’ll get off on it but because I’m your little fuck toy and you can do whatever the fuck you want with me, and I simply may not survive.

But I’ll let him find all that out for himself... the fun way.

Instead of spontaneously orgasming in front of him, I let the corners of my mouth curve upwards into a seductive smile and turn slowly.

‘Unzip me?’

He inhales sharply as he drags the zip down over its metal teeth. This is the first time he’s unwrapped me.

‘Thank you,’ I say as he gets to the bottom. Another turn has me facing him.

I shimmy a little, and my little black dress sinks to the floor in an expensive pile of Italian silk and French lace. This dress always pulls its weight at this stage of the process.

Equally expensive is my gorgeous Dior lingerie: slate-grey satin with a black lace trim. A large part of my brand, my allure, is appearing exclusive. Expensive. Out of reach, if you like. It gives men a far greater thrill when they actually get me.

I afford him a good look as I step out from the puddle of my dress and kick off my heels. Without them, I’m a good four inches shorter, and it throws the power balance further off kilter. He’s watching me in silence, his face almost stricken.

I look up at him through my lashes. ‘Can you help me with my stockings?’ I ask him, putting a hand on his shoulder and holding up one leg.

‘Of course,’ he murmurs, fiddling a little with the suspender clip at the front before it releases and he moves to the back. He glances at me and I nod my permission before he rolls the stocking down my leg and pulls it off, making quicker work of the second one.

‘Thank you,’ I purr before taking a step backwards so he can better enjoy the show. I lose the suspender belt and fix my eyes on him as I reach behind to unclip my bra. I love my breasts. They’re full and round and soft and gravitationally superior. I slide the bra off, and he makes a noise at the back of his throat that’s very promising indeed.

When I hook my thumbs into the side of my thong and tug that down, exposing my almost-bare pussy with its neat little landing strip, his lips part. Our eyes meet once more before I turn away in search of the bar stool. This way, he gets to assess me from behind, to learn the way my hips sway and my arse cheeks move as I walk away from him. I fetch the stool and set it right in the centre of the room.

He watches avidly with those dark blue eyes as I climb elegantly up. He’s shoved his hands in his pockets, a move that tells me he doesn’t trust himself and which serves to put even more pressure on the fabric straining around his erection.

I love that he’s still.

I love that he’s watching me, that he can’t take his eyes off me. Not for a second.

I love that he’s clearly been thinking about that photo of me since he saw it last week and has had the ingenuity to recreate it.

The stool has a padded seat covered in silky damask. I shimmy forward slightly until I’m comfortable. My hair is cascading down over my breasts. I shake my head to get it off my shoulders and give him a better view. Then slowly, deliberately, I cup my breast, resting my forearm on the arm rest.

I balance my toes on the stool’s rung and open my knees.

I reach down and find my pussy. God, I’m slippery.

I hold myself open and look straight at him. ‘How’s this?’

‘It’s perfect,’ he says on an exhale. ‘You’re fucking perfect, aren’t you?’

‘As long as I’m what you want, that’s good enough for me.’

He shakes his head. ‘Stay still for me so I can enjoy you.’

He’s motionless, too. His face is rapt as he simply drinks me in. If it wasn’t for that aggressive-looking erection, he could still be a priest, standing in front of Raphael’s Aldobrandini Madonna for the first time, lost in the rapturous stillness that truly great art provokes.

I wonder if he’s musing on what to do with me.

I know exactly what Iwanthim to do with me.

His eyes flit down to my glossy burgundy toenails and back up, his gaze sliding over my body. The total silence in the room adds to the weight of anticipation I feel in this moment. I can hear my heart thumping in my ear canals. I’m aware of every ragged inhale and exhale I take travelling through my nostrils.The room is warm, but I’m covered in goosebumps, and my nipples are already painfully taut.

He draws closer and I tilt my head back so I can gaze up at him. His first touch is that of tugging my hair fully off one shoulder. The warmth of his fingertips has me wanting to arch into him like a cat, but then the same fingertips are trailing down over my collar bone and further south until he finds the breast I’m not cupping.

It’s already so intense: this silence; his proximity to me; his torturously light touch. So when his fingers close around my nipple and he pinches it, hard, it takes me by surprise. I let out an involuntary whimper, my body reacting instantly. Sex hormones lace my blood with what feels like opium. My biochemistry is already screaming.

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