I Wanna be Your Vacuum Cleaner

My attention returns to the present suddenly as your hand slides down my side, almost tickling. With the awareness of that sensation comes a wash of others to notice: I'm serving you as... a table? I can feel the thick carpet so soft on my hands and knees, the cool leather of your chair against my side as I lean against it slightly, the sound of hushed conversation around the room, the weight of my breasts hanging beneath me, the cold circle of your old-fashioned glass on my lower back. I hear a quiet, "Welcome back, pet." It amazes me that, as you're sitting there, talking with, well, whoever you're talking with, enjoying your drink, your attention is still so clearly on me. I had some concerns about this scene - I'd rather be the center of your attention - but it turns out I still am. You've managed to make this a game where we're on the same team, and it's hot as hell.

Every time my attention wanders - to thoughts of last night's drunken laughter, to this morning's breakfast, to the quiet drive over here with your hand on my thigh both grounding me and making my insides churn - some little touch, some quiet word gently brings my attention back to you. To this moment. You take a sip of your drink, allowing me a moment's respite to lean, just a little, this way and that, stretching out my spine and shifting my knees to maintain this novel position. I settle in just as your glass returns to my back, exceptionally cold, and in a new position, both annoying and arousing me at the same time. I wonder what you want me to take from this experience.

Your conversational partner leaves, you pick up your drink again, and invite me to kneel up. I do, appreciating the shift in weight as much as the change in view. With a glance, you invite me to look around, taking in the other patrons in their somewhat-but-not-entirely secluded alcoves. Your hand on the back of my neck guides my thoughts as much as my gaze. This place is quietly stunning, all dark wood and easy elegance. I wonder if they serve dinner. Maybe I'll bring you back here some night... I'm definitely more curious about the other bottoms than anything else. There is a bit of loveliness just across from us who is all gorgeously soft and round with places on her body I would like to bury my face. She has an ease about her service that is compelling. Her whole being softens in a lean to her patron, who rewards her with a gentle pat, and pinch. I sigh. Further to the left, oh, he's caught your eye, too. Young enough to be noticeable in an environment this refined, but clearly of age. He's still settling into this role and I can almost feel his short pants of breath from here as I watch. Now, that's yummy. Do they do lessons here? She could coax something lovely from him, I'm sure of it.

I turn to look at you, eyes rising slowly, not exactly asking permission, but inviting you to redirect me as you see fit. There is something hot, a little sharp, and quite definitely dangerous in your eyes when I find them. That hand on the back of my neck pulling me up and in, for a kiss? No... Close enough to feel the air of your breath, taste the rye and citrus tang of your drink on the air. I lick my lips. "You, my dear, are very easily distractible." As what I'm fully distracted by right now is the thought of kissing you (being kissed by you), I can't imagine you would find fault with this. "What were you thinking about down there?"

I laugh, just a little, more deflection than humor. "You, of course." The pressure on my neck is unrelenting and gets me no closer to being kissed by you.

"More."

"I was thinking about how good it felt to laugh last night." Breathe, why is this so hard? "I was thinking about how... I'm sore." Blinking, swallowing, waiting.

"More..."

"My legs ache over how good it felt to... ride you." I'm not a blusher. I just don't, but I can feel it creeping up.

Your grip on the back of my neck becomes a caress, I sigh. and... I'm STILL not being kissed. I pout, only slightly, and hint at leaning the rest of the way in on my own. Close enough to feel the tickle of your mustache. "That was a much better answer, love. Lead with that next time."

Smiling despite my disappointment, I sit back. "Next time" has a nice ring to it. Of course, this new position has given you an opportunity for new instruction. Following your gentle but no-nonsense guidance, I end up with my ass on my feet, knees spread just further than I would say is comfortable, arms behind my back pulling my breasts up. I watch them tremble with each breath and can't stop myself from looking back up at you, seeking your approval.

"Good girl." You remove one of the larger remaining pieces of ice from the glass, look at me, and every muscle in my body tenses in anticipation. You laugh, pop the ice cube into my mouth with mostly serious instructions not to bite it, and return to your survey of the room. You speak quietly, sharing tibdits of information about this patron, that bottom, that server. I know I should be listening, like, attentively, but all I can do is follow the low rumble of your voice, lean into each gentle caress. I'm fuzzy and floating and it's delicious.

Too late, I realize you've asked me a question. I blink, hoping that will bring my brain back online, and look up at you.

"What was it this time?"

Realizing that this is my chance, you've offered me a opportunity to perform, and well, and redeem myself. I take a deep breath, look down at your shoes, and speak, tongue still thick from the ice.

"I love it that you're always touching me, somewhere." Take a breath, okay. So far, so good.

"I love how exposed you make me feel." Okay, there's the blush.

"I want to be good for you, to please you." Am I crying? I'm not crying, that's silly. But something in me has indeed let go, softened, melted.

I pause to take stock and make sense of myself, realizing that my cunt is far wetter than my face. You haven't forced me to do, well, anything other than sit here. I have no bruises to prove it. But I don't know if I've ever felt quite so... possessed.