Jim's Dance Along the Line

Driving along, Jim realizes he is in a position to act, a position to drag another into his web of insanity. Re-drag would be the truth though, he reminds himself, these submissive women seemed to wander in and out of his life, mostly he just didn't realize it in time, or, didn't act on the nature of the conquest.

The thought, the anticipation was exciting him, his hand dropped into his lap as he drove and played out the scene in his mind:

He'd pull off the road, glance around at the distant farms, wondering about the neighbors, did they talk to her husband? The gravel would crunch under the tires of the car. He'd realize that in the silence that was this area of farms and houses that were drafty, the sound of tires on gravel was the only door bell needed. Either the car hissed by on the black top or crunched into the parking area.

He'd step out of the car, toss the keys onto the front seat, and walk to the enclosed back porch; this was not a front door house, not a front door area. Once through the screen door he'd knock on the inner door, softly, hesitantly, hoping the husband wasn't home, that the youngest child was indeed old enough to be in school; so much time had passed. She'd pull the door open, and just stand and stare, yes, it had been that long.

"Hi," he would say.

"Hi," she'd reply, as she walked away, into the house.

He'd shut the door behind him, no invitation needed, and follow her; she'd sit at the table, where she'd been crocheting (or something).

"How ya been?" he'd ask.

"Fine, and you?" she'd ask back, knowing he was here for only one reason, even after all this time.

"Good, kids are good, yours?"

"All at school, finally," she'd tell him, "and Chris is on the road, as usual."

He'd look at her for a minute, maybe two, in silence, while building the nerve, setting the tone.

"Do you still have my shirt?" he'd ask.

She's blush at this, maybe stammer, but would smile too.

"I think so, do you want it back?"

"No, I want you to listen for a minute, don't interrupt, please."

"Okay,"

"I am sure you remember our phone calls," he'd start, and she'd interrupt with a word or two of acknowledgment, which he'd ignore.

"I am here, for the first time alone in years, and most likely will never be in this area again, alone. This is a one of a kind opportunity, so, if you are interested, what I want is for you to go upstairs and change into that shirt, just that shirt.

She's start to say something here, and he'd hold up his hand for her to stop, she'd obey.

"No, no words, none, either you do or you don't, this isn't about anything but the memory of those phone calls and the fantasy awakening. If you do go up and change, you can never tell a soul, as I will never tell anyone, and you will be mine, for the next hour or so, you will obey, like you did on the phone.

She'd hesitate, she'd question him with her dark eyes, and then, she'd get up and climb the stairs, knowing he was looking at her ass in the tight, faded jeans she wore.

He'd stay right there, where he had stopped, leaning against jamb of the door between the laundry room and the kitchen, waiting, anticipating, and hardening.

She'd take her time, possibly cleaning up, maybe having second thoughts, but she'd come down the steps in the flannel shirt, most likely with panties on. If he could see them, he'd remind her he had said nothing but the shirt, and she would remove them, demurely, as demurely as a slut like her could.

He'd direct her back to the table, to sit in one of the hard backed chairs, with her hands in her lap, the shirt, closed with only one, maybe two, buttons. He'd wait, looking, touching himself through his jeans, letting her see his excitement, building the tension.

He'd tell her to turn on the chair, so she was facing him, to open her legs, just a little, enough to tease, to hint at the secrets hidden there.

He'd then tell her to unbutton the shirt, leaving it closed, revealing just a slice of the white skin of her belly, maybe a small amount of breast, just a peak, depending on the lay of the shirt. He'd then tell her to slide her right hand, slowly, under the shirt, up her belly, to cup her small, left breast. He'd tell her to pinch the nipple, to roll it between her fingers, until it stood rigid under the soft fabric of the well worn shirt.

"Open the shirt a little more, I want to see your nipples, I want to see them stiffen in anticipation of my hands on them."

She'd comply, and the shirt would be open, her left nipple would be hard, the right following, slowly. He'd tell her to lift her head, to rest her hands once more on her slightly open lap, and he'd approach, rubbing his cock through the rough fabric of his jeans, the pre-cum leaking, creating a small wet spot below his right pocket.

He'd walk to her, telling her to open her legs a little more, telling her when to stop, just when the proof that she was a woman was visible, covered with a tuft of light brown hair. He'd stop beside her and reach down with his left hand to massage her left breast, kneading the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching, pulling, and then softly massaging again.

Stepping back just a little, he'd lower his jeans, freeing his engorged cock and stand, stroking it slowly, pushing the clear fluid from the tip, gathering it on his finger and offering it to her.

She'd take it, greedily, licking and sucking on his finger, giving him a taste of what was to come. He'd step in, using his free hand to turn her head to him, guiding his cock slowly to her mouth, teasing her lips, his hand now entwined in her long, mousy brown hair, holding her back from her goal.

He'd tell her to go slow, to open her legs even more, so she could begin to circle her clitoris with her right hand, her left was free to roam, from his cock, to his balls, his thighs, or his ass, to pull him into her mouth. He'd fill her, using her hair to slow her, or, pushing against the back of her head to drive his cock in deep. He'd take his time, pulling out, feeding her is balls, telling her to lick them, to suck them, then guiding her back to the head of his cock and driving it deep again.

He'd tell her to open her legs wide, his free (left) hand will have been tugging at her nipples, not gently, but not painfully, and he'd have her slip a couple of fingers inside herself; he'd watch as the fingers would disappear between the slick folds of her sex. He'd pull out then, resting for a time, telling her to watch what she was doing, to show him how she masturbated when they talked. He'd stroke his cock while he watched, keeping the head close to her.

When it became too much for him, and it would, he'd enter her mouth again, this time not slowly, this time with a purpose. He'd hold her head as he slid in and out, talking to her, telling her to finger that pussy, rub that clit, suck that dick. He wouldn't warn her, she'd done this enough to know anyway, and he'd fill her mouth with his warm issue, holding her head so she could get it all.

When he was spent, and she'd swallowed what he'd given her, he'd drop to his knees in front of her, place both hands on her knees and open her wide, exposing her sex completely. It'd be glistening from the attention of her fingers, maybe she'd have had an orgasm or two while sucking his cock, but he'd still lean in, gently flicking her clit with his tongue, roughly moving his hands up her thighs, moving her on the chair so she was on the edge, her sex open to him, and he'd dive in, licking the outer lips, the inner lips and driving his tongue inside her.

Moving to the clit, he'd alternate between light sucking and flicking it with his tongue, circling it, pressing harder and harder. He'd use her natural lubricants on his thumb, and slowly, ever so slowly, introduce it to her tiny little ass-hole, bit by bit, till it was all in. Then he'd move it in time to his ministrations on her clit, in and out as he circled, faster and faster till she was moaning, crying, begging him to stop to never stop, to fuck her, now.

But he wouldn't fuck her, he'd continue with the fingers and tongue till she had more than one orgasm, and then, he'd simply leave.

The fantasy played out, the details changed slightly, but the result was always the same. When Jim was through with his appointments, he let his memory take him down the right farm roads to the white, two story house at the Tee, right where he remembered it was. He turned right, glancing at the windows, the beat-up car in the parking area, and headed down the road, chastising himself for driving by, questioning his balls, his dominant nature. Turning around, Jim headed back to the house, heart pounding, cock twitching. He didn't hesitate this time, pulled in next to the white, late-model Chevrolet, and shut off the engine. He stepped out onto the fresh, clean gravel, smelled the fresh air, felt his heart pounding in his chest and walked to the concrete steps that led to the small, enclosed back porch. Entering the porch he turned to his left and knocked, lightly, on the door.

No sounds, nothing came from within, not even that slight change in pressure that signifies occupancy. Jim waited a minute or so, and then knocked louder, still nothing. No one home, therefore, no fulfillment.

For the best, he told himself as he walked back to the car and the long drive back to reality.