tagBDSMWaiting for Him: Anticipation

Waiting for Him: Anticipation


She wasn't used to wearing pantyhose anymore. It was an antique from another life, linked so closely with her teenaged memories of Sunday service, feeling the hard wooden pews through the thin nylon layer. And yet it clung to her every curve and rubbed so sensually against her shaved pussy that it turned those prim memories into something modern and almost deviantly sexual.

She lay in his bed, in the dark, and waited for him. "Wait for me at seven," he'd told her. Not, "I'll meet you at seven" or "I'll arrive at seven." Just "wait for me." His arrival was to be at a wholly separate time, perhaps a few minutes early, perhaps twenty minutes after.

She lay naked from the waist up and from the waist down painted in the sheer black pantyhose. The cool air lazily brushed her perk nipples as she kept her hands tucked behind her back, folded, like he liked. The waiting should have been boring, but the anticipation was like a pot set to boil.. Every minute of no reward built upon the anticipation, and as the time went on and the likelihood of his arrival grew, and with it, more anticipation.

Surely now, she would think. And then after a moment, surely now.

Her pussy was beginning to soak the bed underneath her.

She almost shuddered when she heard the door open. She felt herself tighten in anticipation, and she bit her lip softly to keep the hiss of delight silent.

Her eyes flicked over, saw something shiny in his hand. Something sharp.

"Did I say you could look?" His voice hit her low, inside.

She felt a flush of shame and a deeper flutter of something, something tied to and yet not directly arousal. She wanted to know what the shiny object was in his hand. It didn't worry her -- she trusted him not to permanently hurt her. But "permanent" was such a flexible word, and recently he'd been pushing her normal boundaries farther and farther. It scared her a little, in the back of her mind.

He knows I'm frightened, she said, and he's using it.

She felt her pussy clench.

"I didn't say you could look," he said. "Now..."

The moment hung, and even as she knew the words coming she felt the anxious thrill charging up her back...

"...I imagine we'll have to find some punishment."

He held the shiny object in front of her ceiling-focused eyes. It was a razor knife, the cheap kind you found at any hardware store. He clicked it twice -- in and out -- a sharp, metal sound full of internal gears and possibility.

"Do you know what I'm going to do with this?" he asked.

She realized she was shaking, and she wasn't sure from arousal or fear. "You're going to . . . to . . ."

He SNAPPED the razor knife open again, and she lost her train of thought. Where is this going? she thought.

"I'm going to teach you a lesson," he said. "About yourself. Do you know what really turns you on?"

The razor knife floated down toward her. She struggled not to move her eyes. "No, sir."

"It's my role to know," he said. "And I'll tell you, because in your case, telling doesn't spoil the magic. In fact, I think it adds."

She could feel the cold aura of the razor knife along her skin. Not touching, never touching, but chilling her nonetheless.

He paused, and then said finally, "Anticipation."

The knife was on the hose now, the cool metal handle bracing her. She knew the blade was there but she couldn't feel it, didn't know where it was in relation to the rest of her.

"The action is your release," he said, "but it's the anticipation that brings you there."

His warm hand suddenly palmed her vaginal lips, stroking, and she moaned. Then, suddenly, it was gone, and she fought the urge to stretch her hips up to find it again.

"Feel that? The expectation of the next touch? Anticipation."

She felt one finger lazily paint a path down her inner thigh and skip over her swollen clitoris. She shuddered and whimpered a little.

"What's interesting is that the action itself can be either positive or negative," he said, and she felt the cool press of the handle just above her clit -- where was the blade? -- and then it was gone again. "There is no value judgment in anticipation. Wanting one thing creates the same lovely anxiety as wanting to avoid something else."

He'd never spoken this much to her, not during their time like this. And he was right -- the words didn't dilute her experience. If anything, knowing what he was doing, knowing the intended effect, only served to heighten the shuddering need that was building low and rising higher by the moment.

"You want to know what I'm going to do with this?" he asked again. And before she could answer, she felt him move sharply, felt a tear, and gasped.

His warm hand now stroked her pulsing vaginal lips with no encumbrances. The razor knife had made a neat vertical slash, opening the tight nylon to let her pussy flex outward, soft and wet like a kiss, caressed by his firm hand. She heard the SNAP of the knife close, the clunk as it hit the floor.

She cooed and wriggled, pressing herself harder into his hand, fucking it, humping it like a needy animal. But the hand was suddenly gone, and she felt fingers at her waist.

He took hold of the hose and tugged, pulling it from around her softly-rounded ass.

"Raise your legs."

Shaking, she did, and he pulled the hose off her completely.

"Stand up."

What was this? She had never been told to stand before. She did, but haltingly, unsure.

"Raise your arms."

She did, and he slid the panty hose down onto them, and as he did, tore the razor-cut hole wider to accommodate her head. The panty hose slid all the way on, the hip-section wrapped around her shoulders, the legs becoming too-long sleeves, and the snug hip area fitted tautly over her breasts, restraining them.

She was drowning in the smell of her own wetness, so soaked was the hose. It filled her nostrils. It smelled like sex and love and warmth and forbidden things, and she felt drunk from it.

He took the too-long legs, hanging off her hands like an oversized suit-coat, and drew it around behind her. This had the effect of crossing her arms along her belly, boosting her breasts, pushing them against the nylon. Behind her, he pulled the nylon tighter, wrapping it around the front again along her belly and back once more, tying it off at last.

She tested the hose - it was strong.

"Now, isn't that that pretty?" he said.

He turned her to the full-length mirror across the room. She couldn't move her arms at all now, and with them so snugly crossed under her breasts, it had the effect of a corset: pushing and shaping her breasts pleasingly but equally against her will.

"Spread your legs," he said. And she did, feeling the heat radiating from her pussy as cool air slid up to meet her. She watched in the mirror as he slipped off his clothes, letting them fall in a pile.

He was already hard. She moaned.

He SLAPPED her ass, hard, stingingly, and her legs almost gave in from the shudder that passed through her.

"I didn't say you could speak," he said. "Bend over." Awkwardly, she tried, but she found with her hands tied it presented a strange balance problem. As she struggled, he suddenly grabbed a handful of the knotted nylon behind her, and pushed her head forward.

She hung there, held up by his arm and wedged against falling by her own feet. He completely controlled her now, and just by moving he could drag her along with him. She gasped and bit back another moan, feeling so intimately her lack of control.

And he entered her. Firmly, forcefully. Guided by her slick lubrication, his cock filled her completely. She could feel every hill and valley of his flesh as her pussy squeezed him over and over.

He began rocking his hips back in a lewd, almost-dance; a rolling that started at his chest and ended with a powerful thrust of his hips against her. She rocked back and forth, feeling the nylon tug at her breasts as he used it to pull her back to him. The sensations of the nylon, the thrust of his cock, feeling her own juices seeping down her leg.

She looked up, and realized she could see the whole thing play out in the mirror, and that he had planned it that way. She could watch him. She shook, and tears welled up as she watched the passion play on his face, as he took his pleasure by giving it, was fulfilled by fulfilling. His voice turned to the dark growl she knew so well, and that was all she needed.

The climax exploded in her, squeezing him so hard, and he fought her back, pushing deeper with his own climax, driving her forward till she had to take a step to avoid falling over. The feeling of hanging, of ownership, of being used for pleasure, and the joy of giving pleasure by receiving it, filled her till the scream broke from her lips and she shook, and shook, and shook.

When the shocks had softened, she felt him withdraw, and delicately untie the knots of nylon. Her legs were rubber, woozy. She felt lightheaded. His strong arms slipped under her, and brought her aloft. There she clung to him, feeling warm and safe, as he carried her back to their bed, and carefully pulled the sheets over her. Equally erotic, equally necessary to the feeling of exposure, of nakedness, of danger, was this surging sensation of protection, of safety, of affection.

He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her cheeks, pulling her into his chest and squeezing till she felt there was no other world outside their bed. And he did not let her go, until finally her eyes fluttered, and she drifted into a serene sleep. Then he kissed her once more, wrapped his legs with hers, and closed his eyes.

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