The Chair

He’s not allowed to know it’s me. That’s the rule. That’s why he’s blindfolded.

We've known each other for years, have flirted slightly in that time, but never took action.

Now I stand on the other side of the door, trembling slightly at the thought of what I’m about to do. I already took a shot to calm my nerves, but my heart is still racing. I’ve thought of this moment for years, fantasized about it, but now I feel frozen to the spot. I take a few steadying breaths, willing my hands to stop shaking before opening the door and stepping into the dark.

The room is lit with nothing but red rope lights lining the edges of the floor. I close and lock the door, noticing how his head turns toward the sound, and toward me. He sits in a chair in the middle of the room, where he is not to move from unless I guide him away from it, whether towards the bed behind him or out the door I just locked.

He seems nervous, but I know his only fear is that the woman who invited him here is ugly. Douchebag.

He listens to the click of my heels as I slowly prowl to him. “Hello,” he says.

I don’t say anything, but I respond by straddling his lap. I run my hands over his chest, covered by his button-up shirt. The two highest buttons are already undone, just exposing his skin. I glide my hands up the sides of his neck and into his hair, causing him to release a sigh. His hands find my waist and slowly search down my backside.

I want his mind racing through every woman he’s ever touched, wondering which one of them is gliding their hands along his body now. And he’ll come up short, because we’ve never touched each other. I’ve never allowed myself to release my sexual tension with him. But now, I intend on unleashing the part of me I’ve been reigning in.

My fingers fist in his hair and gently pull his head back, exposing his neck. I lean into him, pressing my breasts against his chest before caressing his exposed skin with my lips. The kisses start out gentle, light. But I want to taste him.

Like a ripe apple, I bite into his nape, pressing myself firmly against him and grinding on his lap. His breath catches while his hands grope my ass, causing a little moan to escape my throat. His five o’clock shadow tickles against my upper lip, but he tastes like musk and sandalwood. I want to drink him in, but he pulls away from me.

I sit back, afraid that he’s changed his mind. However, his hands travel away from my backside, up my arms, and along my face, searching. I allow his fingers to explore my mouth for a moment before sucking on his middle finger. I watch his brows knit together slightly as he takes a deep breath, cups my face, and pulls me toward him.

When I had fantasized about this moment, I always imagined that I would be the one to kiss him first, that he would wait to see if the mysterious woman who had invited him was ‘any good.’ But the way his lips are on mine now, it’s not an assessment, it’s a claiming.

I thought I had been the one who was hungry. I thought I would be the one to be unleashed. I underestimated him.

He engulfs me; his lips, tongue, and teeth ravage my mouth as his arms encircle me tightly, fingers digging into my sides. I feel him harden beneath me, and my eyebrows nearly hit my hairline when I realize the size of him. Where the fuck has that been hiding all these years?!

He breaks the kiss suddenly and loosens his grip on my body, causing a sound of protest from me. His hands wander to my breasts, fingers dipping tenatively into the top of my dress, as if asking for permission. I arch my back in response, pushing my breasts into his hands. He needs no further encouragement. His fingers grip roughly around both my tits, the dress still barricading our skin from making contact.

He seems to read my mind and yanks the neckline down. I’m not wearing a bra, so when he pushes one of my breasts up to his mouth, his tongue licks hard and torturously slow circles around my areola. I shudder, whimpering slightly. The sound only makes his hands grip me harder. Then his teeth close around my nipple, causing me to cry out and jerk in his grip.

I was supposed to rile him up, not the other way around. Now I’m fighting for control but losing completely. I won’t be able to withstand foreplay for very long, not now that he’s switched roles.

I begin dry humping him, unsure if the moisture between my legs is my own, his, or both of ours. It doesn’t matter. I go to unbutton his jeans, but he stops me and whispers my name. I stop cold.

He knows who I am.