Confession - Anon

When I see him, my mouth goes dry. The lioness in my belly rises up, clawing, and she begins growling, searching for him, demanding. I reach up, wiping my lower lip with my fingers, glancing away and believing that I've hidden this intensity yet again.

It was as if he planned to look this gorgeous, bathed in the afternoon sun and sitting in my living room. He taunts me with his muscled chest. As his submissive eyes lower, I reach down, cupping his chin and pulling it up directly, commanding his attention to my face.

It's all I can do not to shove my heeled boot into his chest, knocking him backward, stripping his clothing off and taking him right there. In my mind, that's what I'm doing. I'm raping him. I'm ripping his shirt, raising my hand and pummeling that broad expanse of a chest with the back of my hand and unleashing this beast of a dominant woman that must possess him. But on the exterior, my controlled, practice voice only replies, "I see you're here again. Something you wanted? I have little time for you today..." And I release his chin, my palm itching with the need to slap his square jaw, leaving a pulsing, reddened handprint upon it.

The vein on his neck pulses, and he glances away. "I wanted to see you, Miss. I can't stop thinking about you." His voice slightly falters as I drink in his delicious unease. Through the light fabric of his shorts, I can see just a small bit of bulging beginning to appear. The outline of his cock through his shorts. The whole time I turn to walk away, my knees slightly trembling from the effort of restraint, I know his eyes are feasting on the back of my thighs. It is all I can do not to turn around, grab a fistful of his hair and smother his nostrils with the muscles of my inner thighs, so tightly that he cannot breathe while I bring the toe of my boot down and step on his erection.

I pour myself a glass of tea, "I hope you aren't actually admitting to using self-gratuitous thoughts of me to pleasure yourself." Cupping my fingers around the glass, I turn to observe him. His jaw is working with considerable thought on how to answer my question as I lean casually against the counter, idly sipping my drink. I swallow back desire, an ocean of it, crashing over me. With each movement of my arm, bringing the cool tea glass up to my lips, I press it against my hardened, turgid nipples that threaten to reveal the lust that simply will not go away. I add, "Harboring such erotic thoughts about another person without their knowing about it is shameful." The last words leaving my lips that crave his sweet mouth, to drink in his woeful cries as my lash begins to make love to his flesh, extracting from him the dark gasps of euphoria and sacrifice that I alone can inspire.

"It's true, isn't it, boy? You lust for me. And you've been stroking your cock and thinking about me." I level my gaze at him over the clear rim of the glass. I calmly set it down, expelling a warm, calm breath and standing back up, arching my brow at him. His face reddens, and he stumbles over his words. He chuckles, and then his smile fades. In a moment of rare bravery, he looks up, "I want you so badly, Miss. I cannot help my thoughts." At his confession, my own sex responds, a deep bass drum once, pounding, in my belly and making me swell, the fabric of my panties wet as my throat constricts. I could, right now, walk to him, lay hands upon him, press my thumbs into his windpipe and begin to take his very air away... it's how badly I must dominate him. I need to lay upon him, torture his cock, completely envelop him with my body until he drowns, so desperately immersed in my presence that he can no long live apart from me.

I glance at the door.

"Get out of my sight. I said I had no time for you. You may try again... in a few days" His stomach muscles tense, and he rises, pain flashing in his eyes as he meets mine one more time. Sweet, violent pain screams in the back of my head at my own denial, and as he drives away, I watch his car through the window. Turning, I pick up a very expensive glass vase, hoisting it through the air as it shatters in the direction he last walked, dispensing its brokenness across my marbled floor.

"Soon," I say, speaking only that word. Yes. It's not quite time.

But it's coming.