The Dance by Heather

Sensual.

Fingertips lingering.

A soft chuckle.

You two dance. You can't dance, but dancing with her easy. Dancing with her feels natural. Sweeping her off her feet is easy.

She plays with your hair and smiles. You are hers. The moment you've worked so hard for, finally arrived. You are completely and utterly hers. There's no doubt. No questions. There's just you and her.

She's made you wait. Days, weeks, months even.

It's been worth it. Waiting is good. No rushing. Patience. You learned from her.

You learned to wait.
You learned how to please.
You learned how to share.

She runs her fingers down your spine. You get goosebumps. Every touch feels define.

Her hands are hidden in gloves. Her skin is delicate, fragile. But you feel her. You feel her touch. The soft beat of her heart. You feel her.

Her fingers are long, her nails are perfectly aligned on both hands.

You are hers.

The universe is you and her.

She stops the dance. "Come" She whispers. You follow. The leash between your collar and her hand never too far away from each other.

She sits in her chair and you kneel. You don't care that your legs start to tingle after ten minutes. You don't mind that after twenty minutes you completely lost feeling in your legs. Because you're hers.

She loves you. She's proud of you. You make her laugh. You make her smile. You know everything about her.

The way her hair falls on the pillow as she lays down on the bed. The sounds of pleasure she makes.

You're protective of her. You don't let anyone close to her. She trusts you completely and you trust her.

You have a bond. A connection. A relationship.

And I?

I'm jealous.