Morning, and the Kitchen Table

In my mind, he is at the kitchen table. 

The one in my breakfast room, in that house in my head. He is bent over it, arms stretched wide and tied to the legs of the table. His legs I leave free, wanting to be able to move him around a bit.

I am behind him, admiring the line of his naked ass, enjoying the way that his balls press so helplessly beneath him, peeking out from his wide-spread thighs. 

He is naked, of course. He does not wear clothes in our home. 

I am trailing my fingers over his skin- gently, so gently, and he is whimpering and squirming. He does not know what is coming- I do not even know what is coming, because I haven't decided yet. The kitchen is such a delightful place to play, so full of objects with which to hurt him, to fuck him, to force him to make those delightful little sounds of pain and pleasure for me. 

Wooden spoons are a favorite of mine, and I have that delightful little Ikea toy which stays in the kitchen specifically for use on him- I still don't know what its culinary use is.

I have fresh ginger root, and I have cucumbers. I have fingers and teeth and fingernails.

I am idly stroking him with my nails as I muse, the sensation so soft that it's almost ticklish, and enjoying the little sounds he makes, the squirming. Enjoying the way that the morning sunlight slants through the windows and paints golden shadows on his skin. He is waiting for the pain, waiting for my pleasure, and he doesn't know yet how that will come. Judging by his body, by the way that his ass wriggles against me and his cheek is pressed into the wooden table, judging by the peaceful look in his eyes and hardness of his cock against the table, he doesn't care. 

I love that.

Love that he doesn't care what I do to him. Love the depth of his desire to please me. 

Beautiful, beautiful boy, on so many levels. 

Suddenly, I realize that I'm dripping wet and all that I want is to reward him, reward me, for this beautiful peace in his eyes, this beautiful desire to serve me. 

I know that he feels the moment that I decide what I want, feels the change in my body, and his own tenses in anticipation... and trepidation. 

I love that trepidation. 

I'm untying him now, drawing him to his knees again and retying his wrists to his throat, with maybe a foot of room to move them. It's enough, for what I want from him. 

And then I am hopping onto the table, my legs wide around him, drawing him in to me and wrapping my thighs around him, trapping him against the heat and desire of my body.

I can feel his eagerness, his desire, along with his breath hot against my thighs as his fingers find my lips, parting me and his lips touch the heat of me. 

And then his mouth is on me, his tongue working its way up my lips, swallowing my desire for him and I am groaning and wrapping my fingers in his hair just to have something to cling to. When he looks up at me, his face framed by the creamy whiteness of my thighs, I want to wrap myself around him and keep him forever, and at the same time watch the blood trail in rivulets over his body. Instead, I let him see the heat in my eyes, the desire in my face, before dragging him by his hair back to his task. 

I can feel his tongue inside of me, lapping at me, swallowing my desire, my need, and it makes me grown and roll my hips. God, it feels good, but it's not what I want. He knows it, knows that it teases me. This is his subtle revenge for the many times I've teased him, but I don't care because it feels so damned good. 

Just before I get impatient, though, he draws his mouth up incrementally, finally finding my clit and the sensation is so exquisite that I almost cum then and there. Then his fingers are finding their way inside me and stroking that place in me while his soft tongue works my clit and I am moaning and writhing against him, my thighs tightening around his head and dragging him even even harder into me and God it feels so fucking good and I want to grind into his face, fuck him, hurt him, draw him tighter into me, devour him alive, and never, ever let him stop doing this.

And then the orgasm is building, and I can feel it and I know that he can feel it, that he can feel the stiffening of my body and the increased urgency of my movements, know he can feel the demand in my thighs around his face and his own pace is increasing, his fingers faster, harder inside me and its enough to throw my head back in a low groan as his mouth is still on me and suddenly it's there and I'm cumming and making low animal noises in the back of my throat and he knows to back off now while I'm writhing against him and I'm fucking myself with his fingers and my hands are still clenched in his hair and the knowledge I'm clenching hard enough to hurt him just makes me cum harder and I'm moaning as it rolls over me, and over me, and over me while his gentle tongue prolongs me until suddenly it's over and I sag against the table, a puppet whose strings have been cut. 

And I look down at him, look at his mouth smeared with my arousal and watch him deliberately lick his fingers clean of me and I smile at him, lazy and sated now, and draw him up to me for a long, slow kiss, taking my desire from his mouth and giving him back my contentment and pleasure.