Pink Collar #1

I bent over, my bareness unfolded behind me.  I heard his low murmur of appreciation and was glad he couldn't see my face: The relaxation that flooded through me was so profound and consuming, my tongue lolled out of my mouth for a moment.  I knew what he was seeing, that perfect pulled-tight pocket of promise I held taut between my thighs, cocooned by my lace panties.  I fell a little bit more into the pillow underneath me.  His whispers were more frequent.  I barely moved, but I dripped.  And I slid, and I rocked, and I hissed.  I didn't need to be fast, or funny, or accurate, or cool.  All I needed to be was now.

A flash of light, and a crinkle of stiff paper.  A fiver.  I patted it and smiled myopically at the blur of face behind it.  I turned around and bent over, my face angled over my shoulder, but not looking at Him.  They were all Him.  The big Him.  It wasn't Dad, or God.  It was bigger than either of those.  It was Him at His most opposite of Her.  The ultimate point to prove.  The heat of the spotlight blazed cruel against my skin, but I felt only the freedom.  The release of any thought process other than Look at this.  And now look at this.  You like this, and this, and that of me.  This concave to your convex, this ball to your hinge. Look and lust and lasciviate because I make you.  The only approval I need is already winding and grinding my everyday organ.  Now, you look.  You look and you want.