I’d like to make you tremble. You know those adrenaline-fuelled shudders of desire that you (specifically you) get when you’re on the verge of doing something hot? Or when you’re hovering just before orgasm, craving release but forbidden from truly letting go? I want to make you tremble like that.
Note that this story contains casual public kink, begging/teasing/edging/denial and an anal hook.
I want to whisper filth to you in the pub. Just quietly enough that no one around us can hear and you have to lean forward so you don’t miss a single fucking word.
I want to instruct you to put your hands on the table, palms down, then keep them there while I go to the bar. Tell you to watch my arse in tight jeans as I saunter up to get drinks. Order you not to move your hands or take your eyes off me till I’m back – with two pints and a packet of peanuts and a grin that makes your cock twitch.
Sometimes the way I want people is all about falling – they put their arms out and I tumble eagerly into them. Not quite passive but certainly compliant. They’re the ones giving me instructions. Or offering choices or taking the lead. They growl in hushed voices over dinner that I’m going to be a very good girl when they take me home to bed. Command that I go to the bathroom and pull down my knickers, edge myself briefly before returning, flushed. Eager to hear the next plan they have in store.
This is not the way I feel about you. With you, I want to be in control. Meting out instructions and suggestions in carefully-portioned amounts so as not to give you too much all at once.
“Tell me about the last time you touched yourself.” A gentle command, to ease you in.
“Last week,” is not a sufficient response, so I press for detail. What were you thinking about? What were you watching? Where were you at the time – living room, bedroom, shower? Paint me a picture.
What was it about this specific idea that turned you on? Which parts of the fantasy or video made you grip your dick more tightly, to yank yourself closer to the edge?
Still whispered, though. Still subtle and calm. Beneath the table you’re growing hard, worried that when it’s time to get your round in you won’t be able to stand up to go to the bar. I make a point of staring at your lips first, then your eyes, before slowly casting my gaze downwards as if I can see through the wooden tabletop. I know your secret, and I want you to know that I know.
I want you to blush, then I want to make you tremble.
As I slowly tease out the details of the last time you wanked, I’ll smile and nod and grin and offer encouragement: go on. Tell me more. Are you lying in bed with your phone in one hand, hunched over your desk with a laptop? Or perhaps on the sofa with an eye on the door in case one of your housemates comes home early? Are you still wearing boxers, pulled down just enough to expose your red-raw dick? Or do you strip them off along with your jeans so you’re naked from the waist down? Do you use lube? Do you have to wipe your other hand on a discarded t-shirt so it won’t get your phone sticky when you scroll through thumbnails and clips?
I want to drink in your answers with relish, the same way I take big gulps of my pint – speeding up the moment when you’ll have to stand and cross the room to buy me another. Making eye contact with you as I bring my wet lips to the glass, so you know that I’m definitely doing this on purpose.
A lot of the joy I get from dominance comes from building anticipation. Not just diving in with whips and barked commands, taking two steps towards you so aggressively that you can’t help but stumble one step back. I much prefer to tempt you closer using words and hints and promises, so if you start shifting uncomfortably in your seat, instead of leaning in I’ll just lower my voice.
“There are toys back at home I’d like to use on you…”
There’s no way you’re not shuffling forward to make sure you catch the next thing that comes out of my mouth.
I want your urgent need to be visible in the way you hold your body. The way you dip your head and angle it slightly, all the better to let my words pour into your ear. In the expression on your face, brow slightly creased in concentration as you try to lock in everything I say to play back later. Above all in the way your hands shake as you pick up your drink.
I want to make you tremble, remember?
There are other ways your body can belie your desires, of course. Your erection, obviously. If we’ve time and opportunity and privacy I might reach beneath the table and gently brush the palm of my hand across your crotch, to sate my horny curiosity. But I doubt this would be possible – we’re adults sitting in a pub, after all, not teenagers at the back of a cinema.
Perhaps I’ll just ask you instead.
Are you hard right now? Tell me about it. Describe it. Can you feel it pressing against the inside of your jeans? Is it uncomfortable? Does it… hurt?
I’d like to casually discuss ideas designed to increase your discomfort. Suggest easing your dick out of your jeans and then spitting on my fingertips, running them over the tip. Mixing my saliva with your precum as you lay your head on my shoulder and whimper into my ear. As I grip your cock tight – just below the ridge. Squeezing softly, rhythmically, as you beg me to please turn those squeezes into strokes.
Another large sip of my pint and it’s almost empty – a fact I point out to you with a wicked smirk. You try to pass your credit card to me across the table and I laugh at the audacity: fuck no. You are absolutely not getting out of it that easily.
I can wait for a drink.
And while I wait, I can watch you trying with all your might to stop your body from reacting to the ideas I’ve been putting in your head. There are plenty more where they came from.
There’s this one image I can’t quite shake – of you lying on my bed, after I’ve shown you round the flat. Making sure you take note of the big mirrored wardrobe that’s only there so we can watch ourselves fuck. You asking me – nervously, shyly – if I’ve got any sex toys I might be up for showing you. Me telling you to close your eyes and hold out your hand before placing something in your grasp that is weighty and metal and absolutely not what you expected.
I’d like to make your hands tremble. And then I want to watch how big and wide your eyes get when you open them.
I want to make you stand in the centre of my bedroom, hands clasped behind your head like a good, willing boy, making eye contact with me in the mirror. Swallowing once, twice as I pull out the lube and slather it onto my fingers. Trembling – always trembling – because although you’re frightened of doing this you are outright terrified of the worse possibility that I might simply… stop. So you push back against me, nod eagerly, whimper ‘yes’ when I ask if you want it. Beg me to slide my fingers in, then beg again because I’m doing it so slowly and you need it harder and faster please please please.
I want to bend you over in front of the mirror – your hands on your knees now, for balance, so you can push back onto my fingers while I fuck you. Maybe wearing a ball gag, so I can watch you drool then chastise you when it dribbles onto the carpet.
I want to slide an anal hook into you. Secure it with rope to your wrists, crossed over and held obediently at the nape of your neck. Stretching you out so you’re forced to stand – back straight, feet apart, naked and vulnerable and exposed – in front of the mirrors in my bedroom. Then I want to make you tremble more. Quivering and twitching as I touch you all over, gently smacking your inner thighs to urge you to spread a little wider. Tugging gently on the hook so it nudges that sweet spot deep inside you, and causes your dick to pulse with it, in sync.
I want to grab your cock and beat at it while you tremble. Gripping your waist corset-tight with my left arm, using my lubed-up right hand to tug at you viciously – almost, but not quite painfully – while telling you to look at yourself. Just fucking look at the pathetic, eager mess you are. I want to force you to stare at your dick and at my hand with which I’ve laid claim to it, willing me not to let go as I drag you closer and closer to the edge… and then let go anyway.
“Don’t come.”
Again. Up to the edge, but not quite over, then again.
And again. Don’t you fucking dare even think about coming.
And then one more time so the trembles turn to shakes and you’re biting your lip and frowning like it hurts – because it does. Letting out these strangled howls that never quite become words because you’re far too fuckdrunk to form them.
I want to make you to stare into your own eyes in the mirror and never break contact, as you promise that no matter what I do you will not come.
“I don’t want you to come,” I will tell you, as I beat even harder at your cock. “I want you to keep trembling for me. Stay right fucking here on the edge so I can make the most of watching you.”
What I want is to build you to that place where each atom of your physical body is urgently straining to let go, but every ounce of your mental energy is focused on holding you back. I want your eventual release to be something you both hunger for and dread.
You’re hunched over a little now, accidentally dragging the anal hook further into your ass, grimacing with the effort of trying not to come. It’s so fun watching you like this, all wretched and broken.
There are two wolves inside you, and one of them needs the rush of relief that will flood through your veins when the orgasm hits. The other is snarling and baring its teeth at the thought that you might disobey my explicit instruction. I’d like to see what happens when those wolves tear each other apart.
When I tear you apart.
So I add a touch of speed to the hand which is jerking you off. I squeeze round your stomach even tighter so you struggle to draw breath. Graze my teeth across your shoulder and then gently kiss your neck and then bite down hard.
When I’m ready for you to disobey me, when I can be sure you understand the weight and shame of what I’m about to make you do, then and only then will I squeeze a little tighter. Stroke a little harder so that the telltale tingles start to gather in the pit of your stomach and you know the inevitable is happening. A split second before the tip of your cock starts to pump thick spunk out and past the wet fingers of my busy right hand, I will whisper into your ear:
“Don’t you fucking dare get cum on my carpet.”
By the time I’ve finished this story, my glass is completely empty. I’ve not exactly been kind with my timing, but you knew that’s what I was doing, and you didn’t object. You could have asked me to stop, after all. Changed the subject, or at the very least leaned back rather than forward over the table. But you didn’t choose to do any of those things. Instead you’ve been hanging off each detail, mouth slightly open and tongue darting occasionally across your lips.
When I picture the conversation in the pub, I imagine you eventually having to give in. Perhaps you’ve managed to convince yourself that no one nearby will be observant enough to notice your aching erection. Maybe you’ve plotted a specific route to the bar that will minimise the risk of accidentally exposing your shame. You could have just snuck your hand swiftly beneath the table, rearranging things so they aren’t as prominent and obvious. Whatever.
What matters, when I whisper…
“Don’t you dare skip your round.”
…is that you get on and do what you’re told.
Your hands might fumble as they reach for your wallet, and your posture at the bar may be hunched and more nervous than usual, but you’ll go get your round in regardless.
And if I’ve done what I set out to do, the pint you bring back for me will have dripped all over your hand. Like cum in the crook of your thumb and forefinger at the end of a furtive wank, or the spunk that might cling to my own hands in front of the bedroom mirror, even as the rest gets sprayed on the carpet.
I’ll take my drink and say ‘thank you’, and ‘good boy’, and I won’t even mock you for spilling so much on the journey.
I wanted to make you tremble, after all.