Greedy Thing

You crave this position, yearn for it with every strained muscle. The time is finally here.

Raise your hips with two pillows, bend your legs, arch your back so your bottom is up and displayed with nothing left to hide. Flex and unflex your feet, relax your hands. Breathe. Feel this moment; feel the sheets against your cheek; feel your heart race and slow, race and slow. Open your eyes.

This is you at your most pornographic. This is you at your strongest, your most vulnerable. It takes all of your power to remain this way, shivering in anticipation of what's to come while hungrily beckoning for him to satisfy your greed.



He can see you. He can see all of you, standing behind you like he is. He takes his time, admiring what you continually choose to show him. He knows that you enjoy this; he knows how hard it is for you to wait. He makes you wait.

He is silent, but his pulse races along with yours. You can feel it: each of your hearts thrumming with desire, imagining his palms opening and closing while he contemplates your thighs, your bottom, white with wanting. You lick your lips and exhale, readjust your hips while you wonder at his thoughts.



And then you hear the rustle of his body as he steps forward; you stop breathing so you can listen harder. You examine the white linen in front of you, trying to read it as one might read sheet music. You listen to the air and try to judge what is in his hand. A belt moves the air differently than a paddle; a cane would send a whisper down your spine. It is none of those things.

You sense movement behind you and it is his hand reaching for your bottom which it cups and smacks just lightly enough for you to feel the pillows beneath you more distinctly. His fingers trail down, pausing at the space between your thighs and then pushing them apart even further.



You know you are wet. You can smell it. You can feel it as acutely as his hand. And you strain for him, careful to hold position but you want, you want...you want his caress, his attention. You are on the center of the bed but you want to be the center of his world.

He tells you your positioning is perfect but you knew this -- you've anticipated this surrender, memorizing the exact position that will please him the most.



"Good girl," he praises. "My naughty girl," he says.

Your pride at "good" and "my" and "naughty" has you raising your bottom even higher until it is on its rightful pedestal to be pet and punished, forgiven and worshiped.

You know the time is now. You let it begin.