Sexy Briefs: Knickers in a Twist

Good Girl by Sharazade

“Can you be a good girl, Shar?”

Of course, lover. I promised.

It’s Sunday-it should be a day to sleep in and then fool around in bed all morning, but the agreement was, we could go wild on Saturday if I promised you uninterrupted time to work on Sunday. We slept in just a bit, now we’ll have a leisurely breakfast and read the paper, and then you’ll do your work. I’ll be good. I have work to do myself, you know.

You look so handsome, darling! Fresh from the shower, wrapped in a flannel robe that you haven’t bothered to tie (in fact, I can almost see… but no, the table is in the way). I’m already dressed, in a sundress I know is just your type of thing: royal blue with white polka dots, a low cut scoop neckline, a short swishy skirt. Not that you’ve said anything about it yet, since you’re eating and half-glancing at the headlines in the paper, not really looking at me.

I’d never fish for a compliment, would never be that crass, but I might just brush by you (more tea, lover?)… ah, yes, an affectionate pat on my behind. If you slipped your hand up under my skirt, you’d notice I’m wearing one of your favorite pairs of panties, the oh-so-thin cream-colored ones. You might, in fact, want to lift my skirt, have a peek at the almost translucent fabric stretched over my ass? Instead: a light smack! “You bad girl!” And then your hand is picking up a tea cup, so no more pats, I guess. I can’t resist a bit of a flounce, though, as I return to my seat.

Bad girl. Naughty girl. I hear that a lot from you. Last night you pulled me onto your lap, facing you, my legs to either side, and you kissed me deeply; then pressed up against my breasts from the bottom of their demi-cups so that my nipples rose above, rubbing on the thin fabric of my shirt. You bit one, then the other, through the cloth, hard enough to make me gasp and squirm and rub myself against you. “Naughty girl, Shar,” I heard as I ground myself down on the bulge in your pants, and felt your hands tighten on my hips.

It’s funny, isn’t it, how words with opposite meanings can express such similar thoughts. A hot outfit can be cool. And a bad girl… well, if you like it, then that’s good, right? Yet it seems to me that I hear what a “bad creature” or “naughty thing” I am far more often than I hear “Good girl.” Not that I mind. Of course not. Whatever gets you hot, lover, that’s what I want too.

As I clear the table and wash up the few dishes we used, you carry the paper over to the sofa. Right. First the paper, then work. I know better than to hang around you while you’re working (last time that got me tied up for an hour… though come to think of it, that was not without its own rewards), but at least we can read the paper together.

Look at you. You’ve claimed the entire sofa, haven’t you? Head against one end, feet up over the other. A fine sight to see you sprawled out there, your muscular frame just a bit too large for my furniture. I take a cushion from the armchair and arrange myself on the floor, below you, my right side resting against the sofa. I reach my hand up to your lap.

“What are you up to, you naughty thing?”

“I’m getting a section of the paper. Is that all right?” Well, it’s not my fault you’ve put the paper in your lap! Honestly. You move the paper down to the floor, right beside me. I notice the motion opened your robe a bit.

Yes, Sunday, so The New York Times, in that nice solid stack. Oh joy, you’ve left the Book Reviews for me-though if you’d wanted that first, of course I would have let you have it.

While we read, I surreptitiously check you out. Gravity is on my side-it has pulled one side of your robe completely off, spilling to the floor and affording me a nice view: strong thighs, leading up to… I raise my chin just a bit…

“Bad girl, Shar!”

Excuse me? Why? For looking at my lover on my sofa, in my own home? I can’t help just a bit of an indignant intake of breath. I’m just looking!

“A lady wears a brassiere.”

I glance down, and immediately pull my shoulders back to bring the front of my dress flush against my chest, covering my breasts.

“I don’t have a bra that I can wear with this dress. The straps always show.” And when I’m standing up, no one can see anything. Only in this position, seated below you, leaning over, could you see anything. It’s so hard to be a good girl from every angle!

I sneak another look at you, taking care to keep my shoulders back to avoid any gaping in my neckline.

That cock. Is it bragging to say about my own lover that he has a gorgeous cock? Well, it’s true. It’s not that common to see an uncut cock; and frankly, it’s not common for me to see yours like this-soft, with the foreskin almost covering the tip. So much more interesting to take in this uncommon sight than to read the paper, actually, and I lower my section.

Your paper rustles. I can feel your eyes on me, and I raise mine to meet them. What? I’m only looking! You seem as if you’re about to say something, but the moment passes. You return to your reading, and I return to my admiration of…

Oh. So much for my opportunity to look at you while you’re soft. However, this is just as good. No, in fact, it’s much, much better, to watch you stiffen and swell. It’s fascinating; such a dramatic change, like those time-lapse filmstrips we used to watch in class of the flower unfolding or the seed sprouting. I can’t help but rise up on my knees and scoot just a little closer to watch. When I exhale, you must feel my warm breath, because your cock gives a little twitch. Oh… I just must kiss you. Is that bad? It can’t be, can it, or you wouldn’t get so much harder under my lips… If you wanted to stop me, you could do it with a glance or a word. I wait for a rustle of the paper from you, but it doesn’t come.

You’re not quite fully erect, but it won’t be long now. My body responds with its own flush. Where you get hard, I get soft; soft and hot and wet. I cannot resist. I must have you at just this moment, and who knows when it will come again? I put my hand around the middle of your thickness to steady it and take the head into my mouth. I slide my hand up the shaft, pushing the foreskin to my eager mouth, and at the same time push my tongue down, nudge at the juncture of cockhead and foreskin, which I hold in place with my hand. I swirl my tongue around you, slowly. How does it feel, lover? Does that sort of groaning sound indicate something positive? I do believe it does.

Rustle, flap. Having some trouble with the paper, are you? I continue my slow circles around the head of your cock, your own skin still holding my tongue firmly on you. Another groan. Is that good, darling? Let’s find out. I take my mouth off you, and you inhale sharply. Disappointed, perhaps?

“Does that feel good, James?”

“Unnnnhhh.” I’ll take that as a yes.

I’m so turned on that my wetness is practically running down my thighs, and I can’t resist slipping the hand that’s not around you between my legs. I stroke myself just a bit, then slip two fingers up inside me. I withdraw them, coated with the evidence of my lust, and reach my hand towards your face. Parting your lips, you raise your head to meet my hand, but I move away. It’s not for tasting this time. I draw my finger down the length of your nose, then swipe each cheek once, as if I were applying war paint, and finally dot your chin. There. Now you can smell my desire as clearly as I can taste yours.

I grip your cock firmly in my hand and now move my mouth lower, kissing your balls, licking them, enjoying their movement under my tongue, drawing them into my mouth; oh, carefully, gently, but yes, completely into my mouth, while my hand continues to work your stiffness.

Again I let you go. “Is that good, James?” An indistinguishable sound. Sorry, that’s not clear enough. I give you a lick. “Is it good?” I repeat, more insistently. “Yes, good.” Lower I go, firmly tonguing your taint, firmly gripping your cock, firmly tugging you. You want my tongue on your ass, don’t you? I circle around it first, teasing you; will she or won’t she? We both know she will, but I’m going to take my time getting there. Impatiently you thrust your fingers into my hair, right up to the scalp, and pull downwards. Without even thinking I release your cock with my right hand and slap your wrist. But you want my tongue on you more than you care about any breach of protocol, and my hair is released. I reward you with a strong, slow, knowing lick.

Back between my legs goes my hand. A few strokes for me… oh, so good… and then I lift my wet fingers to you, to your ass, and hold my finger firmly against the opening. The heat-seeking missile of your cock finds its way to my mouth again. I press my finger just a bit, waiting for that moment when your muscle gives… oh, there it is, just a little, and I follow it, a little more pressure, waiting for you to give again.

My finger in your ass; my mouth around your cock; my tongue swirling around you, stroking up and down; my hand pulling at the base, as if feeding your cock deeper into my mouth. Is that good, James?

“Is that good?”

“Yes. Good.”

“And me? Am I good?”

My finger presses in further. Now who’s glad I keep my fingernails piano-player short? You are, lover. I twist my finger ever so slowly; not really pushing any further in, just playing where I am. And I suck firmly.

“Am I good?” A lick; but no answer, or at least not fast enough, so I move off you.

“Good, yes, it’s good.” OK, more licks for you.

“Am I a good girl?”

“Yes, Shar, you’re fucking amazing!”

Yes, I am. Thank you. That is what I wanted to hear.

My finger is inside you now up to the knuckle, and I don’t force it further, but move it forwards and back ever so slightly, so that my knuckle rubs against the ring of your muscle each time. In time with my finger I move my head now, up and down the length of your cock. I can’t take you all of the way inside my mouth, not at this angle, so I let my hand make up for the parts I can’t reach.

It must be a lot of sensation-squeezing, licking, sucking, swirling, pressing, tonguing, pulling, and still my finger moving in your ass. I almost wish I could climb on top of your stiff dick now and ride you to your orgasm and mine, but there’s no way I’d fit on the sofa, and actually, I would rather concentrate fully on you. There’s so much I can do!

Your hips now push against me; fall, and push again. I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to speed me up. Are you getting closer? Well, it’s not your call, this time. I’m doing this. As you push more quickly, I slow down. Quicker from you; again slower from me. Keep it up, lover, and I’ll stop completely. There. You figured that out pretty fast, and your body rests back down again. That’s right. It’s my game today. I bet you’re waiting for me to at least resume the speed of my former rhythm. I don’t, though.

Are you like me? Does a really slow rhythm just drive you crazy? Is it frustrating-sexy? Let’s see. All signs point to yes! But if you are like me, then when you do come, it will as hard and fast as a freight train. I lift my head just a bit so I can look you in the eyes. Do you like watching me suck you? Even though the angle is wrong, I force myself as far down your shaft as I possibly can, and roll my lips down onto you so that I leave a ring of red-brown lipstick on you. I know you can see that, and I know you like it. “Shar was here.”

Without the increased rhythm as my guide, your orgasm almost takes me by surprise. A throbbing from the vein on your underside, a sudden tightening, almost a clutching: these are my only cues, and it all happens so fast. A freight train indeed, and your violent buck almost throws me off you. I can’t catch all of your seed in my mouth; some splashes on my lips and cheeks, and as I hold you, more swells out of your tip and runs down the side, a volcano of cum. “About a tablespoon,” I’ve always read, but that can’t be accurate. I hold you without moving till your motions subside. Keeping my hand in place, I lick you slowly, cleaning every drop, with some stray licks besides, just because, my eyes on your face so I’ll catch the very moment your eyes open again. You don’t need to say a thing now, lover; your whole body is radiating a “good” at me and I feel as if I’ve come myself, even though I know I’ll need an actual release later.

I pull your robe back over you (I know how you can chill once the heat has passed), and-do you see how I keep my dress from gaping when I move? — I rise. I can’t suppress a satisfied smile. I know when I’ve done well. I know when I’ve been good.

It might sound downright boastful to hum, so I keep my song inside as I slip off to the bathroom to tidy up. But I’m still smiling when I come back. You go back to the paper, dearest. I can amuse myself in the other room.

I didn’t even hear you get up, but you’re behind me so swiftly, one arm around my waist, the other hand in my hair, your breath in my ear.

“Shar.” I breathe with you. “Bad girl. You know I have work to do.”

Bad. Good. I walk the line, as always. I keep silent, waiting. What will tip the balance in my favor? For that matter, which way would I choose it to fall?

Your hand on my throat, then: “Fetch me your brush.”

Oh… that way.

“Yes, James.”

I deliver it to your hand, not without a tremor. What else can I do?

“Bend over, Shar, and lift your skirt. Take your punishment like a good girl.”

Yes, I will, like a…

Only time for a small curl of my lip before the first stinging blow, hot and sore.

So good.