Page 84 of Sigma

Small victories.

My movements as I lower his zipper are exaggeratedly slow. One tooth of the zipper at a time, my eyes on his. I allow a small smile on my lips. He does not reciprocate, but I didn’t expect him to. In fact, I appreciate his commitment to our little game—he’s got his poker face on, not a single flicker of emotion showing. His breathing is measured, however. Careful.

Zipper open, black cotton bulges in the opening, stretched by the bent curl of his imprisoned cock. I tug the trousers down, and they pool at his ankles. I free them one foot, the other, fold them, and put them with the shirt. Now, he’s clad in nothing but a pair of tiny black briefs. His thighs are thick and powerful and smattered with a dusting of curly black hair. It’s masculine and manly, and I like it. I touch his thighs, caressing them from hip to knee and up his hamstrings. Cup his buttocks. Dig my fingers into the firm muscle. This surprises him, a little—his eyes widen, just a touch.

The front of his briefs is tented, bulging. His cock is bent sideways, caught at the elastic and trapped, prevented from straightening. Eyes on his, I trace the length of it, visibly imprinted against the cotton. His thighs bunch, and he shifts his weight as I continue to tease him, tracing the outline, the head, the length of it. It thickens, engorges further.

He sucks in his belly, and I feel his cock pulse as he flexes it. Trying to free it without touching himself.

I run my fingers around the waistband, then, slowly working my fingers under the elastic until I’ve got it hooked, my hands at his sides. Tug down, but so only the back of the underwear pull down, over his buttocks, continuing to imprison his erection. When his butt is free of the underwear, I caress it. Cup it, play with it. Then bring my hands to his thighs, run them upward and hook them into the elastic on either side of his straining arousal.

Pull the elastic away from his body, bringing the head of his cock with it, stretching and stretching…until the member pulls free, slapping loudly against his belly.

And now, finally, I remove his underwear. These too, I fold and place with the rest of his clothing.

He’s naked for me, now, still leaning against the door. His pose is casual, weight on one foot, arms crossed over his chest. As if he was fully dressed. As if he didn’t have a raging hard-on.

I stand in front of him. Just look at him. There’s nothing to say.

Instead of touching him, I draw the game out further yet.

Undo my belt, fold it. Set it with his stack of clothing. Peel off my tunic, and that too joins the pile of folded garments. Leggings. I pause a moment and let him look at me in my bra and underwear—his eyes rake over me, and his cock twitches.

Rewarding.

I revel in the hint of eager desire hiding in the narrowing of his eyes as he watches me reach behind my back and unclasp my bra. His chest expands and holds, brow furrowing as I let the bra fall forward off my shoulders, caught in my hands and placed with the rest of the clothing. Another pause, in just my underwear, now. For his benefit. Let him look. Watch his jaw clench. His eyes narrow further yet to mere slits.

I can’t resist the urge to taunt him. Tease him. I play with my tits for him, lifting them up and flattening them high against my chest, covering them with my palms and holding them there, then finally letting them drop with a heavy bounce. Squeeze them, squish and release, lift and drop again. Tweak and twiddle my nipples until I’m driven to near gasping from the stimulation.

He lets out his held breath with a sound that’s suspiciously like a growl.

Underwear last of all, stepping out of them and now just tossing them onto the pile, because who folds panties? Not me. Now we’re both naked. He’s erect and hard as a rock and flat against his belly, and my nipples are standing on end, aching, sensitive, and my pussy is soaked, drenched with desire. I’m surprised I’m not literally dripping with it.

I step closer to him, hold his gaze and swipe a finger through my seam, gathering my juices. Remembering how hungrily he devoured me, I slide my essence-slick finger into his mouth. His tongue laps at it, and he suckles the juices away.

God, so fucking erotic.

I want him.

I want to shove him to the hard floor and ride him until we’re both screaming. God, I can see it. His hands on my hips, jerking me down onto him, my tits flying and bouncing, his cock driving into me. He’d fill me to aching, stretching fullness. And then some, I bet.

I’ve literally never in my life wanted to be fucked so badly.

I’m shaking with it.

Neither of us has said a word in many long minutes. I’m not about to break that spell. He’ll break first—I’ll make sure of it.

I rest a hand on his chest, just touching him. The first contact. I meet his eyes, make sure he knows to follow my gaze—which trips and slides downward to his erection. I caress his chest. His neck. His ear. Brush my thumb across his lips, ignoring the way his mouth parts as if begging to let him even suck on my thumb, to taste any part of my body. Slide my touch over his shoulders, feeling the hard cords of muscle. Down his chest again, to his belly, to the thick blocks of his abdomen. His belly goes concave again, anticipating my touch.

Instead, I touch myself.

I can’t help a hissed inhale as I slide my finger into my channel and drag my essence over my clit. A gasp as I flick the nub to send a searing flood of aroused pleasure through my body. I press my lips to his throat, leaning against him so my tits smash against his chest, and I kiss him—throat, slowly, cheek, corner of his mouth, chin, shoulder. Anywhere but his mouth. And I circle my clit.

Teasing him.

Teasing myself.

I’m hyperaware of his cock, bobbing between us, begging for my hand.