I Love Hosting Parties

Transcript

I love hosting parties, people, conversation, food, but mostly, I love the little game we play, just the two of us. I can never seem to resist the temptation to tease you when you need to control yourself, to slowly build the tension and desire, the anticipation of what will happen when everyone finally leaves, exciting us both. We both have to try to hide how fast our hearts are beating, how hot and restricting our clothes feel over the course of the night.

We both have to resist the temptation to find a dark corner and, well, maybe I'll save that bit. After all, I am a damnable tease, and you love it, and it's not my fault that I might be just a bit better at hiding what's going on than you are. Parties offer just enough distraction, enough cover, that no one knows what's happening except us.

People are almost always paying attention to themselves and not nearly as much scrutiny to us as we fear they are, but their presence still adds that perfect touch of fear. By the end of the night, I want you to be fantasizing about picking me up and taking me against whatever surface is closest, no matter who's there. I want you to need me that badly.

I want it to feel inevitable, unavoidable, irresistible, a pull as powerful as the moon on the tides. It starts with the little touches, your arms, your chest, innocent excuses to touch your face or run my fingers through your hair, playful affection that would never cause anyone to bat an eye. But I know just where to touch.

When my face is turned up to you, you, and only you, can see the raw need shining in my eyes, begging for you without words. Do they notice the glimmer of mischief in my eyes? Or only my sweet, innocent smile when I stretch up to chastely kiss your cheek, not knowing that the slight press of my breasts against your chest, my nipples already hard enough to be felt through my bra, makes your breath catch?

They couldn't imagine the things I whisper in your ear in passing, let alone what I'll be begging you to do to me as soon as the last person leaves. Do they notice how you have more and more trouble focusing on conversations? How you can't keep your eyes from wandering to come back to me? None of them will see the wicked little grins I flash at you, but I know each one will get me a little more deeply under your skin.

I know how you'll respond with a low growl under your breath. Whenever I'm near you, I'll be touching you. I'll slip under your arm and rest my hand on your stomach.

I know you're thinking about every time I've slid my hand down your chest to your belt. When I come back to you after mingling, I'll slide my hands around your waist, let my breasts press into your back. It looks so cute, so sweet, but I feel your spine stiffen and I know your pants feel so tight.

Sometimes, if I'm lucky, the opportunity presents itself to sit on your lap. I really don't even have to move very much to work you up so much. You firmly grab me, try and hold me still to stop that slight movement of my ass against your cock.

The very best times are when you murmur so only I can hear that I am a dirty little slut and I need to behave, which of course only encourages me, but you know that. There's something so enticing about that building desire, the need to make me yours growing stronger and stronger, but having to restrain yourself, engage in pleasant chit-chat like your mind isn't full of images of me. On my knees in front of you, eyes wide with delight and dark with lust as I worship your cock, moaning as you weave your fingers through my hair to make sure I don't get stuck on the bed.

I want dark eyes spread so you can see just how wet I am for you already, with my back arched and my head thrown back as I ride you, your hands on my tits while I dip my forearms in front of you, pushing my ass back into you while you pound into me, one hand gripping my hip and the other fisted in my hair, so you can tilt my head wrapped around your waist, arms around your neck, back pressed into the wall while you thrust up into me, your forehead pressed to mine, our eyes locked across your lap, ass cheeks bright pink from your hands, eyes dazed and mouth open, unable to do anything but whimper and moan as your fingers work my cunt and my clit at the same time, knowing just how to make me come. Trapped under your weight, my legs wrapped around your waist, back arched to take you as deeply as possible, letting you hold me tight to you while I bury my face into your neck, whimpering incoherent pleas and prayers and curses. If I'm honest, and I really shouldn't tell you this, I shouldn't give you more power, my favorite part of the game is when you catch your stride and start giving as good as you get.

You're fucking clever about it too. You don't even have to touch me, you know your voice does things to me. There's a suggestiveness that no one else notices in your words, how sweet they think when you call me pretty.

They don't know you mean you're pretty slut, but I do, and every time that word leaves your lips with your eyes locked on mine, that liquid heat low in my belly and between my legs grows hotter. You manage to work the word wet or dripping into a frankly impressive number of conversations. You hide little bites in your kisses, slip your arm around my waist and hold me so tight against you.

If you catch me alone somewhere no one else can see us, you press me to the wall, kissing me until I'm gasping for air, hiking up the hem of my skirt and rubbing my clit through my soaked panties, but only for a brief instant. You leave me there to catch my breath, straighten my clothes, and let the flush fade from my face. And so we play, each taunting the other, trying to up the stakes, without our guests being any the wiser.

The need builds between us and every look and touch sparks with desire. Our awareness of each other heightens, somehow knowing exactly where the other is, craving to be lost in each other, fevered skin to skin. By the time the night is drawing to a close, your patience is stretched as thin as it can get.

The stragglers who don't take your polite hints as to how late the hour is only add to your frustration, as do my stifled giggles as you try to figure out how to get them to fucking leave. Once I had to apologize to a friend the next day and tell them that you had a terrible headache, and that's why you finally snapped at them to please. Of course, you still said please.