Stroking Rhythm

Transcript

Stroking Rhythm by Girl on the Net, read by Monsieur B. You're sitting at opposite ends of the sofa, legs entwined. There's something chill and easy on the telly, and you're enjoying the sensation of his hand stroking up your thigh.

He moves his palm in measured, predictable strokes, from your bare knee up and over the fabric of your shorts to the top and then back again. Your skin tingles and your cunt starts to ache. Up and down from knee to thigh and then back over and over.

Languid, purposeless, just touching for the sake of touch. You've missed this, you think. You don't know that you've truly understood what it means to be touch-starved until recently.

The ache for arms around your waist or lips against your neck. The steady, relentless rhythm of being stroked from knee to thigh. You sigh a little with pleasure and he, eyes still on the screen, pretending he hasn't heard you, presses a little more firmly on the next run up your inseam.

You open your legs a bit wider. The thigh is now forming a wide, obtuse V. On the next journey, instead of turning back when he gets to the apex, he continues, brushing his hand lightly over the crotch of your jeans and then down the opposite thigh.

There's a frill as he conquers new ground. The nerve endings of your skin on the opposite thigh, the ones which have just been stroked, now shiver with a need to feel that way again. You get another ripple of sensation that will satisfy this steady, growing itch.

He strokes back from right knee up the thigh, gentle brush over your crotch, then back down the left thigh to knee again, and again, back and forth, over and over. The rhythm of it is so measured and careful. Each aspect of his touch is predictable.

The pressure, the pace. The fact that he will maintain a steady gaze at the TV, as if doing this isn't causing you to writhe and squirm, because yeah, you're squirming now, just gently. Every time his hand reaches the top of one of your thighs, you buck your hips slightly for a little extra pressure as he sweeps his palm down over your pulsing crotch.

Perhaps it's because you are touch-starved that everything he does feels more powerful than usual. Maybe it's not just rhythmically stroking your legs, he's waking up a part of you that you'd packed away and ignored for too long. Or it could just be that he has very firm hands and an instinctive way with teasing.

He knows you're aching for him to do more, understands that you want him to pause when he reaches your cunt, and put the heel of his hand there so you can grind. You must look like such a needy slut right now. As he strokes up your leg, up and down, you start to push yourself upwards into his hand at an angle that screams desperation.

The regularity of his rhythm means that you can predictably fuck upwards to meet him, guaranteeing those shuddery little thrills when each stroke brushes past your clit. It's only when he notices your breathing getting heavier that he starts to change his movement, no longer stroking with flat palm but balling his hand into a fist. Now the strokes on your legs feel more like massage.

More importantly, he pauses as he gets to your crotch each time, allowing you a half second to grind against his knuckles before he moves on. Something about this is both humiliating and compelling. He's not actively trying to get you off, just recognising that you have an urge and allowing you to use his hand to say to it.

Fist pressed lightly against you, so you must arch your back to get the firmer pressure you're craving. One thigh, up one thigh, pause while you hump like a desperate puppy. Down the other, big sigh, up, hump against the knuckle on his fist to the ridges, press against your aching clit through chin shorts, down again, small moan, perhaps a whimper.

That ache. Your cunt fully hurts with the need to have him in you, but by the time he stops stroking your thighs and settles his fist directly against you, you're half convinced you might be able to come just like this, just by grinding hard on his knuckles and watching his feigned disinterest as he keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the TV, reveling in the sensation of being touched and the borderline humiliation of how wet you are for it. The knowledge that you're such a hopelessly harny slut that he can control you completely with just a slight twist of his hand or a little more pressure.

You grab his wrist now, both hands clasped around it, holding it still as you buck your hips and squirm on him, he turns away from the screen and grins at you, which would have been helpful in giving you reassurance that he was into this if you didn't already know, if you hadn't already taken note of how fat his cock was growing inside his shorts. Holding his fist rock solidly against you, he stares at your crotch and then your face, and then back again until the flush of shame burns your cheeks and causes you to close your eyes, as if by not seeing him you'll be able to dodge that sensation of being watched, inspected, scrutinized. You go back to your grinding, and now you sense how damp your knickers have become, just absolutely soaking.

The skin on your thighs is still zinging with sensation where he touched you, and the frob in your clit has been nudged upwards in intensity as you knead yourself against his knuckles. The ache in your cunt is growing too, there's a tightness there, anticipation, urgency. The frob of your pulse in your veins and between your legs is matched by your breathing, which becomes faster, deeper, louder.

Your body is begging him to fuck you, even though you refuse to plead with your actual voice. He's starting to turn his wrist now, this way and that, making you chase the sensations, sometimes delivering a little more intensity than you were ready for, other times pulling away, just as you fuck up to meet him, causing low signs of frustrations and the occasional mule of need. All the while his own pulse pumps more blood into his dick, it's tenting his shorts now in a way that's so promising when you briefly open your eyes you can't tear them away.

Fuck! You pent as he presses his fist thigh-tight against you once more. I'm so close.

He nods, a gentle expression on his face. Calm, dominance, no rush. He knows exactly what you want, but you think he'll make you ask for it.

I just need a bit more grinding. He twists his wrist, running the bumps of his knuckles up and down over the small patch of denim that covers your cunt, the part that's now dark and damp despite the thick fabric. He raises his eyebrows in a question.

You need what? I need. ..

It's hard to focus and hard to ask. Something about the contrast between your urgent desperation and his commanding tranquility makes it feel more shameful to ask, but that, in turn, makes it all the more hot. So you take a deep breath, grip his wrist more tightly in your hands and bear down on his knuckles as you tell him, I need you inside me.

He grins, nods, withdraws his hand, beckons you to come with him so he can give you what you desperately want. As you follow him to the bedroom, your knees threaten to buckle with every step. That's a hot one.