It's Tuesday and I have invited you over for dinner.
There are many reasons why, and I don't know that I could pick just one, outside of your challenge to me.
Very well then, it's because you fascinate me; you're charming, witty, intelligent, well-read and yes, I also find you quite attractive.
The challenge you issued earlier is just another feature in the back-and-forth communication we share. Your questions provoke me into actual analysis of my behavior, and further, a sharing of my thoughts. I've never met anyone who has successfully achieved this with me; you are thus a novelty. And gorgeous, did I mention that?
Usually, an equivocation or a direct change of subject will divert any questioner away from my lack of answers. For some reason, this doesn't seem to work with you. You reword your questions for me in search of an answer.
Your challenge is a difficult one for me; I am to allow YOU to decide how and when I cum during our evening. Because I cum easily; a thought, a touch, a kiss and I'm stretching, my body reacting with a charge that races through my veins and straight to my cunt. Thighs clamping. Wet. Aching.
Now that I've accepted your challenge, here we are, dinner at my home. Initially I thought that having you here, in my space, in my control, would be best. I'm rethinking that now as you step into my entryway, a bottle of wine in one hand and a bag in the other.
"What do you have there?" I ask suspiciously, pointing to the bag. The wine is for you, I rarely drink and if I did, I would choose to abstain tonight.
"Games for later." You smile, broadly. Confidently. Certain that you will win our little bet.
"Ah, that can go in the bedroom then." I point to a door off the hallway and turn to go back to the kitchen.
"Are you sure you don't want to see what I have in here, for you? For later, when I make you cum for me?" You ask, voice low and taunting. An attempt to arouse me, knowing it will make me more susceptible to the cum that lingers at the edge of my thoughts right now.
"Nope, I need to stir something in the kitchen." I answer blithely, hips swinging as I walk away from you. You're watching me, I can feel the burn of your eyes on my skin even after I pass through the doorway into the kitchen.
I don't think you realize that in challenging me, you activated the 'win or die trying' part of my personality. Highly competitive since childhood, where my father would pit his three children against each other in a constant battle, no matter the circumstances. And as the oldest, I was expected to win.
Did I?
Every...... single....... time.
When you saunter into the kitchen, grin still plastered across your face, eyes alight with the desire to win, to make me surrender, I'm pulling steaks from the broiler and point to the broccoli on the counter with my elbow.
"Will you carry that to the table please?"
"Sure. Anything else I can help you with?" The double entendre is not lost on me, and I turn to roll my eyes at you. I have the feeling I will be doing this often tonight.
"I'm good for now, thanks." I slide the steaks onto a plate and add, "But I'll certainly let you know if I need anything else from you."
"Just asking." You put your hands up and step back from me, the grin on your face wide and white. "I'm curious about how you think you're going to avoid cumming between now and let's say, 11 tonight?"
"Eleven?" I scoff, "why don't we just make it midnight? Are you afraid I won't be able to resist you for one more hour?" My eyes bright with the challenge of my own.
"Not at all." You state, pulling out my chair at the table, waiting for me to sit down. "I was trying to be chivalrous, to let you have one less hour of fear."
I avoid your play by sitting in a different chair, thwarting your attempt to touch me, to play with my long blonde hair, to stroke my neck; anything you think will drive me to arousal.
"Fear?" I ask you, eyebrows raised, as I unwrap my baked potato. "Not afraid at all darling Owen. You will go down in a burst of flames when the clock strikes midnight."
"Then it will be so." You incline your head. "Four hours for me to change your mind."
I slice my perfectly done steak into pieces on my plate and ponder a benign subject. "How was teaching those lovely children today? Did you discuss adverbs, adjectives, that sort of thing with them?"
A laugh echoes from your diaphragm as you answer me. "No, that's more like a 3rd grade subject matter. We talked about my favorite subject, playwriting. To read a written play, is to love a written play. I want to start them early on the path to a future love of the greats."
You couldn't have picked a better subject to dampen any flame of desire I might have felt, sitting across the table from you.
Today is our first time meeting; all our previous contact has been via email and a few phone calls up until now. I study you unobtrusively as I eat.
Dark hair still damp from the shower you took before you arrived. A dark grey button down shirt hugging your broad chest with a neatly pressed pair of blue jeans on your long legs. Looking at you across the table for this length of time is enough to make me wet.
Quickly averting my eyes, a move not lost on you, as you are well aware that I have been studying you for the last few minutes, my usual chatter stifled, I reach across the table to your wine glass.
"Is this good?" I ask, taking a sip.
"It's very smooth, not unlike me." You take the glass back from me and swallow. I watch your throat muscles move the fluid from your mouth and I think about your tongue. A tongue capable of creating magical thoughts in my brain, I can only imagine what you could do to my mouth, my body.
"Are you planning to have them write a play then, during your class?" I stuff a bite of steak in my mouth, eyes on the remaining broccoli on my plate, trying to decide if I wanted to eat more. Nerves have made me uneasy and the food on the table is no longer appetizing.
"Yes. They're an advanced group, I'm sure they are more than capable." You spear a piece of broccoli with your fork, and I watch you move the fork to your mouth, well aware that mine is open, exhaling as you close your lips around the floret, and chew slowly.
Deciding against additional broccoli, I eat more of my potato and poke at the remaining steak.
"Not hungry anymore?" Taunting again. I've noticed how your voice lowers when you are aroused. Deeper, more erotic. Suggestive.
"Mmmm." I hum, noncommittally. "Hungry for food, not much else."
"I shall have to double my efforts then." You reach across the table and clasp my hand in yours. Bring it to your mouth and lick my index finger with that talented tongue. Draw it into your mouth where you suck it gently.
Feeling as though I am having an out of body experience, I watch you intently, ignoring the fire that starts in my lower half.
