Because I'm no good at knitting...

Disclaimer: apparently, I'm horrendously aroused this week, as I've managed to conjure up enough smut to appall even myself. I've always dropped stitches when I've tried to knit... perhaps counted cross stitch...

My bien aimé is next to me, in my car, trying not to fidget. Wordlessly, I hand him a bandana. His head tilts, quizzically at first, then jerks with the sudden realization of the bandana’s purpose. I can almost see the anticipation crackle around him like electricity as he places it over his closed eyes, meticulously knotting it behind his head.

I drive a short distance away to a borrowed house. Taking my lover’s hand, I lead him carefully up the steps, placing his hand on the railing while I unlock the door. Once inside the house, my bien aimé jumps as the click of the lock in the door sounds as loud as a gunshot. Quickly divesting us both of our coats, I tow him gently toward the bedroom. He stumbles as I turn him to face me, quickly righting himself, visibly calming upon regaining his equilibrium. I can feel my own gaze go gimlet, eyes narrowing, as the thought of truly unbalancing him runs through my mind. With an invisible smirk, I gently push my fingers against his taut abdomen until he takes a tentative step back and falls backwards, arms windmilling, onto the bed.

My laughter echoes around the room at his muttered epithet. Clambering astride his body, I whisper instructions, lips grazing the shell of his ear, until he moves up to the headboard. Still atop my love, I lean in for the tenderest of kisses, running my hands down his arms to encircle his wrists. Pulling them above his head, I wrap them both in the scarf anchored to the headboard. As I twine the scarf around his wrists, his hips twitch. Sliding my hand down to his neck, I can feel his pulse hammering there. Seeking to reassure him, I murmur encouragement, letting him know the word that will make it all stop. He nods, grinding almost imperceptibly against my core, eager to test his bonds and my power.

Determined to shake him up, I yank up his shirt and spear my fingers through the crisp hair growing on his chest, raking my nails lightly over his nipples. Delighting in the breath that whistles through his lips, I lower my head and take one gently between my teeth. His indulgent chuckle spurs my indignation. Sliding lower, I nip at his stomach while I undo his pants. I trail my tongue above the waistband of his boxers, and, dipping my head, I blow my hot breath along his length. My reward is his tormented moan and the first creak of the headboard as he pulls against his restraint.

My smile is wide and predatory as a shark’s as I slip my hands under his buttocks to curl my fingers in his clothing. Peeling his pants down his legs, I find myself at eye level to the object of my most abject desire. Leaning up, I push my beloved’s blindfold up so he can watch my every move. His indulgent smile becomes strained as I close my eyes and rub my cheek against the silken skin of his erection, humming in appreciation. His groan grows ragged as I drag my mouth from the base of his shaft to the crest, quickly encircling the engorged corona with my lips. Teasing him with my tongue, keeping him barely in my mouth, I push down hard on hips that strain to rise, asserting my dominance. Again, I am rewarded with the creak of the headboard.

Flattening my tongue, I slide my mouth down as far as I can go, taking as much as I can into the moist heat of my mouth. I revel in the satiny texture of his most sensitive skin as I draw moan after moan from his mouth. Grasping the base of his erection, I let my hand follow my mouth as I ascend and redescend, rejoicing when his head thrashes on the pillow and his biceps work desperately at the bonds holding him fast. Turning my head to the side, I look up at him, mouth still busily employed, and meet his wildly aroused gaze. His chest heaving, his arms straining, he mouths the word I dread.

Panic.