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This dinner was torture.
You were utterly restless with lust, hungry for the touch of your lover all over your body, as much as he was willing to give you. All you wanted was to take from him, to sate your thirst for his body against yours.
Any other day, it wouldn’t have been so difficult to suppress your urges. You would have the occasional immodest thought about Sniper, and sometimes you’d even get caught up in a shameless fantasy of something you’d like to do to him. But right now, the urge to pounce on him in the middle of dinner was bringing you to your knees.
He had been insatiable lately. Every brief touch, every tense moment of eye contact and every whispered fantasy was calling you to hold him down and have your way with him. He was forcing you into a frenzied and feverish state, and every move made was calculated. He knew exactly what he was doing.
You stared at his hands. They were lined with prominent veins, and the way they flexed and bent to handle his utensils forced your mind to drift back to earlier. What little function your brain was clinging onto disappeared, and you were free to relive the earlier event.
He was all over you just a half hour prior, working your body with such skilled hands that they were all you could focus clearly on. He had to have known what he was doing, it must’ve been his intention to keep you on edge and squirming for the entirety of this meal.
You remembered his hands all over your body, groping and pawing at practically every inch of skin on you, marking you with his touch. He had pinned you to the wall by your throat, forcing you to stay still as he bit and sucked at your collarbones. You recall the gasp you let out when his large hands so easily tore your sundress from your body; how he most definitely tore a seam on it and how it came with a whispered promise to buy you another, as many as you wanted.
You thought of the way he had fondled your tits, the thrilling feeling of his warm palms cupping and running over your sensitive skin. You suppressed the urge to shiver as you thought back to the sensation of the calloused pads of his fingers toying so gently with your nipples, considerate of what you could handle even when he was acting like he was feral. He had run his hands over your stomach, giving praise to every mark and trail of hair he knew you by.
You remembered him pushing your underwear down, teasingly brushing his palms over your hips in a way that left you pleading for more of his touch. He only bothered to shove them to your knees before forcing your thighs apart, taking his time to praise your smooth skin as he ran his hands back up.
Your breath hitched as you indulged in the memory even further. You could almost feel it again, his rough fingertips running over every surface of your skin but the part you so desperately craved. You remembered how amazing it felt when he finally took mercy on you and stroked your clit, moving his long fingers with such skill you almost forgot to breathe. He had swallowed all your moans with fervent need; avoiding being caught without forcing you to stop making the sweet noises he had worked so hard to coax from your sweet mouth.
You thought back to how you’d whimpered pathetically when he finally slid a single finger into you, how he snickered in your ear about how it was no trouble to get you crying. He had stroked you so well, made obscene remarks about how wet you were in that deliciously gravelly tone of his. He slipped another finger into you with ease, mocking your false pleas for him to stop with the downright indecent sounds your cunt made as he played with you.
The heat trailing over your body became almost unbearable when you thought of the way he’d made you cum, how he’d made fun of your cries in between soft whispers of praise and genuine encouragement. The duality was clearly natural, the way he found the perfect balance between picking on you and praising you.
You remembered how he’d continued to pump his fingers in and out of you, searching for something more, something that sat deep within you. You yearned to scream once again, just as he made you cry out when he forced another orgasm from your poor, worn out body. You could almost replicate the overwhelming feeling that crashed over you as your release poured from your body in a small stream. You thought back to the embarrassment that come after, spurred on when he cooed in your ear, forcing you to take in the pornographic sounds of squelching as you came.
You dreamed of how he’d slid his fingers out of you; teasingly slow, and looked you straight in the eye as he sucked your release off of his fingers. He’d kneeled before you and threw your leg over his shoulder, getting straight to work at cleaning the rest of you up. He had licked all over your thighs, panting against your skin as he worked higher, the look he gave you was as if searching for your approval. He’d greedily devoured every last drop of your release he could tongue off of your skin. How even after that, he’d run his tongue over your slit just to feel you shake from overstimulation.
You remembered the bittersweet end, how he had lectured you for making a mess before helping you redress yourself.
You felt your lips tingle as you thought back to the way he’d kissed you, how whorish your moans were upon tasting yourself on his tongue. How he’d felt up your body over your dress as he groaned into the kiss. You had felt disheartened when he forced you off of him; yet it turned to elation when he growled that if he didn’t stop then he’d be forced to repeat the scene all over.
You remembered the one last peck to your forehead; it’d come with a whispered promise to continue later, his reassurance to you that he could sate both your desire and his with no struggle whatsoever.
And you were pulled from your daydream when he’d reached his hand under the table, parting your legs and sliding right between your thighs.