I can feel my nipples growing hard and lengthening. I feel myself swelling and opening…my breath becoming shorter. I can smell myself as my wetness seeps into my panties. My body seems to have made up its mind, but I, me, Sandy, I just don’t know.You sense my ambivalence, my longing, my fear. I see passion in your eyes, but I see compassion, too. You are soooo sweet…”I understand; sometimes it’s so hard to know, but maybe this will help.” You move to the left a little and rest your back against a chair, facing me. Your hand goes to your white cotton blouse and you unbutton it and then take it off. Your breasts are encased in a lacy bra, creamy and perfect against the white material. They push up and try to spill over the fabric. You take my breath away and for the longest time, I’m absolutely still and then sigh deeply. You smile and reach behind you; you shrug your shoulders and they fall loose. They’re perfect like you. They stand out, pert, creamy orbs Without any sag. You have. He touches my ribcage, my stomach, my thighs–but not between my thighs, never there, where I ache for him the most. In the three weeks since we met, we have not yet made love. I arch up to him a little, smiling, eyes closed, hoping he will change his mind. He doesn’t. ‘Breakfast time,’ he says. I give him a reproachful look, and he favors me with a rare grin. He leaves the room, presumably to get the breakfast tray. It has been this way for a little over three weeks. We only really got acquainted after he tied me up. I was resistant to the idea at first, but he was always gentle, always kind, and very insistent. I still don’t know his name, we don’t use them, names. They are unnecessary. He brings back the breakfast tray. It’s just corn flakes with sliced banana, because I don’t get much exercise and I shouldn’t have too much to eat. He feeds me spoonful after spoonful, interspersed with sips of orange juice, dabbing my mouth with a napkin periodically, as if I am a child. I eat.
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