by Severin Rossetti
You move with the grace of a cat, but sometimes in those hazel eyes there is a playful innocence, a wicked delight, and so he calls you Kitten.
You come to him on hands and knees, like a prowling panther, your hips swaying enticingly, your skirts falling about you and your breasts hanging heavy beneath. Your manicured nails, like unsheathed claws, tap lightly on the tiled floor as you move towards him.
But you would be more feline if you were naked, he decides, so he tells you to stand and remove your clothes.
“Undress for me slowly, with elegance,” he orders. “And describe each garment as you remove it.”
Getting to your feet, raising your delicate hands to your neck, you then bring them down slowly, unfastening the buttons to bare your body for him, letting the blouse of soft cotton fall from you.
“Soft cotton,” you say, emphasising the softness, hoping that his eventual caresses might be equally soft.
Then you move your hands behind you to unfasten your bra, that most graceful of feminine gestures, making your breasts jut out as if offering them to him. Slipping the straps from your shoulders you let the bra fall aside, describing the lace and satin which has so excited your nipples.
Your skirt of silk falls to the floor as you unfasten it at the waist, falling about your feet like a dark pool, and you step gracefully from it, like Venus stepping from the sea. Bowing then, you remove your knickers, hooking your thumbs in the waist and slipping them down your legs.
“Lace again,” you tell him, but needlessly now, for he takes them from you.
Spreading them over his hand, stretching the fabric with his fingers, he raises them to his face and smells.
“Perfume, Kitten?” he asks, but you know not to answer for the moment. “Mm. Not unpleasant. But there are other fragrances I prefer.”
Bunching the garment in his fist, he presses it between your naked thighs, with a single finger pushes the fabric inside you, stirring the lace around. When he draws out the knickers they are wet and he holds them up to your nose.
“Smell!” he tells you, and you inhale deeply, catching the aroma of your own excitement. “Now that is your true fragrance, Kitten! A woman’s darkest perfume!”
But what does he now see in your eyes, as they lower a little, their colour changing imperceptibly? Is it fear, or something else, which brightens them and tints them green?
He smiles and runs the knickers down your neck, across your breasts. He rolls your breasts beneath them, strokes the fabric harshly across your nipples.
“Are they hard, Kitten?” he asks. “You may answer.”
“Yes Sir,” you reply. “They are hard.”
He takes one lightly between finger and thumb, seems to look beyond you as he asks, “And your eyes? Are they open?”
In fact they are now closed in anticipation, and you admit as much, say, “They are closed, Sir.”
“Then open them!” he snaps, pinching your nipple hard and bringing a short gasp of pain from you. “I want to see what you feel!”
“Sorry, Sir!” you say, raising your head, your eyes meeting his.
He drops your knickers to the floor and rests his hands on your hips, lowers his head to your breasts and smiles up as you slyly as his mouth comes near. Your body tenses, you wonder if there is pain to come, so that when he simply blows on your nipple he breath feels like a scorching breeze. Then the tip of his tongue touches it, and it hardens.
“How responsive! How sweet!” he exclaims, raising his head. “You become hard for me, Kitten?”
“I do, Sir,” you confess.
“And do you become responsive to pain too?” he wonders, squeezing the nipple hard once more.
“I DO SIR!” you cry.
He releases from your nipple, rests an elbow in the palm of his hand and touches a finger to his lips, deliberating.
“Tell me, Kitten,” he says. “If you were to come for me, then where exactly would you like to come? In my mouth? Over my fingers? On my cock?”
“Any of them! All of them!” you say, the words gushing forth with a joyful hope.
“No chance!” he laughs, bending to scoop up your knickers and toss them back to you. “Put them back on!”
As you bend to tug them back up your legs, you see that he has moved some feet away, is now seated.
He crooks his finger to beckon you, says, “Come forward, Kitten. Stand before me.”
You approach, stop a pace short of him, ask, “Here, Sir?”
“That will do,” he agrees. “Now put your hands behind your back and keep them there. If you move your hands I will leave.”
Obediently you clasp your hands behind you and he leans forward to put one hand on your knee, then behind it, to run it up and down the back of your thigh.
“Do I feel your knee tremble, Kitten?” he wonders, and smiles, slips his hand beneath your buttock and around.
His other hand he puts over your cunt and presses, he squeezes the two to squash your cunt between them, looking up and running his eyes over her body, searching her eyes for their colour and truth.
“Nice, Kitten?”
“Oh yes Sir!” you reply.
“But I feel nothing for you,” he says. “I have seen many naked women and known them like this.”
You lower your eyes to hide your disappointment and so he asks what you feel.
“Shame, sadness, longing,” you answer. “I want to please.”
“Longing?” he echoes, his hands now working against each other, pulling your cunt this way and that, stretching the lips, grinding them against your clitoris.
Your breath comes short and fast.
“Longing, eh? Do you know that there can be much delight in anticipation? That the longer you wait, the greater the delight?”
“Yes Sir,” you answer, though for the moment, in your state of excitement, you find the truth of that hard to believe.
“What if I said you had to wait for your delight?” he asked, his hands suddenly still.
“Then I would wait.”
“Until tomorrow? Next week? Next month? You would wait?”
“I would,” you vow.
He grins then, doubting that you could, and there is almost a glint of compassion in his eyes.
“Just this once,” he says. “But no more after! In future you will weep and beg and sob! But just this once, you understand?”
“Yes Sir!”
“Then look into my eyes and let me see you need, Kitten,” he says, flexing his fingers, pressing against your knickers, forcing them against your swollen clitoris. “Can you bear this, my pet? Without your knees buckling? I won’t support you if your legs give way.”
“Oh yes, Sir!” you sigh.
His thumb between your buttocks finds the puckered little hole that is your arse, while front and back his fingers caress your cunt. Slowly he pushes his thumb against your arse, parting it slightly, feeling it wet with your juices and opening like a flower to the rain.
“Do you want to come, Kitten?” he asks kindly.
“More than anything, Sir!”
He stabs his thumb inside your arse, says, “Then come for me, Kitten! I demand it of you!”
And as he feels you come his hands pull viciously away and he laughs to see the dark stain spread across your knickers, sees your body convulse, your legs buckle, and this time only has pity on you. Taking your body in his arms he lays it on the floor, then stands above you, smiles down at you, presses his foot against your groin and rubs the wet knickers against your streaming cunt.
