The Power of Words

My hand is at the back of her throat, holding her against the wall as my other hand traces up her thigh. She’s still quivering from a moment before when my hand came down, firm, on her ass; her breath is still coming in ragged gasps. Her face is turned, her eyes on me and I lean in and kiss her cheek softly, treasuring the look in her eyes of not fully believing the sweetness, not knowing what evil thing I’ll do next. I move my lips along her face to her ear, and start to whisper, knowing my lips are close enough that she can feel my breath on her flesh as I whisper about what I’d be doing to her. If only.

We had met earlier that night, shared a few words. Compared tattoos, and the stories behind them, and she’d let me massage her neck. Often I take my time, but for some reason the spark she set off in me made me bold. My hands traced up her neck to her hair, and enmeshed and pulled. When her only response was to moan softly, my other hand started to trace her throat- no massage this time, just ominously, sensually caressing that most vulnerable spot. My hand slid down her neck, tracking her collar bone, cupping her breast through the flimsy material of her dress. She whimpered as my fingers brushed her nipple, and breathed out “just keep my panties on, anything else is fine.”

That’s when I pushed her against the wall, one hand on her neck, the other warming her ass. Her words played in my head as I pondered how best to proceed. It was a casual play situation, and such limits are no problem at all. But tonight, they weren’t limits. They were a weapon. One more thing I could use to torment her.

My lips found her ear and I whispered “you wish I could just take you, here against this wall… rip your panties and violate you , don’t you, little whore”. She had earlier in the night told me how much she enjoyed being called a slut, a whore, dirty things whispered in her ear, and now I was using that to my full advantage. A few times my hand slipped beneath her dress, and brushed against her wetness. I whispered in her ear that she had soaked her panties, and asked her with a cruel, teasing tone if she could even tell me the name of the man who was molesting her. When she admitted she could not, I let my hand come down hard on her ass, and laughed. The noise she made, the look in her eye- both of us knowing it was the words, as much as my hands that were turning her on- hot.

We played like that for a while. My hands exploring her body, first tender then cruel, all the while whispering in her ear. The gentleman she was with at one point intervened, and asked we limit things to a more tame nature, which I was happy to comply with. As I remarked to her, I have a consent fetish, and it applies to all involved, and so I was more then happy to limit myself to what he requested. There was one moment when I did not quite understand what he said, and crossed a line he thought he had explained, but even so it was quickly resolved. In those situations, I am always always going to be happiest knowing exactly what is allowed, and enjoying that, not pushing any boundaries that will make others uncomfortable. I felt bad for inadvertently crossing the line he set, but quickly recovered.

But even that further limitation didn’t stop how erotic it was. My hands were more limited, but neither of our imaginations. Eventually, my hands were almost irrelevant, just lightly stroking her while I spoke in her ear, painting images, and listening to her breathing change in response. Knowing my words were touching her in ways just as arousing as anything I might do with my hands.

God, I love words.