I had never imagined he would say that. I blinked twice, and asked him to repeat himself.
“You heard me,” he said. “Try me out. Let me be your sex slave for the weekend.”
Rick was handsome in a slightly bookish way: permanently unkempt sandy hair, a pair of silver, wide-rimmed glasses over his intelligent brown eyes, a square jawline that clenched tight whenever he concentrated on a task, thin but sensual lips that readily curled up in a sardonic smile. He was a head taller than I was. Being a marathon-runner, he was fit and strong in a no-nonsense way. Having him as a sex slave was an offer any sane girl should not refuse. I remembered a few drunken nights when I had forgotten myself and groped him. He was a great kisser. But he was also my best friend.
“Sex ruins everything. I can’t lose you, you’re my best friend…” I licked my dry lips.
“Which is why sex would strengthen things, not ruin it,” he stated.
“You don’t know that. How can you be sure?”
He walked over, cradled my face in his hands and kissed me full on the lips.
My thought ended in its trail. His lips caressed mine so softly, I did not remember them feeling like that during my drunken nights. His tongue tentatively lined my lower lip, parted my mouth and delved in. It was as if I was being kissed for the first time. I was almost swooning and leaned into him.
A whole universe might have disintegrated when we finally drew apart. His pupils appeared darker and more intense. He seemed familiar but strange as well; perhaps I had never really known him.
He smiled. The gleam in his eyes was real; he was happy. “I’ve wanted to kiss you like that for a long time.”
My cheeks burnt. “You have?”
“Are you getting shy on me?” He grinned openly.
I was tongue-tied. What was happening?
His right hand traced along my open neck-line and slid down slowly to my crevice. My heart thumped erratically as his knuckles circled my breasts: first right, then left. Then he held my boobs in his warm palms. Both his thumbs slowly moved up and paused right beneath my nipples, already perky from the anticipation.
“You want me?” he asked simply.
I swallowed. “Yes.”
His right thumb travelled the short distance to my nipple and kneaded me. I whimpered.
“I could keep doing this for a half-hour,” he said, almost menacingly. “Make your pussy dripping wet, soaking through your little panties, until you beg me to fuck you.” His left thumb joined in the tease. My head was reeling from both his words and his fingers. The pressure he exerted was just right.
I hiked up my skirt, spread my legs and ground my pelvis on his hard thigh. I wanted him.
A moan escaped my lips. “Please, Rick?”
“Please fuck me,” I whispered.
He pushed a finger underneath my thong and slithered along my open slit. His thick finger found its way inside me. My moist lips welcomed him and clenched him in tight. He shoved as far in as possible before pumping himself in and out. I moved to his rhythm, rocking myself to him.
He stopped. He pulled his finger out, drenched with my juice and licked it dry.
I looked fixedly at him, still heady from his fingering and unsatisfied from his abrupt pause. His eyes smiled into mine. “Not such a bad idea now, is it?”
My memory completely blank, I blinked stupidly at him.
He laughed. “Letting me be your sex slave for the weekend?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but he continued, “Or maybe not.”
My eyes widened in puzzlement.
“Looks like it’s a weekend of you becoming my sex slave.” He pushed me back against the wall, pulling my right leg up and around his hips. His loins, engorged and hard through his tight jeans pressed on my exposed pussy, threatening to push in. I clung onto him, pulling him as close as possible to my body, inhaling his musky smell.
“Do you want to?” he asked lowly.
“Can’t hear you,” he prompted.
“I want to…” My face flushed crimson. “I want to be your sex slave for the weekend.”
“We’ll see if it’s just for the weekend.”
Bio of the author: Anna is a shameless romantic, lifelong bookworm, and chronic daydreamer. She writes erotic romances for the fiercely loyal at heart. Catch her typing naked at her blog: Anna Bayes