Post-coital, Harmony slips into her lover’s shirt, the fabric still warm from his body. She parades around his apartment, her stocking-clad legs and heels clicking against the hardwood floor. He’d warned her not to touch his prized golf clubs, but she grasps one, swinging it with a smirk, asserting her dominance. She knows he’s watching from the other room, his protests a mere formality.
She puts on a show, swaying her hips, unbuttoning the shirt to reveal her naked form. She knows he’s imagining her heels digging into his back, her commands whispered in his ear. As she spreads her thighs, baring her glistening pussy, she pictures him in the other room, fisting his cock, desperate for her touch. The game of power and desire continues, a dance they both relish.
I find pleasure in being observed. There’s an allure in letting my defenses down and performing for a man. Thus, I allow my paramour to watch me saunter about in his shirt, paired with my enticing stockings and garters. It fulfills my desire, knowing his gaze is fixed on me, and with each passing moment, his arousal grows, straining against his trousers.
Often, this visual exchange is enough to satisfy me, but sometimes, I’ll gradually undress for him until I’m exposed and pleasuring myself. He attempts to resist, but his self-control often wavers, leading him to touch himself. I feign anger, yet secretly delight in his self-indulgence in the adjacent room.
