Free Waiting for Him by Natalie Dae Page B

that, and under no circumstances must you touch yourself. Anywhere. You must not squirm to relieve your arousal—and by that I mean you squeezing your legs together and clenching your hole so you get movement. Friction. I want you to just sit and imagine.

    And she had done that, although with each scenario that had played out in her head she’d become increasingly uncomfortable. It was a test, she knew that, and when he asked her—and he would—whether she had done exactly as he’d told her, he would be looking for signs of her lying. She had no intention of doing that—why lie and break the trust between them? Why throw everything away for a quick fumble between her legs while she waited for him? Anticipation was what she enjoyed most, the longing, the dreaming, the heady build-up so she was on the verge of coming when he walked in. Thoughts alone could do that, she’d discovered, if she closed her mind off to everything but the idea of being fucked by him. Whipped by him. Invaded by him.
    And John…knowing he imagined what she was doing, perhaps growing uncomfortable himself as he sat at his desk talking to someone sitting on the other side, discussing his latest venture, his mind not fully on that as it should be but on her. The giddy rush that gave her always took her breath away. That despite their billions, despite his quest to help others fight illness, thoughts of her overtook any others. Oh, she wasn’t vain enough to think it happened all the time, but on play days, emails ramping up their desire, he’d told her he struggled to concentrate.

    My pet,
    I have a meeting later, so I won’t be able to write to you between three and four. So let me make it clearer what I want so you can think of this before I contact you afterwards. You must strip then shower at three. While everyone’s discussing Jacobson and his possible investment in the company, I can sit and imagine the water soaking your hair, making your skin shine. With the shareholders hashing out whether Jacobson’s name will benefit our brand and those in need of the drugs his research will provide—it will, I don’t need a discussion to know that—I’ll indulge in a little mind wander.
    You can wash your cunt, but do not press the soap against it. Do not rub the side of the bar up and down your slit. Do not reach for that expensive tube of shower gel and slide it inside you. Remember, nothing, nothing feels as good as my cock. Likewise, you can wash your tits, but leave your nipples alone. Skirt around them, ignoring the urge to squeeze or pinch. When you’re done, leave the bathroom without drying yourself. I want you to walk through the penthouse, knowing you have goose bumps, knowing your nipples are hard, your cunt curls dripping.

    And her cunt curls were dripping now. Her juices had pooled at the lower curve of her hole, resting there, a globule that, if she moved slightly, would burst and seep downwards. With her legs wide open like they were, he might see the shimmer of her wetness if he lifted his head and turned her way. He’d see her need, the way her chest was rising and falling, her taut nipples. He’d see the blush on her cheeks, growing hotter by the minute, and know she was still doing as he’d instructed. Thinking about their play session even after he’d arrived home.
    Perhaps him not coming over to her immediately was a new strategy, one he’d failed to tell her about. Maybe there wasn’t anything wrong with him at all.
    But there was, she sensed it.
    I can’t do anything about it unless you ask me to, John. And those are your rules, not mine. Silence on play days unless ordered to speak.
    So she continued with obeying his instructions. And waited, waited for him.

    My pet,
    Once you’re dry, you may, if you have enough time, prepare the playroom. I want the paddle with the studs placed on the table. Tonight we shall test your pain threshold again, as discussed the other night. The whip and cat-o’-nine-tails