Listen very carefully now. For the next fifteen minutes you’re not to speak at all. Nod if you understand. OK, good. I’m going to tell you what I’ve been dreaming of doing. I’d like to paint you a picture of something I fantasise about when I am alone. It’s a game I want to play with you. A tease, if you like. Not quite a striptease, but certainly a performance. One that I think you’ll enjoy.
This fantasy started after the night we spent in that bar. Remember the narrow cocktail club in town that was decked out in neon and chrome? Tall stools that we spun around on, like big kids at the playground. The bartender who frowned slightly as he mixed us drinks, as if he was itching to tell us it was time to grow up. I remember how you stuck your tongue out at him when his back was turned. You always look incredible, but that evening you’d hit upon ‘perfect’. So smart and neat and tailored. I wanted to grab you by the lapels and truly mess you up: plant lipstick on your neck and the collar of your shirt. Tear off a button or two.
Remember that evening? No talking, though—just nod if you do. OK, well, that’s where the idea first came to me. When I was staring at you. Firstly over some fancy green concoction with a funny name, then espresso martinis afterwards because we couldn’t bear to say weird names aloud once we’d become so giggly. The music was just the right volume, if I’m recalling it right: not so loud I couldn’t hear you, but just loud enough that you had to lean forward to angle your words directly into my ear. Your breath smelt like apple, and then coffee, then whichever drink you chose next—I can’t be expected to remember everything. Mainly because by drinking three, I was too horny to care about anything except you. By the time we got to that final cocktail, I was so desperate to take you home that all I could focus on was the intensity of your eyes—simultaneously shining in the neon and made dark by your desire.
Somewhere in the middle of the second cocktail, just after I’d told you I felt hot from the way you were staring… that’s when you reached for the ice. Just one cube, whipped quickly from the bucket behind the counter when the bartender’s back was turned. You grabbed it and held it in your palm, smiling that wicked smile at me. One word: “sssh,” whispered soft and direct against my cheek. I didn’t so much hear your command as feel it above the music, and then you pressed that ice cube against my neck.
I hope it’s no surprise to you that I’ve remembered this. The way I had to breathe deep and bite my lip to keep still, suppressing every instinct to yelp and bat your hand away! The tension in my muscles as I fought to stay motionless. Desperate to do as I was told. Oh I’ve thought about that move so much since you first did it. From that initial sharp shock of the ice cube to the final trickles of meltwater that ran down my chest and into my cleavage… I have longed to pay you back.
Which brings me to an important question, which you’re not to answer just yet. Just think about it. How still do you think you can stay while I tease you, darling?
How long can you sit there while I hold you in my gaze? For how long will you wait and watch as I torment you with my performance? Let’s see, shall we.
Let’s see.
First, I’m going to pour myself a drink. Lots of ice, of course. I’ll fill the tumbler right to the brim with cubes of it. Partly because I love the way it melts now—you turned me on to the beauty of that on the night we sat in that bar. But also partly because I want you to remember how long you made me sit there while yours melted against my flesh. I’d like you to wonder if I’ll make you sit unflinchingly still, not touching me until the very last milky pebble has turned entirely to water.
When the glass is full, I’ll pour myself a drink. None for you, of course. You’re not a guest here, not even the audience: you’re basically invisible. You do not exist. This performance I’m putting on is for my pleasure only. You don’t get to be a part of it. You’re a fly on the wall. A nothing.
You, my darling, are fucking furniture.
I’ll be wearing my favourite outfit. You know the one, but let me remind you, just in case it’s not yet burned into your mind (it will be after this, I promise): tight black latex shorts. Really constricting, like a second skin. Shiny and taut across the cheeks of my bum. Gripping me like bondage. Digging slightly into the flesh at my hips, making you briefly wonder if it’s worth begging permission to do the same with your fingertips. On top I’ll wear nothing but those playful black nipple tassels. What can I say? That bartender was wrong about us having to grow up: I know you agree that life’s more fun when we get to be playful.
I’ll bend over slightly as I pour out my drink. Neat vodka, of course, filling the ice-laden glass right up to the brim. Then I’ll toy with it a little before I dive in: swirling it around so you can hear it clink. Lick around the rim like I’m holding myself back. Maybe I’ll glance at you to see what effect I’m having, but perhaps I’ll ignore you altogether. Just me, in my tight latex and confidence and ice-cold detachment, messing with your eager little mind.
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By the time I finally take a sip you’ll wish you were the one my lips were touching. Red lipstick, of course—slut red. And dark-rimmed eyes like I had that day in the bar. Looking exactly like the kind of woman your mother warned you about.
Moving from the bar to the table so I have more room to stretch out, perhaps I’ll bend over a little so you can see how the tiny shorts stretch against my bottom. Showing off just how achingly spankable I am. And I choose that word ‘aching’ very carefully. I want you to see my arse in these shorts and physically ache to spank it.
When I can see the light in your eyes—that hunger to touch me—I’ll turn back round again and sit on the table. Legs spread open to tempt you, but glass with ice and vodka planted firmly between them like a big sign telling you—No. Not yet. Not for a long time yet.
You know, I’ve always been told I’m a bit of a show-off, and I love that the first time I revealed this, you responded with a twinkle and a “hey! If you’ve got it, flaunt it!” Something about the eager way you look at me when I’m performing gets me hotter than when I’m doing it for anyone else. You give me permission to be myself—my slutty, horny, performative self. So I won’t feel any shame or embarrassment as I take ice cubes from the glass one by one, licking and sucking like a cat with a saucer of cream. Running them down my neck and chest and to my stomach, like I’m painting my body with the chill: highlighting every curve of my tits and the angle of my collarbone with the glistening wetness.
See why I remember that night in the bar? You have made me obsessed with ice. I am now, perhaps ironically, extremely hot for ice.
I hope you’ll note where the trickles of water drip down my body. Hope your lips will itch to kiss them all away. Notice how your tongue feels heavy in your mouth through sheer desperation to lick me.
You still won’t be allowed to move—to touch or taste me. Your other senses will be indulged: I’ll let you see the way the ice glints as I pop each cube into my mouth; hear the creak of my tiny latex shorts; smell the delicious scent of my cunt (so close to your face yet still forbidden!) as I open my legs to reveal that those shorts are crotchless. But touch and taste? None of that is for you.
Only when you’re squirming in your chair will I move on to the next step. Because the next step is me getting off—and getting off hard—on your frustration. I’ll tip rivulets of cold vodka from the glass, allowing them to carve pathways down my body to where those shorts bite into my hips. Perhaps I’ll let out a few sighs and groans so you understand how much I’m enjoying myself without you. It makes me wet to perform for you like this, so I’ll indulge myself. Run my fingers over the pert mound of my pussy, revelling in the way those shorts present it like delicious fruit, ready to devour.
Remember what you told me? “If you’ve got it, flaunt it”? I will flaunt it so zealously in front of you. Gripping the fabric of the latex where it tears open to expose my wet cunt, I will yank it up so you can watch just how aroused that cunt is getting. How swollen with all the blood that rushes there when I am turned on. Moaning extra loudly so you really feel what you’re missing out on, I’ll press my fingers right into the slit and rub languidly back and forth. Long strokes will give way to shorter ones: neat circles around my clit, moistened by my own saliva and freezing vodka and melting ice.
Delicious.
I’ve tried this many times on my own at home: this temperature play. I don’t think I’ve told you that before. On so many evenings, I do this by myself. I take a glass with ice and water and place it beside the bed. Dipping my fingertips in to collect droplets of numbing cold, which I then drizzle onto my clitoris as I rub at myself. The contrast between hot and cold makes my fingers work harder for the orgasm. Initially numbing, but swiftly growing warm as I slide them back and forth, building friction and intensity. Getting hotter and hotter and hotter as the fantasies in my head play out, then pausing for another top-up of shivery water to take me back down again. Over and over. Frigid to warm until I’m almost mad with desperation to climax. Wonderful.
This is what I’ll do while you watch me. Sit back on the table with my neck exposed so you remember that very first time you introduced me to the delights of ice on that passionate night in the cocktail bar. Legs spread as wide as possible for your viewing pleasure (and my performative joy), I will touch myself over and over, building up in waves. Moaning and sighing and giving you the kind of show that will have blood flowing to your own crotch as hard as it’s flowing to the lips of my cunt in those tight latex shorts.
Build and release. Build. Release. Where will you look? Don’t tell me right now. It’s a rhetorical question. I just like to ponder it. Which part of my performance will best draw your gaze? Fluttery fingers in warm wet places or ice-cold cubes trailed temptingly across bare skin? Taut stomach with my belly button piercing glinting in the light like sunlight on snow, or long, smooth thighs that you want to bury your head between? Shiny black fabric stretched across my hips, or firm round tits that beg to be nuzzled and kissed?
I will be wondering all this while I put on my performance, and each flicker of your eyes to a different part of my body will turn me on more and more. I’ll masturbate with much greater fervour knowing you’re drinking all this in. You, my best audience. My most loyal fan. My fucking muse and my ruin.
Eventually, when my pussy really hurts to be fucked, I’ll dive in—two fingers, nice and hard. Tits jiggling and nipple tassels swinging as I fuck myself with such intensity you might let out a little gasp of your own.
Are you seeing this all in your mind’s eye, my darling? Can you picture how I’ll look with my thighs spread open and my fingers in my cunt for you? Good, that’s good. You’re going to experience this whole thing more than once—first, as I whisper it to you right now, and next as you get to watch it in glorious reality.
We’re not finished yet, though, of course. For my next trick, I’ll get up on the table on all fours, back arched like a satisfied housecat stretching out in the sun. You get to see the way the shorts present my pussy from a whole new angle: from behind. Almost begging you to sit up and bury your face in it.
Licking at the vodka from the glass to keep myself cool, I will keep that pleasurable rhythm going with my fingers between my legs. Building and releasing, up and down, holding myself on that plateau of pleasure. Not yet trying to tip myself over, just enjoying my moment in this liminal space that sits partway between performance and personal satisfaction. I get off just as much from arching my back and presenting to you as I do from the touch of my fingertips. It’s hard to separate the thrill that comes from spreading my legs to get a better angle from the delight of knowing that I’m doing it while wearing those red-soled heels that you bought me. The two things are entwined so closely that there’s no way for me to know which makes me hotter. Only that the way they warm my blood is as inevitable as the ice cooling it down.
Can you see it in your mind’s eye, baby? Good. That’s good. It’s time for you to picture the grand finale.
I’ll flip over so I’m lying on my back, exposing the smoothness of my stomach and my lithe thighs, presenting myself with legs in the air, pussy facing towards you. I’ll peel the shorts down to show off my perfect arse, tugging at the latex a little just to feel it give that delightful snap against my bare skin—the one that conjures the same satisfaction as a casual spanking. Like your hand lightly slapping my bottom when we walked out of that cocktail bar.
This is the point at which I stop holding back. Performance has taken a back seat, and now it’s all about my pleasure. The hand between my legs moves so fast it’s like a blur. I work at myself the way I would if I were alone, fingers rubbing and penetrating, stretching out my cunt and thrilling my clit as I moan and whimper and bite my lip. Perhaps at this point you may wonder if I’ll invite you to join in. Keep wondering. I’m already gone: disappeared into a world of my own where the only thing I care about is coming around my fingers.
It’s not just you I’ve forgotten: the drink on the table nearby has long since been abandoned as I shift focus to the roaring urgency of my own orgasm. The mix of vodka and meltwater pools around my body, wetting my hair as I throw my head back in ecstasy, but I barely notice. No longer performing moans and sighs to please you, I open my mouth and let out yelps and squeals of involuntary elation, pushing myself up and beyond that plateau and to an orgasm so powerful it makes you shudder in sympathetic delight. My skin is cool against the table, lying sodden in pools of iced water and vodka and my own cum. As the waves crash over my body and I twitch and jerk with the force of it, perhaps I’ll come back to reality and look you dead in the eye as the tempest recedes. Or maybe I’ll maintain the pretence that you’re no more than a fly on the wall. You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you? In case it isn’t already as clear as the perfect cube of ice: you’re not directing this performance. You yourself have no control.
From that evening in the cocktail bar, the second you pressed a frozen chip of ice against my neck and told me ‘sssh’, I’ve been dreaming of paying you back. Every time I masturbate alone, using the chill to temper the speed of my own orgasms, I have dreamed of doing it for you. To you. Performing for and teasing and utterly ignoring you all at the same time. Fucking myself in a frenzy that you can only observe yet never join in with. Frustrating every nerve ending you have that cries out to touch and be touched.
How does that sound, my darling? Wait! Don’t answer. Stay silent, just as I ordered at the start. I can tell from the look in your eyes that this is something you want to watch, not just imagine. So now that you know exactly what you’re in for, it’s time for this performance to begin.
Place your hands on the armrests of your chair, and don’t move a muscle.
I’ll go fetch the vodka and a bucket of fresh ice.
The End
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