Seduce Me by Miranda Forbes Page A

air and glared at me, her enormous chest expanding to Herculean proportions. My cock began stirring in response to her challenge, as the buttons on her tunic started popping, one by one, the pressure becoming too much – for them, and me. 

Insomnia
by Karyn Winter
    He is the most frustrating man I have ever met. His smutty mind, quick wit and dirty laugh can combine to change an innocuous conversation into an innuendo-laden duel which leaves my mind and my cunt engaged. With a curl of his lips and a raised eyebrow he can leave me horny, wet and inarticulate. And the worst thing is: he knows it, and loves seeing me trying to hide it.
    Despite how it might sound, I am not utterly obsessed with orgasms. In the bustle of my day-to-day life – lurching through the highs and lows of a job which keeps my mind engaged, juggling responsibilities to friends and family – my sexual predilections often get pushed aside for the wider picture. All work and no play makes Cara a dull girl. Most of the time.
    While I will admit that nothing gets me to sleep quite as well as the aftershocks of a good orgasm, there are nights when I fall into bed exhausted from the day without needing to rub myself to completion. But that’s because I have the choice. And as the old song says ‘you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone’.
    He enjoys torturing me. I know it and usually I like it – I’m firmly of the belief that being tortured by someone you trust makes for fun. But on days like today he’s enjoying torturing me more than I am enjoying being tortured and that leaves me frustrated. Very frustrated.
    It’s been a long day, full of a lot of shit. And while that means this is the kind of blessed adrenaline-fuelled relief I’d have been dreaming of from 9 till 5 if I’d had time for thought, it also means I am desperate for some attention.
    Now I know that sounds ridiculous. I’m knelt naked on the bed in front of him, my hands behind my back, pushing my tits up. He is watching me intently as he asks me questions designed to make me blush, to make me wet, to leave me on the back foot trying to figure out how to please him with my answers. When I don’t answer quickly enough he slaps my tits and pinches my nipples. I try not to fidget at the onslaught, because when I do the soles of my feet catch my bruised arse and he smiles in satisfaction as I try and hide my reaction to the twinges of pain from the punishment he inflicted with the cane earlier.
    He sees everything. More than I’d like. More than I can hide in a million years. He knows how contrary I can be, and it amuses him to see the battle in my eyes between what I want to say and what I can actually bear to force past my dry throat.
    Ok. I do have his attention. I just wish it was a bit more … hands on. Every nerve ending is crying out for his touch. His cock. His fingers. His mouth. But so far I’m getting none of that. And with patience definitely not being one of my virtues, waiting is making me almost grind my teeth with frustration. And he can see it and is laughing at me, enjoying the view and the power that he currently holds despite the fact he’s just lying against his pillow not even touching me.
    â€œSo what should I do with you tonight?”
    I hate this question. Hate it. There are so many possibilities. Fucking, sucking, licking, biting, beating (although on second thoughts, I’m not sure my arse can take much more). Images of things we’ve done before and things I’ve only dreamed about flash through my mind in quick succession. But what do I say? If I tell him what I’m thinking there’s no guarantee he’ll do what I’ve suggested – in fact he’s so contrary that the chances are he won’t just to keep me off balance. And by telling him I’ve given him another insight into my mind, which undoubtedly he’ll use as a stick to beat me