I’m your sugar rush. The slice of pie with whipping cream. The perfect golf swing. You want me because nothing else compares to how I get inside of your mind and manipulate your lustful body. That sweet, perfect, hard body. You don’t even try to hide your hunger. It’s in your eyes across the room and thrusts forward in your pants for anyone to notice if they cared to look. Your inability to touch me, to satiate yourself upon me, makes me giddy with the sensual teasing I am forcing on you. Your arousal makes my low laugh and teasing smile shimmer with promise and denial.
I stand before you like a masterful conductor, orchestrating your full body response so that your distraction level increases until those around you notice and comment. I am not your supplicant nor do I fawn over your attention like everyone else. Then, when the lies you use for polite responses filter through the gentle tinkling of glasses and murmur of small chat, reach me, I softly chuckle, giggle really, like champagne bubbling over a crystal glass, which immediately draws your eyes to me once again, as I weave my way in and out of your sight.
As I look back over my shoulder, as I leave the room to walk out to the veranda over the gardens, raising the tumbler of whiskey to my lips, I see your scowl as you try to extricate yourself from your most recent conversation. The need you have is feral. And it makes me laugh at your inability to control yourself when it comes to me in public domains. Because we both know the only way I can win the battle between us, is to make sure I start a war.
Our little skirmish has not gone unnoticed. My little volley shot and attempt at control is going to be returned aggressively. I can already see your broad shoulders forcing a path through the throngs of polite company who are keeping you from reaching me expeditiously. I know exactly what I’ve done, what I’ve started. And I am ready to face the consequences.