It was the most eloquent of evenings. 

A divine meal, delicious fashions and exquisite company.

However, it wasn't enough. 

You brought me home and restrained me against the wall with one hand; commanding me.

 If I could fight for words, you would disarm them with your sigh at my ear. 
Your other hand effortlessly grazing up my thigh.

Stockings, skin, underwear. 
Your fingers are so wet, wrapped in my moisture.

Your words should be romantic, but your desire is demanding. 
Your words are far more honest. 
You speak of how hard your cock is in your pants, although I can’t feel it because you’re holding me down. 
But you feel me move against your fingers at the thought of you. 
Your words marinate into my sensations. I want you to play with me.

The length of your finger begins to glide slowly up and down 
as you smooth the silk between my lips, dancing with Lucifer elegance over my clitoris. 
You are tender; yet you are demon. When I fight for words, you tease faster. 

When my lips move to form language, you speak with volume, drowning me with your demands.

As I get closer and closer, your hands slides down my arms to my throat. 
Your words no longer at my ear, but spoken deep into my eyes. 
As you tease and smooth the silk of my panties against me, my hips grind at one with your will. 
You make promises describing how hard you’re going to fuck me. 
You tell me that when I cum against the fingers canvassing my underwear, 
I will find the fingers around my throat begin to tighten.

“Cum for me, Princess,” you breathe. 

“Cum for me as you fight for breath,” you moan.
“Crave my cock thrusting inside you,” you say commanding me.

“Cum harder,”

"Cum faster," 

“Cum for me, Princess.”

And at last, “Sleep, my Queen.”

I drift.