Amy

((user)) : I lie there, spread-eagled on the silk sheets, limbs secured at wrist and ankle, my entire body gleaming under a sheen of warm coconut oil.

((Amy)) : She takes a slow, deliberate step back from the bedside, her arms crossing beneath her breasts as she drinks in the sight of you. The lamplight catches every slick curve of muscle, every shadowed hollow, every point where the oil pools in the dip of your collarbone or the crease of your hip. She walks a slow circle around the bed, her bare feet silent on the hardwood, her eyes never leaving your offered form.

"Like a sacrifice," she murmurs, her voice low and musing. "Anointed and ready." She reaches out as she passes, dragging a single fingertip through the sheen of oil on your thigh, tracing the line of muscle up to your hip. Her touch is featherlight, the oil making it glide impossibly smooth. "Do you know how long I imagined this?" She completes her circuit, stopping at the head of the bed where she can look down at you, at the helpless erection jutting from the nest of oil-slicked curls at your groin. "The waiting. The wanting." Her smile is slow, sharp. "It was worth it."

((user)) : She straddles my chest, her slick thighs bracketing my ribs, her hands planting on either side of my head.

((Amy)) : She lowers herself onto you with deliberate care, the heat of her cunt hovering inches above your sternum. The oil on your skin makes her slide easily, finding her seat, her weight pressing down just enough to make you feel owned. She looks down at you, her hair falling forward to brush your cheeks, her expression a mixture of command and tenderness.

"I want to see your face," she says, her hips beginning a slow, grinding roll against your chest, the friction from the oil turning slick and filthy. "I want to watch you breathe me in." She reaches down, her hand finding your bound arm, her fingers interlacing with yours, though you cannot return the grip. "Struggle, if you want," she offers, her voice a warm taunt. "The bonds are silk. They'll hold, but I enjoy feeling you test them." She rides you slowly, her cunt leaving a glistening trail on your oiled skin as she grinds, her eyes never leaving yours. "Tell me how it feels to be so helpless beneath me."

((user)) : She dismounts, moving to kneel between my oiled, spread legs, her face inches from my throbbing, slicked cock.

((Amy)) : The shift in position makes the air rush cool against the oil on your chest and stomach. She settles onto her knees, her thighs spreading to accommodate her position, her hands coming to rest on your oil-slick knees. She squeezes once, a firm, grounding pressure, before sliding her palms slowly, achingly slowly, up the inside of your thighs. The oil makes her touch liquid, a gliding caress that leaves a trail of fire in its wake. Her gaze is fixed on your cock, glistening with oil, twitching under her attention.

"Look at you," she breathes, and her voice has dropped, gone husky and strained. "Beautiful. Slick. Ready." She leans in, and the first touch is not her mouth, but her cheek. She presses the soft skin of her face against the length of your shaft, nuzzling it, letting the oil smear across her cheekbone and jaw. She turns her head, lips parting, and the hot wet swipe of her tongue from base to tip is sudden, shocking, and devastatingly deliberate. "I'm going to taste every inch of this," she promises against the sensitive crown, her breath hot. "And you are going to lie there and take it." She wraps her hand around the base, squeezing tightly, a ring of pressure to keep you on the edge, before taking the head into the wet, hot prison of her mouth.

((user)) : She warns me not to come, or asks for permission to come. I obey, trembling.

((Amy)) : She has been working you with single-minded focus for what feels like an eternity. Her mouth, hot and wet, slides up and down your oiled shaft in a rhythm that is hypnotic. Her hand cups your balls, rolling them gently in a grip made slick by the dripping oil. You can feel the pressure building, a coiling, tightening knot deep in your gut. Your hips try to lift, try to chase the feeling, but the bonds hold you down. A guttural sound of pure desperation is torn from your throat.

She must feel the change. The subtle tensing of your thighs, the frantic pulse beneath her tongue. She pauses immediately, her mouth rising from you with a wet, obscene pop. She looks up, her lips swollen, her chin slick with oil and spit, her eyes dark with warning. "Ah, ah, ah," she purrs, shaking her head slowly. Her hand maintains that crushing grip on your base, a living vice that stops the inevitable. "You did not ask permission." She holds you there, in that exquisite, burning agony, while she catches her breath. "You may not come until you say the words. And I don't think you've earned that right yet." She squeezes once, a reminder of who holds the keys to your release. "So breathe. Breathe through it. Let it subside."

Minutes later, or perhaps it is only seconds, she leans down again, her tongue laving a slow, deliberate stripe up the underside of your shaft, tasting the oil and the salt of your sweat and the bitterness of precum. "You want to come?" she asks, the question a silken whip crack. "Then beg me for it. Properly." She takes you back into the warm, slick clutch of her mouth, but this time, she does not move. She holds you there, the head of your cock pressed against the back of her throat, and waits. The only sound in the room is your ragged, labored breathing.