Threads

It isn’t always about the suit.

It isn’t always about your sartorial refinement and the way it sets my erotic imagination racing, the way it captures my attention, arrests my gaze, compelling my hands to wander along the lines that accentuate your commanding masculinity, my palms sliding along the charcoal lapels, my digits fingering the fine weave as I register the heat rising up through the suiting, the beat of your heart through the starched cotton, the almost painful pulsation of your cock drumming against my mound and my thigh, the glans aching for the cool air and the wet warmth of my mouth ever craving, its only release the streaming precum soaking the shorts concealed beneath. 

It isn’t always about the suit.

It isn't always about the contrast between your clothed form and the scant, diaphanous silks drawn tight across my body, your touch gliding, absorbing supple curves and undulations, transitioning from nylon to lace to soft femininity, as your fingers wind themselves into my tresses, this woman a slave to your kiss and caress as you walk me back, as you lower me onto the table, your strong hands running along my stockinged legs, spreading them wide to meet the periphery, your fingers pulling aside the drenched panties to reveal the bright gleam of my lust, to ease your thick cock inside me with a slowness that has me trembling, clutching at your sleeves, my cunt grasping, swallowing your hardness, my hands gripping at threads, drawing you close, drawing you ever closer, your weight bearing down, your tongue finding the crimson of my taut peak, your hips thrusting that last inch of your flesh to my limit as I cry out your name, my back arching off the wood, my body wrapped in and around you, my body and yours prematurely on pleasure’s edge.

It isn’t always about the suit.

It isn’t always about the stains of our lust conspicuous on the front of your trousers or the flash of dark wiry curls glimpsed through the gaps in your shirt or the graze of your cuff on my nape or the chill of your link on my skin or my wrists bound together with the black silk of your necktie as you finally run your tongue along my sweet succulence or the musky scent of leather that rushes through my nostrils as I take hold of your belt to bring your cockhead to my lips or the sweat and the sheen that fuse these fabrics, our bodies together as you place my hands on the stucco and take me from behind with an urgent hunger that mirrors my own, your hands pushing up the tightness of my skirt, shredding the lace, parting me open, your shaft sliding in with an effortlessness that somehow draws all the breath from my lungs, your fingers strumming my clitoris, your naked cock plunging in deep, emerging slick and triumphant even in this alleyway dimly lit, your cock possessing my cunt, your force pinning me to the wall, my muffled pleas for more, for more, for your come, for your scorched seed inside me, the sound of our fucking, my mewl and your groan merging with the traffic's hum.

No, it isn’t always about the suit. But today it would seem that it is.