“Next week is a long time,” he said before asking if we could do the cash meet the same day.
It is a long time, I agreed. And that’s the fun of it.
Because half the pleasure isn’t the fantasy itself. It’s not the moment you hand me your money. It’s not the moment I look into your eyes and demand it. It’s not when I order you to put on my panties, to kiss my boot, to beg, to stroke yourself.
It’s the anticipation. The lead-in. The hours, the days you spend picturing it in your mind, wondering what it will feel like, knowing it’s coming.
There’s a reason I call myself a tease. I love to draw things out. I love the waiting. I love doling out moments of relief and then pulling the string taut again with anticipation for whatever comes next.
Would you rather have one hour of anticipation and fantasy or a day? A week? A month?
The pleasure is so much deeper when you’re desperate for it, begging, weak with the wanting.
There’s a reason I don’t let you dictate timing. Because I can hold out longer than you. I can play with you. Tease you. Dangle the risk that is waiting, the shuddering, shivering fear and pain and pleasure.
I can take your five-minute fantasy and make it something more.