The room was quiet. Just her breathing broke the spell.

He spoke, voicing the words she wished for, longed for.

Every deep, open phrase he spoke made tell

Of his wishes, desires, his fantasies.  There was no before,

Nothing existed in her past. Just his voice.

She (lying, bound, spread, pressed by him against the wooden desk),

Imagined in her mind at the scene, her naked, still,

Him, speaking, painting pictures in her ears, dressed

for work. Old-fashioned pinstripe  – suited to kill.

She shivered then, and knew she was moist.

He touched her only with his language, entrancing

Her mind and her pussy, opening her with his tale.

He reached to stroke her thigh; a glancing

scratch of fingernail, all it took for her sex to open to the male,

To the thought of his cock, his wild, strong, ripping.

He wove a pattern in the air of sound, desire and love.

She squirmed, moving her hips, dancing herself for him.

He told her that she fitted him as a bespoke glove

Fits the fingers, tight and welcoming, She grinned.

She felt herself dripping.