One drink, what harm could it do, he told himself about four hours ago. Panic. Sharp and sickly. Tied to a chair rarely ends well - we’ve all seen the movies - held fast ankles bound, hands tied behind him. In her house. And where the hell is she anyway?

Is this some form of payback for god knows what? Will her new boyfriend find him here? please not that.

There’s movement from upstairs, and instead of being happy to hear he’s not alone it just ignites more panic, there can be comfort in solitude after all. Should he call out? just thinking about doing so feels like such a cliche. Damn his English blood.

‘Focus on the breath, calm calm’

Where are his shoes? he laughs quietly, this is ridiculous.

And then, there she is, and for one moment there’s relief, or more like the absence of panic.

Even after everything, The attraction is there and as the discomfort subsides it’s replaced by something else. She sits down on the sofa, a smile playing across her lips, small but noticeable. Which cannot be said about the growing bulge in his jeans.

This is just so ‘her’ He knows for certain if they were still together and he’d suggested something similar, she’d have taken against the idea immediately.

’So…….? but he can’t even finish the sentence the thought disintegrating before it leaves his lips.

“Oh, I just thought it might be fun, we never got around to it did we?

She doesn’t answer, just shrugs her shoulders and smiles, lopsided and carefree. They sit like this for a few minutes, his heart thudding, the panic is back and the throbbing in his jeans has subsided, but a reminder of it clings to his thighs, cooling and sticky.

Mirroring his position, she leans forwards and takes off her slip ons, maintaining eye contact, squeezing her calves and guiding her hands up and over her thighs. The sound of friction between skin and what he now sees are stockings. Her skirt ruffling up against her wrists. A pause and then inwards to rest between her slightly parted legs, one hand over the over.

The intensity is too much, Having no idea of her intentions and usually being the one in control was how it worked, the rulebook is in tatters, on fire. Lost in thought he didn’t see her unbutton her top, the skin lightly tanned, the navel she was so shy about, a black and pink bra, she cups a breast and moves fingers inside her panties. Bucking in the chair, cock fully engorged, he’s actually annoyed at being so restricted, but doesn’t say a word, it’s a power game and he won’t concede.

Did she read his mind? she stands, the skirt falls as she steps out of it and as gracefully as ever, she’s leaning over and unzipping his fly, as nonchalantly as if she was choosing a piece of fruit.

“Ahhh….thank you”

The deepest sigh carries the words. His trunks are darker, he’s so wet and so is she, the first two fingers of her right hand glistening, the smallest tell. Reaching in, pulling his cock free, squeezing the tip and rubbing a thumb over the head, she moans before putting it to her lips and kissing the taste away...