Standing here at the edge of the world, with my face pressed against the cool glass, I can see everything. The whole city is laid bare beneath me, its bright, light-filled veins pulsing to the beat of the city's heart, a living body filled with the millions who call it home. From squalor to manors, from the depths of the slums to the highest sky scrapers that reach like fingers towards the heavens, there is nothing I can't see from here. The Top of the World. An apt name for a hotel that rises higher than any other building. Halfway to space, they claim. I'm inclined to believe them. Up here, so high that the word 'high' even starts to lose its meaning, I can almost feel the gale winds buffeting the building and making it sway back and forth. Then again, that might just be me.

It's not like I have much in terms of my own equilibrium. If I had my hands free, they would be clenching, claw-like, against the glass, smearing smudgy streaks across the clear surface in blatant reflection of the pleasure coursing through me. But my hands are bound behind my back, held by a silk tie coiled twice around my wrists and wrought into an intricate knot, at once gentle like a kiss and strong as steel. I could not free myself, even if I wanted. This, I think, is your thrill. To see me squirm and writhe, so loosely bound as to barely make a difference, and yet wholly unable to escape with even all of my strength. My fingers grab for purchase, wriggling through thin air to find something with which to ground me. There is nothing. Slowly, my face is pressed harder against the glass, my cheek distending to match the pressure from behind. It's like there's nothing between me and oblivion. Just a few, blonde tresses falling across my face, snapped loose from the sloppy bun I'd adopted earlier. Now, it's practically as if I am being held against the very edge of the world, with a view to a fall and nothing else except the sensation of being filled, over and over again. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a violinist tuning his instrument before the grand performance.

You were still wearing your tuxedo last I had a chance to look at you, and I doubt anything has changed. I can even feel the trim of your suit pants brushing against my naked ass every time you push forward, the girth of your meaty cock spreading me open and pressing me acutely against the window. Will it break? No-- even with both of our weights mashed against it, it is reinforced to withstand. We can't have been the first people to fuck against this view; certainly, I refuse to believe so. Perhaps there is, somewhere nearby, the imprint of another woman's face, her lipstick smearing equally across the pane as her cunt was filled like mine is, now. You are slow, meticulous, your hands lifting my delicate dress to expose the pale, luscious skin beneath, the cheeks unmarred by underwear, just a sheer expanse of snow-white purity for you to unravel. You must have known I was hot even before you hiked up my dress; I guess I am fast becoming transparent to you in that way. The soft smile across the table during the award ceremony, my brown eyes giving you that look of uncompromising desire as I sipped my wine, and the way I looked up at you and murmured "Fuck me," with the strands of drool still clinging to my lips and your cock. As if your manhood was the most delicious piece of meat in the world, so thick as to barely fit inside my mouth, and your quiet smirk when you pulled me onto my feet and pushed me up against the window...

I'm not sure how you managed to snag this room at the top of the hotel; you must be a Someone, even if I don't recognize you. Then again, is it not always the case that the most powerful men, the ones wielding true power, are rarely actually seen? You, with your untold wealth, and your sly, mysterious smile; you, with your exquisite silver-colored tie wrapped so intricately around my wrists. You, pulling my cheeks apart with your thumbs to press your large cock against my nether lips, each hand seizing and tugging me back onto you, smearing my juices across your already spit-slick shaft, and that little grunt of satisfaction at finally hilting yourself inside your prize, the heat of me wrapping around you like a velvety vice. Who are you? How did you take me so smoothly from a stranger, a no one, to the woman gagging around your cock head and moaning senselessly onto the clear glass of your penthouse window? And how many before me, I can't help but wonder, have been speared around you as I am now, their plump pussy lips aching and tingling with the effort of containing you? Large. Virile. Wealthy. A pure fantasy, wrought in the flesh. Too good to be true. And my fingers, finding you, as you press pointedly all the way inside of me, until I can feel your heart beat in the echoes of your throbbing cock. My fingers graze your buttoned shirt, sensing the taut muscle underneath. This is a dream. This is all a dream. I'm down there, somewhere, amidst the lights and pulsing, shifting colors, dreaming of this night, of being fucked so gently and so assertively, of being dominated with such surety that words are superfluous. You are huge inside me, massive. Too real to be real. In a moment, I will wake, alone and unfulfilled. I will savor it, then, while I still can.

You pull back slightly, tap a playful spank on my cheek. I gasp. I moan. My legs are quivering with the electricity of impending orgasm.

You wrap your hand around my throat, possessively.

One thrust, forward, against the cold glass that separates me from the beauty of the world below. My clit is soaked in the juices of my drooling cunt, hypersensitive and aching to be touched. Your balls tap it, gently, once, twice. A slow rhythm. A concented growl in my ear, a pure bass note of pleasure.

Another stroke, deeper. I can practically hear my arousal dripping into a puddle on the floor between my legs. The heat of your fingers clutching my throat, just to remind me. As if I could forget.

Your body pressed into mine, curved around the crook of my ass. Deep, languid thrusts. I'm going to cum from this.

I'm going to cum.

I'm going to...

I can see my house from here.

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