Anya took comfort in the softness of the fur Pavel had put on the window sill. She did not know, of course, whether she would be punished for sitting on it, if he came in and found her there: not knowing the rules made a large part of their sessions together. That could frustrate Anya, but Pavel would look her in the eyes and say, "You like the mystery," and Anya could not help nodding, every time.
She did like the mystery. When Pavel called her cellphone, as he had that morning, and told her where she must go that day, and what she must wear, but never anything else, Anya always felt the warm tingle between her thighs that meant that she did not just like the mystery: she loved it, and craved it.
The more she thought about it, the more she became convinced that sitting on this lovely fur was going to get her spanked. Pavel was probably watching her right now, through a peephole: he almost always did, at the start of a session. Anya put her hands down between her thighs, self-consciously, as if to ward off the wonderful, erotic sensation of that heavenly fur, tickling her and even invading, a little bit, the lace of the panties Pavel had told her to wear.
She knew one rule she was definitely in danger of violating, because of the fur: whatever other laws Pavel laid down, one thing was always forbidden Anya: touching herself. As she felt her hands on her bare thighs, and the fur against her bottom and her loins, Anya wondered whether Pavel's rule might really be that she must sit on the fur, to experience exactly this lovely torment, this terrible temptation.
As she imagined what he would do, if he saw her playing with herself, touching her bare cleft through the black lace, it became harder not to do it. She saw him entering, in his conservative, well-tailored suit, his dark eyes flashing. She heard him telling her to get up, saw him taking the fur and putting it over the bench that stood in the middle of the bare room, heard him telling her to lie down on it, on her belly. She saw him taking off his belt.
She could not help it: Anya closed her eyes, and moved her right hand from her bare thigh to the lace that covered her burning sex.
The phone rang.
(Photo via Sir DuĊĦan Gabrielson of the wonderful Sensual BDSM community on Google Plus.)
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