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Sensing she is close to climax, I slow down, curling and twisting in quarter turns that screw her muscles tighter and tighter around me.
And then I stop.
The invading fingers stay inside her as I surf up to whisper my request in her ear.
“I can’t let you come yet, love.”
Bottom lip firmly captured between her teeth, she whimpers in protest.
“There’s a box on the bed,” I tell her.
Another whimper falls against the mattress as her pussy vibrates harder around my fingers.
“It holds a pair of surgical scissors.”
Her neck strains. She wants to say something, but her eyes roll up in her head.
“The scissors are so I can cut away your panties and dress,” I tell her, each word forced out in a harsh breath. “Will you let me do that?”
She whispers “yes.” I kiss just below her ear then move down the bed.
When I extract my fingers from her snug pussy, an exasperated moan leaves her.
My cock demands I answer the protest, that I bury myself deep inside her and keep pounding until we are spent and puddled together.
My cock is out of luck. It’s not coming out of my pants until Katelyn frees it.
I open the box and remove the scissors. Running a finger against the blade, I test the sharpness as I draw a drop of blood. I suck at the wound while I study the dress.
If I had orchestrated the night, Katelyn would be in something like a stretchy lace bodysuit. I would tease her to the point of exhaustion and she would climax many times before I finally spent myself inside her. A hundred snips, a thousand, their placement designed to keep the outfit from falling away—that’s how I would have done it.
But I did not orchestrate tonight and I don’t want to wait so long before I can feed my cock into her tight depths and explode. So I start along the back seam of the dress’s skirt. I take long cuts, not snips. Three are all I need to reach from the bottom hem to the top off the low-backed dress.
I put the scissors in the box then run both hands along her sides. My chest presses against her ass and then her back. My erection pushes between her cheeks, the taut fabric of her panties preventing me from filling the valley.
She tries to lift, to offer and tease and tempt.
I respond with a warning bite to one delicate earlobe.
Her shoulders shake as I coast down her body.
“When I take you, Kate. I’m taking you bare.”
Her thighs jump. The sweet ass dances.
Such responsiveness, coming from this woman, weakens my resolve.
Scooping up the scissors, I make a little snip in the wet gusset of her panties. I slide my fingers in, the tips moving in a cruel tease from the gate of her dripping hole to the swollen nub of her clit. I repeat the trip over and over.
“You have to stay very still,” I caution, my free hand guiding the open scissors so that one blade safely hooks the underside of the shoulder strap.
Feeling the dull side of the scissors press coldly against the back of her shoulder, the top half of her torso freezes. But her hands fist the bedding and her ass bobs with an overriding need.
I cut the fabric at the same time I push three fingers deep inside her.
She gasps. Her muscles squeeze at me, milk the flesh with a constant flexing rhythm I don’t think she can control.
I slide the handle of the scissors across her back.
