Greta was wearing that dress. The black one with the belt that she always wears with her sling-back heels. The moment I see that dress, I know I’m in for a night. It makes my dick hard. It makes me sweat.

When she wants to play, she likes to draw out the anticipation. So she’ll make me go out to dinner. All the courses — and plenty of wine. The whole nine yards. And through the whole lovely dinner my dick is as hard as a rock as I wait to learn what she’ll do to me.

That night was no different. By the time the last bite of flourless chocolate cake had been pressed into her luscious mouth, I was squirming in my chair.

She saw the state I was in, and it amused her.

“Is my baby antsy?” she asked softly.

“Yes, I’m dying.”

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