My Trousers Rolled

It's from T.S. Eliot.

I'm from England.

PICTURES, WORDS, AND PERHAPS A LITTLE MUSIC. OFTEN D/S RELATED, SOMETIMES NOT.

MyTrousersRolled [at] Gmail [dot] com

OVER 18S ONLY.

The pictures she took, every one, were for him. A series of scandalous scenes, posed to tease, and titillate, each one taken with the idea of getting him hard, in the most deliciously uncomfortably way possible, with that idea painted across her face, so he could get infuriated at the same time, knowing she knew exactly what she was doing to him.
Every one, taken for him. And yet he’d not seen a single picture, each one remaining unsent, sitting on her phone, her computer, on rolls of film in her desk drawer. An album of wonderful filth, with no one to see it. Especially not him. Just the thought paralysed her with the weight of it. 
They talked, often enough. The flirted, they chatted. They had a spark, one that she cultivate, and she knew he was carefully blowing on it himself, caressing it into a flame. They were coaxing a fire between them, when all the while she had a can of gasoline in the car. She just wasn’t mentioning it. 
Occasionally she looked at them. She thought about what he might say, or, if she was feeling particularly deviant, what he would do, when he saw them. It wasn’t a matter of if; she would send them, eventually. She was waiting. Just like she had waited for him to come along, without knowing it, she was waiting again, for something to come along and let her know it was time. The problem was she had no idea what that something was. 
But until it showed up in all its glory, she would carry on taking shots. Posing for him, and getting wet thinking about what he might think when he saw them. 
What he might do.

The pictures she took, every one, were for him. A series of scandalous scenes, posed to tease, and titillate, each one taken with the idea of getting him hard, in the most deliciously uncomfortably way possible, with that idea painted across her face, so he could get infuriated at the same time, knowing she knew exactly what she was doing to him.

Every one, taken for him. And yet he’d not seen a single picture, each one remaining unsent, sitting on her phone, her computer, on rolls of film in her desk drawer. An album of wonderful filth, with no one to see it. Especially not him. Just the thought paralysed her with the weight of it. 

They talked, often enough. The flirted, they chatted. They had a spark, one that she cultivate, and she knew he was carefully blowing on it himself, caressing it into a flame. They were coaxing a fire between them, when all the while she had a can of gasoline in the car. She just wasn’t mentioning it. 

Occasionally she looked at them. She thought about what he might say, or, if she was feeling particularly deviant, what he would do, when he saw them. It wasn’t a matter of if; she would send them, eventually. She was waiting. Just like she had waited for him to come along, without knowing it, she was waiting again, for something to come along and let her know it was time. The problem was she had no idea what that something was. 

But until it showed up in all its glory, she would carry on taking shots. Posing for him, and getting wet thinking about what he might think when he saw them. 

What he might do.

(via anon-of-us)

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