I rest my head in your lap and you squeeze my arm in slight frustration. I wonder if it�s because my hair falls over your cock. I think you had an erection earlier, saw it through your flat front Banana Republics. I must like it because I keep wearing clothes that show off my breasts, demi cup bras and low cut camisoles, the half moons to which your eyes are drawn, and they are not usual eyes, instead predatory and carnivorous. I should know better than to play like this. Even know, I know that it is too familiar, this lying across your lap, burrowing my face into your stomach. I�m not as drunk as I pretend. I�m just using it as an excuse to misbehave. If it made you uncomfortable, you wouldn�t be touching my arm right now, gripping it with each bump we hit. I can barely stand myself, this cock teasing, and yet, you don�t call me on it so I have to keep pushing it. This is the line I have drawn in the sand, the one you will not cross. Rereading this, I can�t help but think I�m being a bitch, every cock tease in the world with a great set of tits and a pouting mouth knows these tricks but without them, what do I have? Nothing. I have nothing. So instead, I will tell you stories. I will be your pouting Scheherazade and perhaps live to see another night. Yes. Instead, there will be stories.
