Ties are for tying...

It was one of her earlier and tamer fantasies, but still one of her favorites. She’d masturbated to it half a dozen times in her shower. So much so that just the act of thinking about it got her juices flowing.

On an away game in the city (she was deliberately vague, geography wasn’t her field, though really, outside cheerleading, not much was), she would sneak away from the group (after getting her supplies) and go looking for a man, a very specific type of man.

The man she would look for you have a wedding band on his finger and a hundred dollar (at least) tie around his neck. She would seduce him away from his business, away from his wife and back to a cheap hotel, where she would use his tie (and several others she’d brought along) to bind him to the bed.

With her partner secured and helpless, she would strip, enjoying the feeling of his eyes on her and the sight of his cock getting harder and harder, just for her, just because of her. Then naked (or perhaps in only heels) she would stride over to the bed, and **** him to lick her pussy until she gave him a dripping mustache.

After she’d cum, several times, she would condescend to getting him off with a quick handjob, before leaving him, tied to the bed, nothing but juices and a ‘Your busted’ on the bathroom mirror in lipstick to prove she’d ever been there.

Just the thought of taking a powerful man from his trophy wife, from his job, from everything, of controlling him got her juices flowing. Mark’s heavy breathing as he read it over her shoulder didn’t help matters, especially since it was more than matched by her own inability to catch her breath.

“There’s a typo there, you know. It should be ‘You’re busted.’” Mark whispered in her ear. “Unless you mean that he owns a ‘busted’ and are referencing it.”

That killed the mood, pretty damn quick.