Your skin feels cool to the touch.
As I trail my hand up your thighs, darting under your skirt, I can feel the goosebumps raise beneath my open palm.
My other hand, my free hand, is against your throat. Your cool threat, your throats clenched tight under my grip. So tight I can feel you try to breathe. You might be panicking.
Panicking for the air, for saliva to coat your tongue.
All I want is to hear you purr.
Canadians are quite lovely, I had been told before I arrived. Quite lovely indeed.
Friendly, as the cliche went. Polite, lovely and friendly.
And when I sat by myself on the tour bus, nestled into my assigned seating, I must admit I was taken aback by the sight of you, miss tour guide.
You, with your almond coloured eyes, sandy blonde hair, the way you say ‘pardon me?’ which just rolls off your tongue with cute accent.
As soon as I laid my eyes upon yours, upon your slender frame, your white turtleneck hugging your neck and breasts, I knew.
I knew I wanted to hear you purr.
That was five days ago now.
Now, we’re quite acquainted with each other.
I mean why else, on the night we’ve hit Banff, would you swing by my room, even when I asked politely?
And here you are, with your white skirt and grey woollen jumper. Laid back. I like it.
I also like the warmth radiating from your cunt. From behind your…oh…oh my. Black lacy panties? Beautiful and classical.
You struggle now but I hope you reconsider. I really do want to purr and I don’t really want to force it out of you. This is my holiday, after all.
Behave, will you? I surely hope you will. You struggle as I reach down to peel your panties back, but I have you under control. You try to bite at me but that just makes me harder.
‘Open your mouth’ I say.
I ask again.
I squeeze tighter.
I stuff your panties into your mouth. Taste yourself.
You spit it out instantly but I’m giggling. Don’t give me that look, it was worth it. Lighten up.
It takes a little longer to remove your jumper, even longer to remove your blouse.
When I see your round full breasts, threatening to bust out of your bra, I can’t help it. My hand wanders, trailing up your thigh.
I start to curl my finger around your trimmed pubic hair. You whimper, something animalistic and guttural.
You’re shaking by the time my index finger is curling along your clit. You’re slightly wet, whether you like it or not.
You don’t, of course, judging by your muffled cries. But I don’t mind.
I take my index finger from your clit, slip it under the cups of your bra and rub it in your soft nipple till it hardens.
You grunt in disgust.
Your scream is stifled. No. Don’t do that again.
I drag you across to the bathroom sink of the hotel by your neck, tearing into my back pack with my free hand.
It takes some digging, some juggling to keep you under control, but I’ve found it. The maple tea leaves you made for the people on the bus.
We’re gunna have some tea.
As I boil the jug, I tell you to kneel.
As I prepare the cups, I tell you to stay still.
You glare at me, with a fire so bright in your eyes, but you relent.
With the jug boiled, I pour into the cups, stir it around.
The scent of maple fills the air.
You start to sob but I tell you to hush, with a finger to my lips. I can taste you.
With the same free hand, I take a sip. It’s smooth but intoxicating. Honestly the best blend I’ve ever have.
I then take out the tea bag, push you back into the bed and put my weight against you.
I run the tea bag across your cheek.
I run the tea bag across your breasts, past your hardened nipple.
I leave a trail of hot maple tea down your stomach, your body seizes at the touch, at the unknown invader.
I rest the tea bag on your clit – and what looks like a fierce spasm jolts your entire body.
You freeze, gasp and let out a low cry.
Will you purr for me now, I wonder, as I lower my mouth to taste your maple flavoured cunt.