Inspection: every single inch of me

About this story

I missed the Kink of the Week deadline for this, but the topic – inspection – reminded me of a story I don’t think I’ve ever told you. It didn’t have an obviously fucky ending, so it never feel like a good fit, but this is one of the hottest things a man has ever done to me. I met him in the summer. A mutual friend was hosting a barbecue, and everyone was milling around on the patio at the back of the house, sipping drinks and swapping stories in the sunshine. You could be forgiven for thinking it was a standard suburban get-together… if people hadn’t also been occasionally smacking each other’s arses or revealing the odd flash of tit. The party was fancy dress (these particular kinksters, like so many others, were obsessed with fancy dress) though I can’t remember what the theme was. All I remember is that, as is traditional with this sort of thing, I’d done the absolute bare minimum. I wore a tight top and short skirt combo, with an accessory or two to crowbar it into the theme and give the false impression that I’d made a bit of an effort. He’d done likewise, but his ‘costume’ consisted of a slim-cut dark suit and tie. I don’t remember how he accessorised, but I do know we made smalltalk at the drinks table and bonded over our mutual discomfort at being encouraged to dress up. It took just ten minutes for me to decide that I wanted him. Straight away: that very afternoon. He led me to a secluded spot at the bottom of the garden. We took our drinks with us and balanced them on a broken concrete breeze block by the side of the shed. The shed itself was a wreck: half-covered in creeping ivy; broken windows; clearly not been used for many years. But in the dappled sunlight it all felt a bit romantic. Or perhaps, if I’m being honest, I just fancied him so much that a disused train station toilet would have felt like sunset in Paris. I needed him to kiss me, so badly. This handsome stranger with a dominant demeanor and a direct gaze that made me feel like I was being examined under a microscope. That quick five minutes during our first meeting coloured all our interactions afterwards. It was one of the weirdest – and hottest – things a guy has ever done to me. And he did all of it before we’d even kissed. A very thorough inspection This guy had an air of seriousness – an instinctive poise that gave him authority and command. It felt as if he was constantly on the verge of telling me to ‘stop mucking about.’ This earnestness was part of the appeal. I tend to go for men who are more playful , but occasionally it’s fun to experiment with something else, and his unusual brand of formal authority made me all the more eager to feel his lips on mine – like I’d be winning a game if I could get him to chill out enough to snog me like we were teenagers. The ultimate win, of course, would be if I could get him to loosen that tie, unzip his smart suit trousers, and unload his spunk down my throat. I didn’t win that particular prize, but what I got was even better. Once we’d secured our privacy, instead of leaning in to snog me as most men would have, he paused. Staring directly into my eyes with an almost ferocious intensity, he told me: “Turn around and put your hands against the wall.” It struck me as weird, but hot-weird, so I did as I was told. And as I stood there, palms flat against the faded wood of the wall of the shed, legs spread and back arched like I was about to be body-searched, this guy turned me on to a brand new kink: inspection. First he put his hands on my shoulders. Running his palms firmly from my neck along my shoulders, then arms and towards my wrists. Pinning me harder against the shed, pressing my own palms flat against the wood. I could feel his breath on my neck as he stood behind me, and I arched my back as if to invite him to do more. He resisted in complete silence. Next he continued the exploration by placing his hands on my waist. Running them upwards from there, tight against my ribcage and under my breasts. It’s the ribcage pressure I remember with the most guttural arousal. He was gripping, squeezing, and rummaging firmly over my tight top, as if checking for something concealed beneath. By the time his hands reached my tits , squeezing roughly and then running upwards towards my throat, I was so horny I let out a little mewl of need. I’d been searched before on entry to gigs and clubs, but this was so much more thorough than a quick pat-down from a bored bouncer. This inspection had a purpose that was all about my body, nothing to do with what I might be concealing somewhere upon it. He took his time, and he did it all without speaking. The only thing I could hear was his calm, measured breathing. I remained stock-still, with my palms flat against the wall and my legs spread, while he inspected my entire body – arms, shoulders, chest, waist, and then further down. Encircling my ankles with his palms he took special care with my legs . Inspecting upwards from ankle to knee and then knee to thigh. Squeezing, gripping, stroking as I trembled in my heels. By the time his hands got to the top of my thighs, that delicious crease at the edge of my bum, fingertips hovering so close to my crotch that I could have ground into him if I weren’t so frozen with a desire to do what I was told, I was so aroused I would have bent to touch my toes and let him bareback fuck me against the shed if he’d instructed it. He did not instruct it. He just paused while he held me there, aching and wanting, before oh-so-gently brushing his fingertips against the wet patch that had formed in my knickers. Then knelt back down to begin the process again with my other leg: gripping my ankle in his hands, then ankle-to-knee and onwards before hovering, once again, mere millimetres from my thudding clit. At this point, he still hadn’t even kissed me. He’d just held me in the palms of his hands, controlling exactly how I stood. And my breathing too, I think: the pace of his inspection meant I frequently found myself holding my breath as I waited for his next move. Perhaps, too, he was even commanding my heartbeat: like a conductor directing the swell and ebb of an orchestra in full flow. My heart hammered out excitement with each stroke he delivered, and my cunt throbbed right along with it. We didn’t have sex, not then. Not up against a shed at the bottom of someone else’s garden, with the sound of giggles and chatter echoing from the patio up by the house. But by the time he’d finished inspecting my body, I felt so thoroughly exposed and used that he might as well have fucked me. I felt wretched, rinsed, strung out. Trembly and weak and utterly at his mercy. If he’d ordered me to strip and wrap my legs around his waist so he could take out his rock-hard erection on my eager cunt I’d have welcomed it. If he’d pushed me to the ground, spat in my face and shoved himself deep into my throat I’d have wept with relief. If he’d ordered me to roll in the mud at the end of the garden while he pissed on me, I would have done it in a heartbeat. He did none of those things. Remember what I told you at the start? This was a man with authority. Calm, measured, intense earnestness of a kind that I was totally unused to. He was less concerned with whether he could have me than whether he could command me. By the time he placed his hands on my shoulders again and ordered me to turn around, he hadn’t just inspected me: he’d claimed me. And all he asked in that moment was whether I’d like to go for a drink with him the week after the party. It was fucking agony . And I adored it.