Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
I nod my head vigorously.
“All right.” Another dark chuckle. “Let’s see how wet I can make you.”
He runs the vibrator over my inner thighs, my mons, and my lower belly before finally bringing the toy’s head between my legs. Even then, it dances across my labia. I try to angle my hips to bring my clit closer, but he tsks and takes the toy away.
I have to hold perfectly still, and even then, he moves the vibrator back and forth, coming closer to my clit before retreating. Driving me up to tiptoe. Driving me mad.
By the time he rests the vibrator’s round head against my clit, my panties are soaked. He circles my sensitive nub, finding just the right angle to stimulate it. He holds it there for long moments and draws it away at just the right time, edging me so perfectly, he must be omnipotent or reading my mind.
The best part is the way he’s still caressing my bottom, awakening the nerve endings under the sore spots. It’s a sweet counterpoint to the intensity of the vibrator. A few times, his fingers drift lower, and I wonder if he’ll delve between my cheeks to stroke my rear hole. I’ve never experimented with ass-play, but it intrigues me. My stomach is flipping, making me want to squirm with humiliation, even as the gentle touches stoke my raging arousal.
Instead of fingering my ass, he starts clapping his gloved hand on one cheek, then the other. A very light spanking, considering everything else he’s done, but it reminds me how raw my ass is after the last flogging. He spanks me hard enough to rock me forward against the vibrator. The buzzing is almost painful on my clit. But I can’t escape.
Then, he pulls the vibrator away completely. My impending orgasm flares and dies.
“If I don’t want you to orgasm, then you won’t.” His gloved fingers brush my backside, tracing the marks he left on me. He’s so gentle and cruel; my sex throbs. “But if I do. . . you will. You have no say. Your body is mine to command.” The vibrator surges to life, and he presses it to the right spot. Lights flash behind my eyes.
“Come for me,” he commands, and I do, cheek pressed against the cross. Little whimpers escape my open mouth. He’s behind me and above me and all around, surrounding me in a cocoon of his heat and scent. I imagine myself hidden in his shadow. Safe.
The leather under my head is slick with my sweat. I slump, panting. He’s taken the vibrator away but still rubs slow circles over my bottom.
“I could make you come again. And again. As many times as I wish, until you beg me to stop. And then I’d keep forcing them on you until your throat is raw from screaming.”
That sounds horrifying. I want it.
“But not tonight. This is enough, for now.”
No, I want to protest. But he’s right. I’m barely able to keep myself upright. I’m floaty and free, flying above the clouds. The sting on my soles is the only proof that my feet are still on the ground.
He pats my face with a cool cloth and gives me more water, then pats my face again. Taking care of me. It’s as much a part of the scene as the impact play, and it’s perfect. This whole scene was perfect.
I’m high on neurochemicals, but I bet I feel the same way tomorrow.
I took a bet on a dom, and it paid off in spades.
“I’m going to untie you now. And, if it’s okay, I’m going to help you to the couch.”
I nod. I’ve always avoided aftercare. The release of oxytocin is too much to risk. But I’m deliriously grateful when he undoes the rope, holding me upright when I start to crumple to the floor. He catches me in a move so seamless it feels choreographed, scooping me up and carrying me like a groom carries a bride over the threshold. The trip across the room is all too short, and I’m sad when he stops because he’s reached the couch.
But then he sits with me still in his arms. He lets my legs down but keeps me close. I settle my head against his shoulder.
I still have the blindfold on. Surely, I can handle a few minutes of cuddling.
“Cold?” he asks and drapes a blanket over me as soon as I nod. Now I’m warm and snuggled against him. His shirt is impossibly soft against my cheek. And underneath the expensive cotton is an expanse of firm muscles. I feel them flex as he shifts under me, and it helps me form more of an image of him—a broad chest and powerful biceps to match his height and huge hands.
I still don’t take off the blindfold. It’s my last lingering attempt at preserving anonymity. He might know my name, but it’s better I know nothing of him. Nothing more than his voice and scent. That way, I can imagine he sprung fully formed from my fantasies. The perfect dom.