I am so wet. The slick heat is a torment, a pool of desperation gathering where the leather bites into my sensitive flesh. I try to shift my knees, to create the slightest bit of pressure, but it’s useless. A fruitless, maddening tease.
“Does that frustrate you, my brat?” he asks, his thrusts never faltering, each one hitting the back of my throat. I gag softly, but he doesn’t pull back. He simply waits for my body to adjust, to accept him. “Does it make you crazy, knowing how wet you are for me and not being allowed to do a single thing about it?”
Tears of frustration and overwhelming sensation well in my eyes. I can only nod clumsily, my mouth otherwise occupied.
“I can feel how bad you want to rub that pretty little cunt against something,” he continues, his voice a hypnotic, dirty lullaby. “You’d probably come in ten seconds flat, wouldn’t you? Just from grinding on my boot like the desperate thing you are. But you won’t. Because you’re mine. And I sayno.”
A broken sob escapes me. His words are a cruel, exquisite torture, painting a picture of the exact relief I crave only to snatch it away. He’s right.God, he’s so right.The denial is its own kind of pleasure, a sharp, painful edge that makes my submission feel absolute.
His pace quickens, his breathing growing ragged. The hand in my hair is relentless, holding me right where he wants me. “I’m going to come down your throat, Willow. You’re going to take every drop. And you are not to spill a single one. Do you understand me?”
My muffled “Yes, Sir” is lost in the motion, but he feels my submission. He knows.
His control shatters with a guttural groan. His hips jerk forward, burying himself to the hilt as he pulses hot and deep into my throat. I swallow convulsively, taking him, accepting his claim as I was commanded. The act is intimate and degrading and perfect. I feel owned, thoroughly and completely.
When he finally stills, he holds himself there for a long moment before slowly pulling out. I gasp for air, my lips swollen, my chin glistening. My whole body is trembling with unused arousal, a live wire of need.
He looks down at me, his expression one of dark, sated satisfaction. He bends, his hands cupping my face, and kisses me. It’s deep and possessive, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, tasting himself on me. It’s the most dominant thing he’s done yet, and a fresh wave of wetness soaks the leather between my legs.
He breaks the kiss, his thumb stroking my wet cheek. “You did so well,” he whispers, and the tenderness after the roughness undoes me completely.
In one fluid, powerful motion, he stands and pulls me up with him. He turns, sitting on the plush velvet stool in the corner, and yanks me down across his hard thighs. The position is sudden, leaving me draped over his lap, my ass offered up to the air, the black leather of the lingerie stretched taut over my curves.
His hand splays across one cheek, possessively. He squeezes, and I jump. “But we’re not done. That eye roll… it still needs addressing.” His fingers casually dip between my legs from behind, tracing the soaked leather of the thong. A jolt of pure electricity sears through me. I buck against his hand, a helpless, involuntary movement.
He chuckles, a dark, rich sound. “My God, you’re dripping. Absolutely soaked through for me.” He gives my ass a sharp, stinging smack. The pain is a bright, shocking bloom that makesme cry out. “All this… all this desperate, wet need… and you still managed to be a brat.”Smack.Another blow lands on the other cheek. The pain melts instantly into a deep, throbbing heat that somehow, cruelly, makes me want to press back for more.
“Please, Sir,” I whimper, the words muffled against the fabric of his jeans.
His fingers trace the soaked leather between my legs, a mocking, gentle stroke that makes me shudder. “Please what, Angel?” he repeats, his voice a low, hypnotic purr. “Use your words. Tell me what you need.”
What I need is a paradox. I need the sharp sting of his palm to eclipse the throbbing emptiness inside me. I need his punishment to become my reward.
“I need…” I mumble against the rough texture of his trousers, my voice trembling. “I need to cum, please.”
With a sharp tug, the flimsy leather snaps. The sound is obscenely loud. He peels the wet garment down my thighs and discards it. The cool air of the room hits my exposed, dripping heat, and I gasp at the sudden vulnerability.
His fingers are on me instantly, not teasing, but delving straight into the heart of my need. Two fingers slide into me with effortless ease, curling, finding that perfect, aching spot inside. My back arches violently, a silent scream on my lips.
“Oh, God, Sir!”
“None of that,” he commands, his voice a rough whisper against my ear as he leans over me. His fingers pump relentlessly. “You don’t call for anyone but me. This cunt answers to me. This pleasure is mine to give. And I say you can come now.”
His thumb finds my clit, pressing a firm, perfect circle.
It’s the permission, the ownership in his words, that shatters me. The orgasm doesn’t build; itdetonates. It rips through me with the force of a tidal wave, a seismic shock of pure,unadulterated pleasure. I convulse around his fingers, a broken, sobbing mess, my cries muffled by his leg. Lights burst behind my eyelids as the world whites out, every nerve ending firing at once in a symphony of release he conducts with his expert touch.
He works me through it, his fingers not stilling until the last violent shudder has left my body. I go completely limp over his lap, boneless and spent, my breathing ragged. The heated, punished skin of my ass is a dull, throbbing reminder of the path that led me here.
Slowly, he withdraws his fingers. I feel the loss acutely. He turns me gently in his arms, lifting me until I’m cradled sideways on his lap, my face buried in the crook of his neck. I can smell his scent, his sweat, and the musky proof of my own pleasure on his hand. He holds me close, one strong arm around my back, his other hand stroking my hair.
He leans back against the small velvet couch tucked in the corner, hair mussed, shirt half-buttoned, the usual edge in his voice softened into something languid. I’m still tangled in his arms when I whisper, smiling against his shoulder, “I think we need to buy this set too.”
Cast lets out a low laugh, his chest rising under my palm. “We can buy the whole store if you promise to wear it for me.”
I trace lazy circles over his collarbone. “Promise.”
For a moment, he just studies me, the mischief in his eyes giving away. “You know what I want?” he says finally, voice roughened, honest. “Another baby.”
