She held the glass to my lips and I drank dutifully until she removed the glass.
“Stand up,” she commanded. “No touching,” she added.
I did so, careful not to reach out and steady myself with a hand on her knee. I knew I couldn’t touch, not without permission. To break the command would only prolong my wait. And it felt like I had been waiting all night. I didn’t even know what I was waiting for. I thought that was part of the game Selene liked to play—to keep me on edge. But I wanted to touch her; I wanted to press my face against the inside of her thigh and just stay there for a while, breathing her in. I wanted to be wrapped up by her, trapped between her legs, held tightly in place, surrounded by her. Devoured by her. To be consumed by Selene was to be free from all the memories that haunted me—and every little stress of the day. But I controlled myself, stood as instructed, and waited.
Wordlessly, she leaned forward, her hands on her knees, her nose just brushing the hollow of my neck, as she breathed in my scent. She moaned in pleasure as she pulled away. My legs grew weaker as the sound of her appreciation caused my stomach to tense in desire.
“This is torture,” I complained, the desire to touch her feeling almost overwhelming.
She laughed.
“Oh, sweetheart, should I show you torture?” she asked as she carefully removed my tie and sat it beside her.
“No,” I was quick to reply, regretting my words and how whiny I sounded.
“No?” she questioned, one eyebrow raising expectantly, a smirk on her lips indicating I had messed up in a way she enjoyed correcting.
“No,Ma’am. Sorry,” I answered, emphasising the word ‘Ma’am’ and sounding far more bratty that I had intend. I hoped she would let the minor disrespect and tone of my voice go.
When in public I was to address her formally, with titles and respect, but privately she was simply Selene. Yet in moments like this—moments when she smirked like she owned the world and the world was me, moments when all I wanted to do was give in to whatever she desired, or sometimes, conversely, desired that she forced her desires upon me—her titles and honorifics were to be used. We had never discussed it; it wasn’t really a necessary conversation—it was simply known between us, natural. Still, sometimes I forgot. It was easy to mess up and accidentally call her by her name in public or forget her proper title in such charged moments. It was almost easier when I didn’t have permission to use her name.
“Better,” she said as she began to unbutton my shirt.
She pulled the fabric off my shoulders and down my arms to the elbow. My exposed skin prickled in the coolness of the room. It wasn’t cold; I was simply heating up, and the difference in temperatures was noticeable. She took hold of my hips, her fingers pressing into my flesh through the fabric of my trousers as she made me turn my back to her. I shivered as she moved her hands playing with the hair at the nape of my neck, then ran her fingertips down my exposed spine to my mid-back, where the shirt's fabric halted her progress.
“You have such a lovely back, smooth, unblemished, a canvas,” she commented.
Before I had time to worry about what she meant by canvas, she unexpectedly took both my wrists behind my back. I released a gasp of surprise and involuntarily tried to pull my wrists away.
“Now, now,” she chided, placing both my wrists in one of her warm hands. I felt the fabric of my tie as she used it to bind my wrists together behind my back.
“What is this for?” I asked, testing the binding of my wrists.
“You seem to be in a defiant mood,” was her reply.
“But I’m not,” I defended.
It was one frustrated comment, one tiny little missed honorific—how did that equal defiance? She stood from the sofa behind me, her lips at my ear.
“Such a response, to argue, only proves the point,” she said before nipping at my shoulder gently and kissing up to my neck.
I moaned in response, tilting my head to allow easier access for her soft lips and teeth. She laughed against my skin and delivered a harsher bite. I yelped and pulled back. Her hands found my hips again, steadying me before moving to the front of my trousers, undoing the button and zip, and creating space for her hand to push past my panties. I inhaled sharply as she cupped me fully before parting me, one finger running through my folds.
“Always so wet,” she murmured against my ear, her hot breath blazing against my suddenly sensitive skin. She used her free hand to grip my hair and pull my head to the side as she continued to kiss, suck, and bite along the column of my neck.
My skin was on fire, burning with pleasure. I became a moaning mess. I rocked against her hand, desperate for friction,while stretching my neck out almost painfully to ensure every inch of my skin received the attention of her lips, teeth, and soothing tongue.
She pressed the heel of her palm against my clit as she entered me with one finger and then pushed in a second. I was wet and open for her but not quite ready for such a stretch. It created a wonderful burn, and I felt myself clamp down around her.
My underwear and trousers restricted her movement, but the pressure of her palm and the fullness of the stretch as her fingers crisscrossed inside me—while I continued to grind myself against her—meant that I was closer and closer to falling over the edge into ecstasy.
“You’re so close, aren’t you, darling? I can feel you squeezing around me. Such a needy girl,” Selene taunted.
“Ugh,” I groaned, my hips grinding harder in response. “Yeah,” I cried.
“Do you like it when I fill you up?” she asked as she added a third finger. The stretch was bliss—the full feeling, her hot breath against my ear. I was going to cum. “Hmm?” she prompted.
“Y-yeah,” I groaned out as I came—hard and embarrassingly fast—my core tensing and clamping around her fingers.
