He just grins up at me from between my thighs, eyes glittering with something wicked and knowing.
“Say please,” he whispers, voice like silk over steel. “Say, please, let me cum on your tongue like the filthy little whore I am.”
My throat burns with the weight of the words he wants, the submission he’s demanding.
I choke on them before they even reach my tongue, before they can form into sounds.
I won’t say it, can’t say it, refuse to give him that final piece of my dignity.
But I want to—God help me, I want to more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
Every nerve in my body is on fire, screaming for release. My clit throbs like it’s being punished for crimes I didn’t commit, slick drips between my thighs in slow, humiliating betrayal that pools on the silk sheets beneath me, and my hips rock up on pure instinct, chasing friction, chasing anything—but he moves just enough to deny it, pulling back with infuriating precision.
Like he’s waiting, like he has all the time in the world.
Like he’s enjoying this far too much.
“You’re going to say it,” he murmurs, breath hot against my inner thigh, his lips brushing my skin like a lover’s caress and a prison sentence all at once. “Because I want to hear how pretty your mouth sounds when it breaks, when that stubborn pride finally shatters and you give me what I want.”
His tongue traces a lazy line over my folds, slow and taunting and wet, and my back arches off the bed before I even realise I’m moving.
He holds me down again with one hand splayed across my stomach.
Like I’m his to command, his to control, his to break.
And maybe I am—maybe I’ve always been, maybe that’s what terrifies me most.
But that doesn’t mean I’ll say it, doesn’t mean I’ll give him the satisfaction.
His mouth drops back to my pussy with brutal precision, tongue flicking over my clit so fast, so exact, it feels like lightning crackling across my nerves. My fingers tear into the sheets hard enough to hear expensive fabric rip, my thighs shake with the effort of staying open, the sound I make isn’t human—it’s something animal and desperate and utterly shameless.
He doesn’t stop this time, doesn’t pause to gloat or threaten.
He drags it out with methodical cruelty, building me towards something catastrophic.
Lick.
Pause.
Suck.
Stop.
He builds me like a crescendo he never plans to finish, like he’s tuning me to the pitch of his obsession, finding exactly what makes me shake and exploiting it without mercy.
And I’m dripping now, slick soaking the sheets beneath me, thighs trembling so violently it feels like shame and worship and punishment all twisted together.
“Still not begging?” he breathes against me, tongue flicking out again to tease my entrance, circling it without entering. “Still clinging to that last little scrap of pride like it means anything?”
I try to turn my head away, try to block out the pleasure that’s building to unbearable levels, try to pretend this isn’t my body betraying me with every clench and pulse.
“You don’t get to look away,” he snarls, grabbing my jaw with his hand and forcing me to look at him, to watch him between my spread thighs. “You put on a show earlier, little whore—now you watch how it ends.”
Then he moves faster, changes tactics with devastating effect.
His mouth claims me like a man starved, like something he’s been denied for years—lips closing around my clit with wicked intent, tongue circling it with precise, relentless pressure, over and over in a rhythm that’s designed to break me, until I’m thrashing against the mattress, until the coil tightens so hard it feels like death, until the orgasm threatens to detonate through every cell in my body?—
And then he pulls back again with agonising slowness.
