The humiliation I feel when he sees me like that is pure. Complete. Absolute.
Like most people, I’ve never relished the thought of embarrassing myself. I’ve feared it, to be honest. Always have. If you are like me, and you fear humiliation too, I have good news for you: humiliation isn’t fatal. It isn’t. As much as it feels like death, it doesn’t have the capacity to kill you. This moment, right now, is a moment of such intense shame, if it were fatal, I would surely be dead.
I’m still here though. Standing. Swaying in front of the man who made me this way. Red. Hot. Hot all the way to my ears and my toes. He takes hold of my hips and pulls me onto his lap. I sit astride him, fighting to stop my hips from rocking on impact. I reach back gratefully and part my cheeks. Helping him, so he can find his way into me. He nudges his head in, watching my face as he does it. He doesn’t blink. I sink down slowly, gasping from the quick shock of it, grabbing his shoulders and digging blunt nails into his flesh when the pressure hits me. He still hasn’t blinked. He looks transfixed. His eyes look different. Darker and deeper. They look so different that looking into them sends a fresh wave of tears down my face.
“I’m not crying,” I say angrily.
He reaches up and strokes my hair out of my face, trying to tuck it behind one ear, but it isn’t long enough for that, so it falls forward again. He takes my face in both hands and examines me for several long seconds.
Then he whispers, “I know.”
He draws a semi-circle under each of my eyes with the pads of his thumbs. Wiping my tears away. Sealing my tear ducts with this innocent gesture.
I start to move quickly, posting up and down to try to get him to catch up with me.
“No,” he says. “Not like that. Don’t move for me. Move for you.”
I’m stumped for a second. Surprised he’d even know there’s a difference. It doesn’t take long for me to do as he says. I start rocking my hips back and forth, leaning back, relaxing when my hips curve towards him and clenching when I back away. He grazes my insides, scraping my gland, making me tremble. I reach down to grab hold of my cock. I haven’t been riding long but I don’t care, I need to come more than I’ve ever needed air.
He catches my hand and moves it firmly behind my back. For good measure, he does the same to my other hand. I struggle, not to get away, just to test his strength. It’s profound. He doesn’t budge, he doesn’t give an inch. And God, that turns me on.
“I can’t come like this,” I pant. I’m horny and so frustrated, I’m getting angry about it.
“Doesn’t matter. Take it like this as long as you can. Don’t worry, I won’t leave you hanging.” His voice sounds like it’s been through a blender.
The fight leaves me. I relent. I succumb to his will and keep moving, letting the pleasure of it take over my body. I grind myself on him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like it’s what I was made for. He watches me the whole time. His eyes never leave mine. Eventually, his eyes slide shut and he moans. The sound travels through me, shaking my core. He starts to thrust. Up. Deep. He hammers my gland until I’m almost blind from the feeling. My ring starts to clench involuntarily. Pleasure takes hold and breaks me. No, not breaks me, shatters me. Pleasure shatters me into pieces. It explodes out of my dick and up my spine. It goes on and on. I know nothing but vicious tremors of pleasure. It feels like it won’t ever end.
When it finally does, I gradually come floating back down to reality, landing back in my body and finding my mouth open with his tongue inside it. I wasn’t aware of him coming, but he must have, because he’s softening inside me.
I climb off him, stunned, weak and unsteady. I feel spaced out. He reaches for me and pulls me onto his lap. He curls my knees up to my chest and reaches over to grab the throw blanket from the back of the sofa. He wraps it around me, enveloping me in a tight cocoon of arms, chest muscle and wool. He tucks my head under his jaw. I blink into the warmth of the skin on his neck.
“Close your eyes,” he says.
And I do.
Chapter 16
Saint
Iheldhimaslong as I trusted myself to hold him without starting to tear another piece off him. He hardly stirred when I laid him down on the sofa. He’s still sleeping, and it’s been a couple of hours. I’m in the kitchen cooking dinner. Now and then, I look up to take in the view of the lake and I see him lying there all curled up and wrapped in the blanket and it feels…alright, I guess. Not bad. It’s kind of relaxing, almost peaceful, to be here and know he’s here too.
When dinner’s ready I wake him with a gentle tap on the shoulder. His eyes fly open, darting around, looking unsure of where he is. When he remembers, he wipes the corner of his mouth surreptitiously and gets dressed.
I hand him his shoes and socks, waiting for him to lay into me for not giving them to him on the way here. He doesn’t. He seems to have slept himself into such a state, he hardly knows up from down. I hand him a puffy flannel jacket. “It’s cold. Put this on." That seems to shock him back to his senses.
“Ew,” he says, drawing the word out and adding several more vowels than it calls for.
“What? Flannel is making a comeback this season.” I might be right, I might be wrong, I don’t have the first clue about fashion, all I know for sure is that I’m talking out of my ass to annoy him.
He mutters something about the flannel that’s in being very different to this old, fucked-up flannel, as he follows me out on the deck. “It’s called a shacket, by the way.”
“Huh?”
“A shacket.” He says slowly, as if he’s speaking to a child. “A cross between a shirt and a jacket.”
“Oh. I get it. Like a shart.”
He looks at me in disgust.
