So is the pleasure.
My struggle for breath fights the frantic gasping, the frenzied squealing, and the hideous groaning for pole position. When I finally manage to catch a breath, it’s a long, ragged wheeze on the way in and a raw, broken cry on the way out. The tears that have been prickling since the first time the brush made contact with me stream down my face freely. They flow in sopping wet sheets that ride the coattails of mournful wails. Each tear burns hard and hot, but each one burns clean.
By the time Stuart rights me, I’m gulping, throbbing, choking. I’m raw. Open. Shaking with shock and regret and tightly wound lust. I throw myself into his arms and cling to him, pressing my face into his chest and clawing his shirt. I’m sobbing, and I’m not bothering to try not to. I’m saying things like “Sorry,” “I need you,” and “Please don’t go, Daddy,” but I doubt he can hear them, or if he can, I doubt he can understand them because I’m not speaking in words. I’m communicating in feelings and garbled sounds.
His hands are on my back, warming me, calming me. He draws big, slow circles on me. It makes me slow down. My breathing, my heart rate, everything slows. Each gentle movement shakes something loose. Something I want. Something I need. I bury my face deeper into his chest and will his hands to move lower. I bargain with God and whoever else might be listening to a plea of this nature. I offer them anything. Everything. I’d give everything I have for Stuart’s hand to drift down and touch my ass. A soft touch would do. Just one.
I tear my face off his chest and look up at him. I know I’m a mess, and I know he can see it. I don’t care though. I want him to see. I don’t know what he sees in my eyes, but in his, I see sternness and consequences. Caring and kindness. I see something more though. A tiny flicker. A light. A faint little glimmer of heat. His jaw is locked, teeth clenched. He’s holding back too. He’s holding back the same way I’m holding back, but he’s holding back harder.
I don’t know if it’s a conscious decision or if my body makes the decision for me, but either way, when I see it, my hips jerk forward, and I grind myself against Stuart. I do it hard. My naked cock chafes against denim, but I don’t care.
I don’t care at all because Stuart Wiseman is as hard as I am.
I leap up, still unsure if I’m doing it on purpose or if I’m a victim of animal instinct, and wrap my arms and legs tightly around him. He bears my weight easily, sliding his hands under my well-beaten butt cheeks to hold me up. Hot, rough palms scuff tenderized skin. I bite my bottom lip and suck a long, hard breath through my teeth. I try to look away, but I can’t. I can’t because I want him to know. I want him to see. He does it again, cupping my cheeks and squeezing a little harder than he needs to. Pleasure and pain mingle and flood me. My eyes water. My lips pull back to expose my canines as I hiss. I look at him and let him see. I show him my pain. I don’t try to hide. I don’t try to pretend it isn’t there. I show him, and he sees it. He knows what it is, and he knows what it means. He stares straight into the worst of me, and he doesn’t blink. He doesn’t flinch. He waits until I’ve shown him all of it. Until there’s nothing left to see that hasn’t been seen. Then his eyes crease and his lips quirk up at the corners into the darkest of smiles.
That does it for me.
My hips start bucking. Hard. Jerky. Totally out of control. Naked skin grinds against belt buckles and coarse fabric. I don’t care, and even if I did, I couldn’t stop it. I’m wild. Savage. Outside of myself.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I whine, hysteria cranking my voice up several octaves. “I can’t help it.”
“It’s okay. I know. I know.” The calmness and acceptance in his voice thrum pleasure into me unlike anything I’ve ever known. It shoots up my dick and my spine. I groan like a man purging himself of a demon. “I understand, baby.”
He doesn’t say it like a term of endearment. It isn’t sweet or saccharine. He says it like it’s my name.
It drives me wild.
I grind again. And again. Then I explode. Everything clenches. Everything pulses. My back arches and my head drops back. Waves of ecstasy crash into me over and over, pummeling me, pounding me until I’m empty and hoarse.
It isn’t until I feel cool tile on the soles of my feet that the full horror of what I’ve done dawns on me.
Holy shit.
I just blew my load all over Stuart Wiseman.
Dizzying humiliation washes over me. It takes me and shakes me, leaving me trembling so hard I feel like I’m vibrating.
Oh God, no.
Please, no!
There’s a massive wet patch on Stuart’s jeans and lashings of thick sticky liquid on his shirt too. It wouldn’t surprise me if there was a big puddle of snot and tears on his shoulder as well, but I don’t look up that high. I can’t. I swear to God, I can’t bear it.
“I, uh, a-a-a-appologize,” I splutter.
A formal apology seems fitting. This is no situation for a simple I’m sorry. We’re way beyond that. We’re so far beyond that I’m not even sure a formal apology will cut it.
“It’s all right, Elliot.” The calmness in his tone makes me feel dizzy again. “Wash up and get dressed, then call work and tell them you’re going to be late.”
Since I have less than no idea how one is supposed to behave in a situation like this, I do as he says.
Guess it’s kind of handy that the man’s bossy as hell.
Stuart is waiting for me in the dining area when I get downstairs. He’s changed into a new shirt and pair of jeans. I left him no choice, I suppose.
“Sit down,” he says, motioning to the chair beside his.
“Uh,sit, Daddy?” My ass throbs at the thought.
