Zafyra put me down on my feet. I instantly wished she hadn’t, unsure if I could trust my legs to hold me.
She made a disapproving noise, shaking her head in mock disappointment. “Really? That’s all it takes?” She stepped closer to cage my body with her own, drawing a sigh from my lips. Her hands lifted to brush my sides, teasing the edge of my shirt and leaving a trail of fire in their wake. I bit my lip so hard, a salty, metallic taste spread through my mouth. My body was trembling with the effort to control myself. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had made me feel like I needed it more than they did, someone who was patient, controlled enough to make me wait, to make sure I wanted it. And God, was it addictive.
Her hand wrapped around my throat – not tight enough to hurt, but enough to make me feel her control. My body responded instantly, thighs growing slick with need for her.
A slow, predatory smirk spread over her face as if she wanted to drink in every ounce of my desperation.
“So eager,” she murmured, applying slight pressure to the sides of my throat. My hands clawed at her shoulders, fingers pressing into bare skin – luckily, my chewed nails were too short to hurt. “Whoever made you feel like you were hard to please must not have been paying attention.”
I stiffened when her other hand brushed over the inside of my thighs, sending violent waves of pleasure through my lower body. I spread my legs, silently encouraging her to continue.
She tightened her grip on my throat. The pressure made me feel lightheaded, and yet, I still craved more, I still wanted her to squeeze harder, force me to feel how much I was hers.
“Do you want my fingers, darling?” she hissed into my ear. Her fingers trailed higher, so close to where I needed her, but not quite.
“Yes,” I forced out between choked gasps. “Please—Zafyra—”
“Begging already?” She chuckled in my ear – the sound was gasoline on the fire in my core. “You poor thing. I’m just getting started.”
“Please…” I struggled to get the words out, but she increased the pressure on my throat, her dark eyes gleaming with sadistic restraint.
“Please, what, cinnamon? Use your words.”
“Please—I need—your fingers—”
“Where do you want them?” she taunted.
I said nothing, shame flowing to my cheeks.
“Then take them.” Her eyes darkened. “Three taps on my shoulder if you want me to stop, alright?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but she suddenly slid the fingers of her free hand into my open mouth while her other hand stayed firm around my throat. My eyes widened.
I gasped, but my breath was cut off. My lips stretched around her fingers, slick and warm, the taste of her artificial skin already coating my tongue – soft, slightly bitter, clinical and electric, like licking a live wire wrapped in velvet.
“Gag on them,” she hissed.
She pushed deeper.
My eyes flew wide as her fingers invaded the back of my mouth, triggering a reflex I couldn’t suppress. My throat clenched, and my whole body jerked.
At the same time, her other hand pressed harder around my throat – not crushing, but containing. Her thumb at the front, fingers curled at the sides like she felt my pulse throb against her skin.
My body was trapped between two points of pressure – the inside and outside of my throat – her hands syncing like a vise around my voice. It was so invasive, so humiliating, and I wanted to endure it all as long as it pleased her.
I tried to speak, but couldn’t, only choke and gag on her fingers while my hands tightened their grip on her shoulders.
“Good girl,” she murmured, her voice dark with cruel amusement.
My mind finally caught up with my body’s surrender. On impulse, I reached out to tap her shoulder – but as if she read the change in my expression, she already pulled her fingers out. She released her grip on my throat and stepped back.
My legs gave in immediately. I sucked in deep, helpless breaths of air and burst out coughing, letting my body fall to the ground at her feet. A single tear rolled down my face, but it was relief more than anything else. All my life, I’d struggled to hold on to my rigid control – why did her tearing it from me feel so safe?
“That was for fucking another woman.” Zafyra stepped back, a grim expression crossing her face – but when I glanced up, my tear-stained eyes saw the truth with shocking clarity.
She wasn’t angry. She was hurt.
I stopped sobbing. My throat still burned, but I’d regained control over myself. I could get up, but I found I liked being at her feet. Part of me wanted to lecture her about how wrong it was to use intimacy as an outlet for her frustration… another part of me wanted her to shove her fingers down my throat again.
