She’s not the only one responding to the moment. While I fixate on her reactions, watching her body spring to life, blood rushes to my prick. When she struggles again, I use the movement as an excuse to grind myself against her hip, closing my eyes and moaning at how good it feels.
The last time I had sex it was a drunken fumble, mostly forgotten minutes later, nothing but scraps left by morning. I don’t remember it being anything like this. Like my nerve endings have relocated to the outside of my skin.
“Spread those thighs for me,” I murmur. When she obeys, I growl, “Good girl,” in her ear, feeling the slight shudder as those words turn on a dormant switch in her head.
“You know what I want to do with you?” At the shake of her head, I move my lips until they’re touching her ear, incredibly intimate, disturbingly erotic. “I want to set you free so I can chase you. You can run as hard and as long as you want, but all the time you’re running, you know I’ll catch up, there’s no way you can sprint fast enough or hide well enough. You’ll exhaust yourself and when I catch up with you there won’t be the strength to fight me off. I’ll press you to the ground wherever I find you and take my reward.”
She bucks against my hand, her hips moving in a natural response which she then tries to stifle.
“Fuck, you feel so good.” The words spill out of me and now I’m not sure if I’m talking to turn her on so I can retrieve the drugs or so she’ll get aroused enough to let me fuck her.
And the latter seems just as likely because she’s not going anywhere, not without my permission. She’s not going anywhere or telling anyone, and I suddenly have a glut of need and she’s the perfect place, the perfect recipient, the perfect host for it all.
I grind my cock against her hip again, moaning at the sensation, groaning because she’s now so wet and ready and her wrists are tied and I could put a hand over her mouth and nobody, not even me, would ever have to find out if she said no.
But I can’t stuff her full of my cock while she’s carrying a death load of drugs right where I want to put it.
My finger reaches into her again and my breath is thick because she’s so wet now. So wet and so responsive and sofucking tight. Her muscles clench even harder as I reach higher into her. It’s no wonder the string broke.
I brush against the edge of a packet, and it slides away. When I change angles, my fingertip catches it again, guiding it down, guiding it out. It leaves her body with a faint slurp.
“Fuck,” I groan as the sound ricochets off my pleasure centres. “You’re doing so well.”
“Stop,” she begs me in a voice so thin it drifts away like smoke. “Please stop.”
I draw back my head to check her face; it’s screwed up tight, her mouth clamped between her teeth so her lips almost disappear, nostrils pinched, eyes squeezed shut.
Guilt nibbles even as my mind tries to push the blame onto her. If she hadn’t fought, hadn’t tried to run, I could have trusted her to do this part by herself.
Instead of easing my discomfort, the attempted deflection makes the responsibility bite deeper, gnawing at me until I say, “Hey, it’s okay. Look at me.”
She gradually opens her eyes, body clenched so hard, the wrong move might snap her in two.
“Don’t be embarrassed, okay? You were doing a good thing, an amazing thing. I don’t know anyone who would ever have helped me out like you’re helping your son.”
Every word is truthful, I’m in awe of her, but they don’t register. She turns her head, pressing her face into the crook of my neck, using the shelter of my body to hide from me.
“How many are there?”
She shakes her head and I think she’s not going to answer. “Five,” she finally whispers. “There should be five.”
Makes sense. The one sitting on the bed must be twenty grams, so she’s sitting on a hundred total. I check the string that came loose, counting the snags along it and finding they equal the same number. Guess she’s trustworthy.
I give her another moment to relax as much as she can, then go to work again. Her head tilts further back, her gasp vibrating against my skin as I clutch her tighter to me, ignoring her small whimper. When she makes the sound again, I cover her mouth with my free hand.
She squeezes her thighs around my wrist and another package is within reach. I tug it out, tossing it aside, eager for the work rather than the reward, delving back inside her and curling out the next one, pretending to lose it so I can stroke against the wall of tender flesh inside her for longer.
When it’s thrown on the mattress, I move my head, sucking at her tits through the thick fabric of her Sunday-best-dress. The friction of her leg against my cock sends a convulsion of pleasure shuddering along my spine, lodging in my balls until I’m frantic for release.
Now my finger is curling out the last two packets, not for their contents but to empty her so I can shove my pulsing cock inside her. A distant part of my brain sags back in horror but I don’t care. Not when the rest of me is overwhelmed by her scent, the feel of her, the wet warm throbbing centre of her.
Four out. So close.
I draw my finger out just long enough to circle her clit. There’s no problem with lubrication now, she’s soaking my hand, soaking into the mattress.
“When I get this last one out, I’m going to replace it with my cock, is that what you want?”
Her eyes open, flashing like brake lights, but her head doesn’t move, and it could if she wanted to. If she wanted to, it could easily shake from side to side.
