"Squeeze my hand if you need to stop," he says, his voice soothing. "Remember your colors. What color are you, Erica?"
"Mmph green," I manage to get out, the words a muffled, garbled mess around his cock.
That arrogant smirk I'm really, really starting to love spreads across his face.
"Good," he says, and shifts so he's coming in at a higher angle and moving straight in.
He starts to move again, slow, steady thrusts that push a little deeper with each one.
I can feel the head of his cock sitting near the back of my throat. It's not in danger of blocking my airway yet, but my gag reflex isn't happy. I have to breathe through the wave of panic, of nausea, that rises up.
I squeeze his hand hard and hold on.
He stops instantly, pulling back slightly but not all the way out. "Easy," he says. "Breathe."
I take a deep, shuddering breath, my eyes closed, my body trembling.
When I open my eyes, they're wet with unshed tears.
"You're doing so well," he says, his thumb stroking my cheek. "I know you can take a little more for me. Just try to relax."
He pushes back in, slow and steady, and this time, I'm ready for it.
I breathe through it, focusing on the sensation, the pressure, the taste, the raw, unfiltered intimacy of the act.
And I start to enjoy it.
The feeling of him filling my mouth, the way he controls my breathing, the power dynamic that's so potent it's electric.
My hands, pinned above my head, helpless to move.
My hips arch off the bed, a desperate, involuntary movement seeking a friction that isn't there.
I'm so empty.
So achingly, desperately empty.
I need him to fill me. To claim me. To make me whole.
"You're getting greedy," he observes. He chuckles, a low, dark sound that vibrates through my chest, straight to my cunt.
"Are you wet for me? Hmm?" He doesn't let me answer. He already knows. "You are, aren’t you? Just a little taste of my cock, and you're dripping."
I can only moan in response.
He sees my reaction, and his smile widens.
"It turns you on, doesn't it?" he murmurs, his voice a seductive taunt. "The thought of begging me. You like the helplessness. Of letting me use this beautiful body however I want."
He's right.
I do.
I love it.
I love the feeling of being completely at his mercy, of being nothing more than a vessel for his pleasure.
And to think, I could've missed out on this entirely if he hadn't been so persistent. If he didn't know me better than I knew myself, right from the start.
