I settle more comfortably on the bed, tilting her hips to my desired angle, and take my time exploring her. My tongue swirls around her entrance, dips inside, tasting her right from the source.
I did it the first night too, but tonight, in this room where she gave in to me, it's completely different.
Then, I was making a point.
Tonight, I'm making a memory.
I circle her clit with my tongue, but I don't touch it.
Not yet.
Her hips buck, a desperate, involuntary movement.
"Please," she begs, her voice a choked sob. "Please, Sir. I need... I need..."
"You need what?" I ask, my voice a low, teasing murmur against her slick heat. I look up to make sure she hasn't let go of the sheets.
She's clutching them so hard, they're pulling the sides.
But she hasn't let go of them.
"I need to come," she cries, her body trembling with a desperate, frantic energy. "Please, please, please."
"You come when I say you come," I say, my voice firm, and I go back to my dual task of satisfying myself and torturing her.
I explore every fold, every crevice, every sensitive inch of her with a meticulous, almost worshipful attention.
I learn her body like a musician learning an instrument, learning which touches make her gasp, which ones make her moan, which ones make her sob with pleasure.
Her moans fill the room, a beautiful music that fuels my own desire, my cock swelling, pressing against the mattress.
Gently, I take her clit into my mouth, sucking gently, my tongue flicking against the sensitive bundle of nerves. Her body jumps off the bed, and she cries out.
It's too much for her.
Her body tenses.
"Oh God, oh God, I'm gonna... I'm gonna..." she pants, her body writhing. "Sir, please. Can I come?"
I'm so impressed she remembered to ask in the middle of her pleasure that I nearly say yes.
"No."
The word is a low command, and I immediately pull away, leaving her empty, aching, and so close to the edge she can taste it.
I watch her. I let her hang there. I force her to absorb what it feels like to be in this limbo.
A frustrated sob escapes her lips, a sound of pure anguish.
"It's too much," she cries, tears streaming down her face. "I can't... I can't take it."
"I'll be the judge of how much you can take," I say.
I move away with more open-mouthed kisses on her thighs and stomach, and I'm back to my goal. I don't want to give her too much recovery.
I resume my ministrations, slow and deliberate, pushing her right back to that precipice, her body responding instantly, a well-tuned instrument played by a master.
Her moans become more frantic, her movements more desperate.
