Not just to fuck.
To claim. To ruin. To revere.
She shifts, trying to take me deeper, and I reward her by sliding my hand lower, over the flat of her stomach, to the soft heat between her thighs. She’s drenched. One touch and my fingers come back wet and slick.
I groan, burying the sound in the back of my throat.
“You’re soaked,” I say, fucking two fingers into her. She shudders beneath me, mouth still working, throat fluttering around the head of my cock.
I move in slow, deliberate strokes, fingers curling just right, learning the rhythm of her body all over again. Every twitch and squeeze. She’s so fucking responsive, like her body exists to be played like this. Like she was made to be undone by me and me alone.
Her hips jerk, just a little, chasing the thrust of my fingers even as she holds still enough to keep me deep in her throat. The dual focus stuns me. She’s not just good at this—she’s exceptional. A champion. A fucking prodigy of obedience and desire.
“You like that?”
She moans again, and it’s a yes even without words. Her pussy clenches tight around my fingers and I can feel her getting closer, unraveling in my hand.
I thrust deeper into her mouth, then slow down, teasing the edge of both of us. I could drown in the sight of this. Her mouth and cunt—the way she gives them both to me without hesitation.
It hits me then—this is what it means to be worshipped. Not by words. By action and surrender. By trust so complete it could level kingdoms.
No one else could do this. No one else couldbethis.
Only her.
I pull out of her mouth with a grunt, hand tight around the base of my cock. Her lips are flushed, spit-slick, her chest rising with shallow, wrecked breaths. One more stroke and I spill, thick and hot,painting her chin, throat, and tits. I don’t aim, and I don’t hold back. I let go.
She gasps when it hits her, but there’s no hesitation or flinch. She tilts her head, tongue flicking out to catch the drop clinging to her lip. Then she drags it back into her mouth, slow and filthy, savoring the taste of me.
I drag my fingers through the mess on her chest. My cum coats my hand, warm and slick. I rub it into her skin with slow, circular pressure, massaging it into the soft slope of her breasts like it’s something sacred.
She exhales, shivering under my touch, but doesn’t move. Her palms stay flat against the sheets. Her blindfold doesn’t slip. She just lies there, offered and claimed.
“Look at you. So fucking perfect like this. Covered in my cum and marked by me.”
My fingers trail lower, across her belly, smearing more of it. There’s something twisted and intimate in it now. She wears it not because I made her, but because she wants to.
Because she knows what it means.
“Lift your legs.”
Her knees draw up, thighs parting as she folds into herself, hips tilted just right. Ass raised, every inch of her spread open and offered. She doesn’t flinch or hide. And it undoes me.
I kneel over her, my hands full of her ass, tilting her hips just right. She’s slick, flushed, and bare to me. All it takes is one lean forward, and I’m there—tongue dragging through her pussy.
She moans softly, the sound trembling in her chest.
I don’t start fast.
I go slow.
My mouth hovers for a beat—enough to make her squirm—then I drag my tongue through her folds in one long, deliberate stroke. She gasps. Her hands curl into the sheets, and her knees tremble just slightly.
“Fuck,” she whispers.
I hum against her, tongue circling her clit before pulling back to tease the sensitive skin. She lifts her hips, chasing the pressure, but I grip her tighter, keeping her pinned. I work her with slow, steady precision. Savoring. Worshiping. Driving her to madness one flick, one suck, one breath at a time.
She whines.
