But at last, what feels like the most intense orgasm he’s ever given me dies down, and I’m breathing even more heavily than I was when he was edging me.
“I came, Quill,” I gasp, trying to get his head off me. “You can stop now. I just came.”
I’m wondering how he hasn’t noticed it when he’s usually so in tune with me.Soin tune that I’ve come to believe him when he said my first time was alsohisfirst time. He always seems to know exactly what I need and when, not because he’s experienced, but because it’s like he knows me better than I do myself.
But instead of listening to me, he keeps going, and for the first time, I feel a weird sensation in my folds. A mix of numbness and achiness, and I’ve actually gone dry.
“Quill,” I groan, “it hurts. I need a break.”
“You get a break,” he grunts between licks, “when I say you get a break.”
With that, he grabs my legs and pulls them over his shoulders, gripping my ass as he keeps going down on me.
I’m starting to understand what he means about the punishment not being over. Especially when he adds, “Let’s see how many times I can make you come tonight.”
__
Thirty-seven. Thirty-seven is apparently how many orgasms my body can push out despite being completely dry and overstimulated. But it feels like just the thought that Quill is doing this to punish me is enough to make some deep, emotional part of me aroused, so aroused that one orgasm after another courses through me, no matter how much it feels like my body is going to literally break with each one.
I want you to punish me, Quill. I want you to force me. I want you to take away my choice. I want you to own me.
Seriously, why is my brain so messed up?
Something about the way Quill is punishing me, in this prolonged, far more frantic way than ever before, makes me wonder if it’s really a reaction to what happened with his dad. Some sort of cathartic response. Like he needs to feel how much he owns me, how much he controls every part of me, after his dad has reminded him, with his fists and his words, just how helpless he is to control the rest of his life.
That thought makes me more determined than ever to submit to the punishment, even though I would much rather he spanked me.
But if Quill wants this, then so do I.
Still, I sigh with relief when he at last draws away. He must have come to the conclusion that I’m all orgasmed out, or maybe he just takes pity on me—no, definitely not that. I don’t think it’s possible for him to feel pity.
Whatever the case, he pulls back, freeing my thighs, which I at once press together, though this time, it’s not to relieve my frustration, but to relieve the stinging numbness of his continued assault.
Thousands of words are crowding at the tip of my tongue, from wanting to protest at this new form of sadistic punishment, to wanting to tell him I secretly want more of it, but as he presses his cheek to my sad excuse of a bosom, I settle on, “I’m hungry.”
My words are followed by a short silence, as he circles my nipples softly with his finger, and I hope he’ll ignore them, because I would much rather he touch me, even though Iamstarving.
But he suddenly startles out of his thoughts and jumps up.
“That’s right.” HIs face shows the same contrition as before, when he saw I was cold. “You didn’t have dinner tonight. What do you want to eat?”
“Uh…” I stare at him, taken once more by surprise at how he never thinks twice about putting me through all sorts of intense, painful punishments, but seems to feel bad when I’m cold or hungry. “Anything. Cereal, crackers, whatever you’ve got lying around.”
He frowns. “That’s not very nutritious.”
“Huh?”
“You’ve been eating far too much cereal for dinner lately. You need to get more food groups in.”
I blink at him, wondering if he’s serious right now. Also, wondering how the hell he knows what I eat for dinner.
Does he stalk me? That thought should unsettle me, though it kind of secretly thrills me. But it also seriously embarrasses me, because he must have seen some things. Reading naked while eating bowls of cereal and talking to myself. Oh yeah, and all the masturbation whenever I think of what he’s done to me, and wonder what he’s got in store. Not to mention the gas that I definitely have let rip on more than one occasion.
Basically all the things people do when they think they’re alone and that no one is watching them.
But if Quill has seen any of it, he doesn’t let on. Instead, he says, “I’d better see you eating a lot healthier from now on.”
Before I can think of a retort, he leaves the room, closing the door softly behind him. He’s gone for a while, and I lean back, yawning, idly watching TV, before suddenly noticing the time:it’s after two.
