Tuesday, December 27, 2016

You Need to Do What I Say - Part Two

 * Go to 7:16 to Continue Listening to an Audio Reading 
Enough - 
Short Story - 
Part Two
Read Part One Here

Losing myself in the back and forth of your movement around the kitchen, I watch you turn from me only to inevitably come back as you—as we, together—bring the broken bits of your life back to order.

You’ve left the wooden spoon you tossed for last. I wonder if you did it on purpose. A subtle symbol or a hidden hint. The straw that broke you. The last challenge.

You bring it to me, held tight in your teeth.

I hold out the almost full crock.

But you simply sit there. On your knees. And look at me.

I can read your need in your eyes, a silent wish that screams.

I set the other utensils on the counter and hold my hand out to you. Bowing your head forward, you place the spoon in my palm. The spoon feel smooth, hard, and a little wet from your mouth. I curl my fingers around it.

You start to stand, but I stop you with a hand on your shoulder. 

Not yet. 

Turning you around, I grab the collar of your shirt in my fist. The cloth is crisp against my palm and I can feel the heat of your body under my grip. 

As I lead you to the dining room table, even though the room’s carpet must feel nice on your battered knees after the harsh tile, I miss the audible slide of your slacks. 

But, this close, I can see the strain of your erection against your zipper. I breathe deep, imagining I can smell your arousal, hot and male. “Pull out the chair for me,” I order, moving my hand between your shoulder blades and giving you a subtle push.  

You do. Such a gentlemen. I sit and pat my lap. 

This is always the hardest part for you. The part that makes it real. The ultimate act of submission. Before it, it all just feels like fantasy, like it’s not quite yet real.

After it…

You told me once that you don’t understand why, even after all this time, you still feel a flicker of fear right before a scene. Because, while you’re in it, you never feel safer than when you’re in my hands.

I watch those two truths war in your eyes while you kneel before me. Your chest rises and falls with deep breaths. Your skin is flushed and slightly slick with sweat at your temples and neck. I want to lick you there, smell and taste and touch your nerves, raw and ready. 

I see it in your eyes, in the flex of your muscles and the lift of your spine, when your hunger wins. You swallow hard and come close. I sit impossibly still as you unbuckle your belt, undo your fly, and lay across my lap.

I smile. Good boy.

You know that this is my favorite part. 

I grab the waistband of your pants, grabbing the elastic of your boxers as well, and pull them down, revealing the smooth, pale aspen skin of your ass. I scrunch up the tails of your shirt, eager to see more. I lick my lips at the strong surface of your arched back. You writhe a bit, trying to get comfortable on my thighs. Your cheeks tense and shake and I want to lean down and bite them.

Instead, I grip the spoon in my hand and trail it from your neck, along your spine, and down that delicious ass. “Are you ready?” I ask.

You nod, just a tiny shake of your head against my leg. But your voice is clear and excited when you say, “I’m ready.” You plant your hands and feet.

I can feel how ready you are, your cock hard against my lap. Stroking your ass, I feel the firm muscles under a soft layer of sweet flesh. You settle into my hold, relaxing into my attention.

I pull my hand back and slap it across your ass. Not hard. My fingers just a stinging snap against your skin. Just to wake up your nerves. 

You jump, shock more than pain making the movement sharp. I fight the urge to giggle, knowing that—vulnerable as you are—you won’t hear it as the sound of affection, not mocking, that I mean it as.

Instead, I smack your ass again, appreciating the bloom of color my palm leaves behind. I hit you again. And again. And again. Until your flesh warms under mine. I strain to hear the hitch of your breath just before each strike. I imagine I can feel your heartbeat speed as your body stiffens and squirms against mine.

“More?” I ask, touching the spoon to your reddened skin.

“Yes.” You push your ass higher, pressing into the wood. “Please.”

Well, you did say, please.

The spoon thwacks when it connects with your flesh, leaving a perfect, red semi-circular oval beside your hip. You grunt and flex against me while I stare. The sight of it causes gleeful delight to swell up within me. My mark. On you. Tonight and tomorrow, you’ll feel that spot keenly, memories flooding at every tender touch. You’ll likely wear that mark for the next few days. Maybe even a week. 

My grip on the spoon tightens before I strike again. On your left cheek. Then the right. By the crack of your ass. Under the swell before butt becomes thigh. Each time, you writhe with me, moving into and away from the spoon's harsh attention in a perfectly untimed rhythm. You groan and grunt, the sound sweet accompaniment. And I can’t get enough of it. Each blush of your skin, each furious flush, makes me want more. Wants to paint the canvas of your flesh  with my touch.

My mind floods with the idea that, for days, every time I see you—naked, clothed, it doesn’t matter—I’ll know they’re there. Those marks—my marks—warm beneath my fingers. Hidden beneath slacks. They’ll be there when you lie beside me at night and when you go to work in the morning. I’ll have left something of me on you.

If before I wanted to bite you, now I want to consume you. And be consumed by you. I want our touch to tattoo onto each other. To sear us together with our heat and sweat. To brand and bind us. 

I reach down and lift your chin. I want to taste you. I need to. I feel you slide off my lap, your hands gripping my thighs as you stretch up to meet my mouth. Our lips meet and your taste and scent overwhelm me. I slip my hand from your chin to your neck, twisting the strands at the nape in my fist. I pull you close, nipping at your lips, sucking your tongue, and making you take my own. 

Your hands grab my knees, pushing them apart and making a space for you between them. I feel you hot against me. 

Your hands, made clumsy by need, paw at the hem of my shorts, trying to shove them down. 

I lift my hips with a laugh to help. You pull the shorts down off my legs while I tug you by your hair. Down. Down. You go willingly, eagerly, but there is something thrilling about the movement, the rough, wordless command, before your mouth closes over my cunt. 

You lap at the lips, tickling the sensitive skin with your clever tongue. I moan when that tongue probes deeper to find me already wet. I imagine my taste, thick and heady, flooding your senses. You lick up, reveling in the liquid heat. Your hands grip my thighs, spreading them, as you push yourself closer to lavish attention on my hungry clit.

I throw my head back and bite my lip, a groan growling in the back of my throat. My hips thrust up, undulating into you. I can feel my orgasm climb, but not quite peak. “Fingers,” I say, my voice clipped with desire, “now.” Please.

I hear—feel—you chuckle against me, enjoying how tense and taut my body has become at your touch. Enjoying the table’s turn. I’d be annoyed, except the slide of your fingers deep within me, filling me, feels so good. “Fast,” I tell you, tightening my hold on your hair as if it were a leash or reins, “and hard.” I need it. I need you.

Your fingers fuck me—there is no other word for it—driving into me with a speed and intensity that rocks me. My leg lifts a bit, my left foot arching against the sensation so pleasurable it’s almost pain. Almost. Almost.

Then you suck my clit—hard, your tongue and teeth relentless—and my world bursts into light before plunging my brain into a climactic blank. My sightless eyes open wide and my throat chokes on a gasp. I feel my body shake stiffly, the seismic spasms that seem to seize my senses showing only as tremoring shivers along my spine. I lean back, my back arching against the feeling, spreading it along each vertebra before it tingles electric along every nerve.

It should tire me out, wear on and drain me.

Instead, I feel fueled. Invigorated. 


I slink off the chair to join you on the floor. Pulling you close, I seal my lips to yours. My taste buzzes between us. Shoving against your shoulder, I push you down onto the carpet, before lowering my body onto yours. I deftly unbutton your shirt, needing to have more of you revealed—exposed—for me. Stroking your chest, I feel your nipples hard against my fingers and palms. I trail my hand down until I grasp your sex, laying hard and long on your belly. I squeeze. You gasp.

With a grin, I sidle over your hips, my thighs straddling you. My hot, wet flesh brushes against your dick still cradled in my fist. “What do you want?” I ask. I want the words. I want to feel the power, the base and raw pull, of them pouring out of your mouth and filling the room. Filling me.

“I want to come inside you.”

I shiver at the words. You’re my first fluid-bonded partner. It shouldn’t matter. It never did before.

But it does.

The trust of it. The aching vulnerability. Of literally letting someone inside of you. No barriers. No safety net. And leaving, in a flow of heat and lust, a bit of you inside of them. Inside of me.

I swallow hard and lower myself onto you.

You lift up on your elbows to watch as I do, as each inch sinks deep.

I watch you, the flush of your cheeks and the puff of your heaving chest. Your eyes darken, taking everything in. Your tongue slips out and slicks your lips, making you look ravenous. 

I lean down and begin to ride you, my chest hovering over your face. With a growl, you grab my shirt and thrust it up, freeing my breasts to your mouth. Every time I surge over you, your lips draw me in, only to pull when I buck back. I feel caught, captive between the rioting sensations of your mouth and your cock.

Even through it, I can see your body writhe. Your nails dig into the shag, trying to hold on, to find some sense of control. Heavy breaths and tiny whimpers escape your lips. I watch you fight off your climax.

It makes me want it more.

Even though my thighs burn and waves of my own orgasm threaten to break, I push you further. Faster. Harder. I clench the muscles deep within, my pussy hugging your long, hard dick. I lean down and suck your bottom lip hard between my teeth.

You come, filling my body while you moan into my mouth. I want to roar. To cheer. But the force of your orgasm rocks your body, pulsing along—pulsing inside—my own, triggering my own climax. Not the same mind-blowing pleasure as before. But something sweeter. Deeper. Because it’s something shared. 

I shiver before I let my weight settle over yours. I close my eyes and feel your arms wrap around my waist, holding me close. I feel your lips feather kisses over my temple, my cheek, my chin. Lazily, I turn my head to smack my lips over yours.

“Thank you,” you tell me. You let out a deep sigh. “I needed that.”

Yes, you needed a break. A space where time—the world, life—stops. A scene where you get to step out of yourself and away from the baggage that normally weighs down. Don’t we all sometimes? “You’re very welcome.” I stretch a bit, feeling you slip flaccid and slick out of me. “I know things have been hard for you lately.”

“That’s not an excuse,” you say, shaking your head. “I shouldn’t take it out on you.” You hold your breath and squeeze me tight. You sigh. “I’m sorry.”

I let out my own breath. I didn’t even know I’d been holding it in. I feel something sharp settle within me, only really noticing the pain now that it’s gone. “I know.” I press my lips to yours, lingering as our sweat-slicked bodies stick together. “I love you.”

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