Velvet Submission
Page 12
"Reach back." She sounded every bit as mesmerized as he felt. "Hold yourself open for me."
He reached back, tensing his core muscles to maintain his position hovering over the seat of the couch as he held his ass cheeks open for Megan's pleasure.
A cool rush of sensation, a wash of lube tingled over his anus, causing the muscles to twitch in reaction. Then her fingers, rubbing, probing, playing with the tough ring of his sphincter until it gave in and she sank first one, then two fingers deep into his clenching depths. Those long, strong fingers scissored relentlessly, relaxing him and opening him until he was unconsciously pushing back into the thrust.
"Fuck me, Mistress." He heard himself as if from a distance, mumbling, begging. She picked up the pace, fucking him with three fingers now, glancing little blows over his prostate and sending ecstasy jolting up his spine and down his bound dick.
She stopped all at once, and he cried out in denial, a hoarse, guttural sound he barely recognized as human, let alone as his own voice.
"Are you ready for me, Gregori?" Her fingers slid free, and he felt the nudging of something wider, cooler, and foreign at his opening.
"Yes, Mistress," he panted. She nudged harder. He could feel the flex of her body in the grip she took on his shoulder and waist. "Please," he groaned, shifting back into the burn. Harder she pushed, until the broad head of the dildo breached him with a burning pop.
"Take it, sugar," she panted right along with him, impaling him deeper, with short surging thrusts. "Take every bit of it until you're so full of me you'll never be empty again."
And then he was filled with her, the dildo merely an extension of his Mistress' will. Her hips pressed tight against his ass, her breasts squashed soft against his back while her nipples dragged like hard little berries with each shift of her weight. She surrounded him, enveloped him, and he had never felt so safe and so threatened all at once in his life.
"Grab the back of the couch," she ground out, moving with him so the gel-cock stayed lodged deep. "Hold tight, sugar," was the only warning he had before the damned thing began to vibrate.
He howled like a wolf denied his prey, screamed like an eagle plummeting from the heavens, shrieked like the souls of the damned. Somehow, with some magical ability, Megan had managed to place the soft bump on the underside of the dildo square against his prostate, and when she flicked on the vibrating function, it nearly blasted off the top of his skull.
He lurched forward, catching himself on his elbows on the seat of the couch, his dick pressed painfully between his body and the edge of the seat. He welcomed the pain; it, and the cock-and-ball strap were all that kept him from spraying what felt like gallons of cum over the towel she'd thoughtfully draped over the couch.
After an endless time in which the world went black shot with silver stars, he realized that she'd slid one arm under his, wrapping her hand up and over his shoulder to pull him back into an upright position. Slowly, having to concentrate on every movement, he planted his hands on the back of the couch again. Then he had to stop and breathe through the fireworks the shift in position caused along his spasming chute.
She waited for him, waited until he was breathing again, even though it was ragged and uneven. Then his Mistress fucked him. She rolled over him like a tidal wave, worked him with a rhythm that pressed past pain and into a dark ecstasy he'd only come close to under the bloody lash of the whip. He spat curses, profanity and praise with each stroke, and she was right there with him, crooning encouragement and promises until he was sure that, cock ring or no, he was going to come explosively, now, endlessly.
Once again she seemed to read his mind, stopping at the deepest point of her thrust. One rounded thigh climbed his hip, wrapping around his waist until she was plastered against him. A flick of her fingers and the vibration ramped up. He was bellowing, and she was screaming, jerking against him and the knowledge she was coming was enough for him to drag himself back from the edge. He didn't want to miss a second of her climax.
*
The orgasm crashed through her, leaving her wrecked against the only solid thing in the universe, Gregori's body.
He trembled beneath her. His cheeks flexed visibly around the dildo that still impaled him. His breath came in low grunts of effort. Still, he supported them both on one strong arm, having pressed the other over her arm, clutching her hand over his heart.
He was such a gift, Megan thought.
Slowly and carefully she withdrew from his shuddering body. His low moans were like music to her Dominant soul. With gentle hands she guided him to his back on the floor. She thought to flick the nipple clamps, but his anguished expression tore at her heart.
"How would you like to come, sugar?"
His eyes met hers, his mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, before he managed to rasp, "Inside you, Mistress."
"Can you hold it if I remove the strap?" She indicated the strap confining his cock, which was swollen to painful looking proportions and wept great pearls of pre-cum.
"No," he gasped. She knew then that he was truly at the end of his control.
"Okay, sugar," she whispered. "It's all right. I'll take care of you." It was her right. Her responsibility. Her privilege. Moving swiftly, she pressed his shoulders to the floor and moved to straddle him. She had no plans to make him wait any longer, but she still had to pause a moment and savor the feel of him solid and strong between her thighs.
Using the lightest of touches, she positioned him, setting the angry head of his cock just at her entrance. Reaching out to him she said, "Give me your hands," and then wove their fingers together, using his strength to provide the leverage she needed to take him in one smooth stroke.
The instant he slid home, Megan knew it would take only a few strokes to rocket her back into orgasm. The feel of him inside her, filling her with his living heat, had her more than halfway there already. The strap pressed against her, digging into soft flesh and sending her spiral still higher.
Keeping her grip on his hands, she began to move. She didn't bother with fancy moves or exotic technique. Neither of them needed it. Instead, she pushed against his hands and found a slow, steady rhythm that quickly had her pussy clenching along his length.
His head dropped back, neck arched. His skin flushed red, streaked with sweat. His breath heaved, hitched, and shuddered out of him. "Please," he all but sobbed. "Mistress, please…"
And then the crisis was upon her, upon them both as she pulled one hand free and reached back to jerk loose the straps holding his pleasure at bay. It consumed her, first her own pleasure, then his. He was magnificent, overwhelming.
His hands fastened on her hips, digging in hard enough to leave bruises, and she loved it. His grip tightened, slamming her against him as he rose to meet her, until he froze buried heart-deep inside of her. His face twisted in such lines of agony and ecstasy he was almost too beautiful to look at. And then he was coming, scalding, powerful pulses of semen branding her as his, marking her as surely as she planned to mark him.
*
Much later Megan propped herself up on Gregori's chest and looked down into his lazy, sated eyes.
"I love you, Gregori," she said softly. "I didn't mean to say it to my father first," she added with a wry smile. Then her face went quiet and adorably serious and she continued, "I was wrong. For so long I believed that to love someone, to give them that power over me, would make me weak. You showed me it was hiding from my feelings that made me weak." She smiled down at him. "With you, I'm strong enough to move mountains." She laughed and added, "And obstinate southern businessmen." Gregori couldn't choke back his snort of amusement at the memory of Beauregard's face when Megan informed him she was the one doing the ass-paddling.
Slipping to the side, Megan reached for a heavy velvet box that had fallen to the floor next to the couch. He vaguely remembered seeing it as she'd begun her preparations, but the sudden vulnerability in her expression gave it added significance.
"I've nev
er done this," she began hesitantly. "I'm not even really sure how to go about it…" Gregori pushed himself to a seated position, facing Megan. Her eyes glowed with love, and he knew his must be blazing with hope because she suddenly laughed and flipped back the lid of the box.
"Gregori Lavinkia, I love you," she stated baldly. "I've claimed you in public, and in private, and I have no intention of ever letting you go." She lifted a heavy platinum chain from the box and offered it to him. "I want you to wear this."
He took the necklace, savoring the weight of the metal.
"My collar," she continued. "My mark." She reached over and directed his eyes to the clasp, a small, solid lock. The inscription was small, but he could read it: "Tni prinadlezhish' mne". You belong to me.
He lifted his eyes to meet her gaze. It was clear and blue and as serene as heaven. "Only I will have the key to remove it," she told him. "If the day ever comes that you wish to be free, you'll have to tell me so."
"That day will never come," he vowed fervently, lifting her hand to his lips for a heated kiss. "I will never wish to leave you, and I will never wish to be free." He laughed brokenly, and handed her the chain, turning to offer her his neck. "Hell, goluba, I was never truly free until you claimed me. Ya prinadlezh tebe, Megan. I belong to you." The heavy platinum links settled against his throat, weighty with meaning. The click of the lock set something loose in his soul. He turned and crushed her lips with his. "Never let me go, my goddess."
Her lips clung to his. "Never," she agreed. Never.
The End
About the Author:
Violet Summers is a married mother of three beautiful children, including one set of twins, one rambunctious puppy, and one husband, except when she’s a single mom of one spoiled teenaged God-child and three spoiled kitties. Both of Violet’s personalities are very busy!
No, Violet has not suffered a psychotic break yet (though she may after dealing with creating web pages and MySpace accounts). Violet is actually the writing team of Sierra Summers and Violet Johnson.
Both women read voraciously, and in a multitude of genres. Sierra classifies them as “readers, as opposed to readers of romance. This means when we write, we’re as concerned with the story as we are with the sex.” That said, Sierra has been known to boycott books where the characters haven’t “done the deed,” by page 125.
Sierra and VeeJay live in Southeast Michigan, and the spice of the Metro-Detroit area often flavors their work. “Why look for a more glamorous setting,” VeeJay asks, “when we’ve got the beautiful, re-vitalized Downtown area to draw from?”
Violet Summers writes in a variety of genres, from contemporary to paranormal; from soft BDSM to fantasy. The two things all her stories have in common is their deep emotional and their scorching erotic love scenes.
Sierra and VeeJay love to hear from their readers. You can contact them at VioletSummers@yahoo.com
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