“That’s what is happening to us, isn’t it? We’re fading away.” He stood. Finally, he was going to leave.
She didn’t know what made her do it, but she wrote on the board, “Don’t go.”
She wasn’t sure if he’d seen it until she felt his hand on her shoulder. “You want me to stay?”
She wrote, “Yes.” She thought for a moment, then wrote, “I need you.”
“You have to tell me what you need,” he said.
She couldn’t look at him. Her face was burning. She wrote, “I can’t. I don’t know how.”
He didn’t speak. He stroked her hair. It soothed her. Carefully, she wrote, “I don’t know how to tell you what I need.” She watched the words fade, then wrote, “I’m scared.”
“Don’t be scared,” he said. “Write it.”
She thought about it, the words jumbled up in her mind so that she didn’t know where to start. “You’re so strong,” she wrote. “But with me, you’re so gentle.”
“Gentle is bad?” he asked.
She bit her lip in frustration. Even in writing she couldn’t make herself clear. She tossed the paintbrush down on the desk, feeling the hot sting of tears behind her eyelids.
He reached over her, picked up the brush and put it in her hand. “Try again. I’m not going anywhere.”
She took the brush from him. She wrote, “You treat me differently. You protect me when I don’t need protecting. I want you to stop treating me like I’m going to break.”
“Emotionally or physically?”
She didn’t hesitate to write, “Both.”
“I feel like a big, dumb ox next to you,” he said. “You’re so graceful and gentle and proper.”
She shook her head. “I’m not. You’re not,” she wrote. “No, no, no.”
As each no faded, she wrote another. Finally, he laughed. “Okay, I get it. I’m sorry.”
She wrote, “I can’t say what I need.” The words faded, each brushstroke becoming lighter until it was gone. “But I still need.”
“What do you need, Mai Ling?” he asked softly, his fingers pulling gently through her hair.
“Harder,” she wrote.
He wrapped his fingers in the long strands of her dark hair and pulled. “Like that?”
“Harder,” she wrote, in thicker, darker letters.
He pulled until her head was pulled back and he was looking into her eyes. “Like that?” he asked again.
She waited for him to release his grip on her hair, then she nodded slowly.
“What else do you need?”
She held the paintbrush poised above the blank board. “I need you to,” she wrote. She couldn’t finish it.
“What, Mai Ling?”
She shook her head. She couldn’t write it.
“Do you want me to leave you alone?”
She shook her head hard.
“What, then? What do you need?”
She wrote the words again. “I need you to,” she wrote, hesitating once more. “To have sex with me.” It wasn’t right, but it was there.
He didn’t speak for a minute, and by the time he did her words were gone. “You want me to make love to you?” He sounded as confused as she felt.
She shook her head quickly. “No,” she wrote.
“But you wrote—”
She shook her head again. Carefully, deliberately, she wrote, “Not make love.”
“You wrote you need me to have sex with you,” he said. “But you don’t want me to make love to you.”
She nodded slightly. “Not make love, not sex,” she wrote. “I need you.”
“Mai Ling, you’re not making sense.”
She waited for the words to fade. Then quickly, before she could lose her nerve, she wrote in broad, heavy strokes, “Fuck me.”
She heard his quick intake of breath. She had never used that word until now. “Okay.”
She smiled. He sounded shaken. Rattled. The way he made her feel sometimes. It gave her an odd sense of power. “Fuck me,” she wrote again. “Hard.”
His breathing had quickened, his fingers tightening on her shoulders. “Are you sure?”
She nodded even as she wrote. “Hard. Rough.”
He caught her hair up in his hand, dragging his fingers through it so that her scalp tingled. “Hard, rough,” he repeated, his voice deepening. Collecting her hair again, he gave it a sharp tug. “Like this?”
Mai Ling gasped. “Oh yes,” she said aloud, no need to write her desire on the board. “Please.”
He pulled her up by her hair, twisting it so that she turned to face him. She was nearly a foot shorter than him, and he pulled her hair so that she had to look up at him. Neck arched, eyes wide, she stared into a face that was both familiar and unfamiliar.
“Tell me, Mai Ling,” he whispered. He studied her, his face set in solemn lines. “I want to hear the words.”
She tried to duck her head away from his unrelenting gaze, but he held her hair fast. “I can’t,” she whispered, even softer than him. “I can’t.”
Tears pricked her eyes, fear that failing his test meant he would give up. And that would be the end of them. Instead, he nodded.
“You will.”
Threat or promise, she wasn’t sure. But it made her nipples harden and wetness pool between her legs. “Yes,” she responded, almost by accident.
He picked up her paintbrush from the desk and handed it to her. “Show me what you want.”
A shiver of anticipation dance along her spine. She could play this game. She could do anything he asked as long as she didn’t have to speak.
Dipping the paintbrush in the cup of water, she held it between them, hesitating. Did she have the nerve?
“Show me what you want,” he said again, his voice hard, his hand tight in her hair.
With a trembling hand, she lowered the wet tip of the paintbrush to the crotch of his jeans and drew a line along the ridge of his erection. Then she looked up at him.
“You want my dick.”
It was a statement, not a question, but she nodded anyway.
“Good girl,” he said. “Where do you want my dick?”
Again, she hesitated. The obvious thing to do was to mark her own crotch, leaving a wet mark on the outside of her pants to match the wetness inside her panties. Instead, she dipped the paintbrush in water and held it to her mouth like a lipstick. She painted the water on her lips and then, kitten-quick, she licked the tip of the paint brush.
“Holy hell,” Gregory groaned. “I’m going to come in my pants if you do that again.”
A surge of feminine power rushed through her, making her feel suddenly, vibrantly sexual. She giggled, then licked the paintbrush again.
Gregory released her hair and dropped his hands to her shoulders. With a gentle pressure, he let her know what it was he wanted. She slipped to her knees in front of him, studying the wet mark on his jeans.
“This is what you want?” he asked, unzipping his pants and releasing his erection. “You’re sure?”
She nodded, staring up at him, suddenly shy. She’d never knelt like this in front of him, had never gone down on him in the light of day, even. When it came to sex, she was always unsure of her abilities, no matter how appreciative Gregory might be. Other lovers, the few she’d had, had seemed as content as she with the basics of sex. Something inside her yearned to please Gregory in a way she had never wanted to please another lover.
As she lowered her mouth to Gregory’s penis and heard his corresponding gasp, she tasted the truth on her tongue. She hadn’t been content, she’d never been content. She had simply never met a man who had awakened her desires the way Gregory had. At the core of her frustration was the knowledge that she wanted as much as he did—she wanted all the possibilities, all the variations, all the dirty, naughty things a good girl like her was never permitted to want.
She dared to peek at him from under her lowered lashes and saw that he was watching her. The knowledge should hav
e intimidated her, but instead it emboldened her. She took more of him into her mouth, cradling him in the hollow of her tongue and tasting his arousal as it leaked from him.
“Ohh,” he sighed, a long drawn-out sound of pleasure as she drew him to the back of her throat and held him there.
Kneeling there with his dick in her mouth, she remained still and waiting. Wanting him to give her what he promised. Wanting the hardness and roughness that her body craved. She held him in her mouth, her tongue, lips, and throat caressing him. Then, as if he couldn’t control himself, he flexed his hips until only the head of him remained between her lips before thrusting into her mouth.
She groaned around him, wanting exactly this. Only he took it as a sound of protest and withdrew from her mouth, studying her with concern.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She shook her head. “More,” she said easily. “Hard. Rough.”
Something flashed in his dark eyes. Something wild and feral, something she desperately wanted him to unleash on her.
“Now,” she said, crisp and firm. And then, softer, “Please.”
He held himself in his hand and pushed the tip of his dick between her lips once again. This time, it was he who controlled the motion. This time, he pushed to the back of her throat until she nearly gagged. This time, he gave her exactly what she craved.
“Like that, baby?” he asked, though he had to know her answer by the way she gripped his thighs and moaned.
“Good girl,” he said. “Take it all.”
She did take it all, and not just to please him. Gregory’s dick in her mouth was both her submission and her liberation. She sucked him as she never had before, with wet slurping unladylike sounds, with whimpers of pleasure and a clenching between her legs. She needed him there, soon. She needed to be filled with the brushed velvet hardness that filled her mouth.
Gregory fucked her mouth as she’d requested, hard and rough, until her throat felt raw and his thighs trembled beneath her touch at the effort it took to keep from coming. She was tempted to let him finish this way, to complete her act of submissive love. But he made the decision for her, slowly withdrawing from her mouth, his erection glistening wet and beautiful.
“I want to fuck you.”
She nodded, feeling as if she could smell her own arousal.
“Tell me you want me to fuck you,” he said, kneeling on the floor in front of her, guiding her back onto the rug.
Her lips felt swollen, and along with his sweet musk, she could taste the iron tang of blood where she’d protected his delicate skin from her teeth and managed to cut her own lip. The proof of her newfound sensuality. And yet, she couldn’t say what she wanted.
Gregory knelt between her thighs, stripping off her jeans and panties roughly. Then his shirt, her shirt, her bra. Until she was splayed before him in the sun splashed room, naked and wanting.
“Tell me to fuck you,” he said again.
She caught her breath, willing the words from her lungs. There was nothing but silence. She arched her back, hoping to entice him with her body, hoping he would spare her the embarrassment of saying the words.
“Fine,” he said, taking up the paint brush from where it had been discarded on the floor. “I’ll show you want I want.”
He licked the tip of the brush as she had, his broad tongue gliding over the sable hairs and making her whimper. He dipped the brush between her thighs and traced the lips of her swollen pussy. The gentle touch of the brush tickled, made her aware of the sticky wetness that felt like it was trickling down between her legs.
He traced her pussy in gentle circles, avoiding her clit and the wetness between her lips. She squirmed and whimpered, legs spread and knees bent, utterly shameless in trying to get him to penetrate her or stroke her hard clit. He stubbornly refused, painting around her wetness, teasing her.
“Is there something you want to tell me?”
She growled in frustration, not even recognizing her own voice. “Yes!”
“Well?” he asked, brush poised over her undulating mound. “What do you want?”
“Fuck me,” she said, her voice ragged.
“Hmm,” he said with deliberate consideration. “Here?”
She felt the brush at her opening, teasing the wetness that pooled there. She arched her back, taking the brush bristles into her, feeling the paintbrush slip inside her. It was too narrow to offer any relief, but she cried out at the sensation.
“Naughty girl,” he said, pressing the brush inward, painting the insides of her with her own juices. “Good girl.”
“Fuck me,” she said again. “Please.”
He withdrew the brush. “Not until you come like this.”
She didn’t know what he meant until he dragged the brush over her clit, painting the aroused little nub with her arousal. She practically came off the floor as the bristles fanned out to cover her clit, at once tickling and arousing. She panted and whimpered, arms stretched over her head, body thrashing before him.
“Will you come?”
She nodded, bunching the rug in her fists as she concentrated on that point between her legs where the paintbrush met her clit and caressed it into orgasm. He dipped the brush between her thighs again and again, catching her wetness on the bristles and gliding it over her clit. She could feel her orgasm building, the still, quiet pool of arousal that had always been there, crashing over her in a tidal wave of sudden, nearly violent release.
She tried to close her legs around the insubstantial brush, but Gregory’s hands were there to pin her knees back until they touched the rug, the brush suddenly replaced by the tip of his dick. Her clitoris throbbed against his hardness as she came in rolling waves, screaming and whimpering as he pinned her helplessly to the rug.
And then he pushed her legs back to her chest and slammed into her in one long, hard stroke. She gasped as he buried himself in her so deep her still-tingling clit pressed against the hard ridge of his pubic bone.
Then it was his turn to remain still.
She stared into his eyes, wiggling her hips in invitation, wanting what he was giving her more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life. She felt his dick throb inside of her, but he remained still. She saw the challenge in his eyes, knew what he was waiting for.
This time, there was no hesitation, no embarrassment, no holding back anything.
“Fuck me,” she pleaded. “Fuck me hard, Gregory. Please. I need you to fuck me so hard.”
And then he did. Arching up over her, pinning her hands above her head, he fucked her one long, hard stroke after another. She could hear her wetness as he fucked her, the obscene sucking sounds of her pussy drawing him in before he slid out to the tip and thrust back into her.
She pulled her knees up to her chest so he could go as deep as she could stand, feeling his balls slapping damply at her ass, covered in her sticky wetness. His dick filled her up, leaving her breathless and aching, wanting more.
“Good girl, good girl,” he breathed in her ear. “Take it all. Take my dick like a good girl.”
She pushed against him but was effectively pinned to the floor by his hands and his dick, getting fucked just as hard and rough as she’d asked for. She could feel her arousal building in the pit of her stomach like a knot being pulled tight. She clenched her muscles around his dick, her walls rippling along the length of him, pushing them both over the edge. Her stomach cramped painfully for a moment, and then there was sweet release, a gush of wetness from both of them as she screamed her release into his hard, unrelenting chest.
He kept driving into her as she whimpered and begged wordlessly, craving more and more and more. He fucked her until there was almost no friction because of all the wetness, until he started to go soft. Then he braced himself over her and looked at her sex-flushed face.
His expression was so serious, she had to smile. At that, he smiled back and bent to kiss her.
“Was that, was it—?” Before he could get the words out in a coher
ent sentence past his own ragged breath, she was already nodding.
“It was exactly what I wanted. It was perfect.”
He rolled over, pulling her with him until her head was nestled in the crook of his shoulder, her body flung across his. “Yeah, it was.”
“Just like that,” she said, pressing a kiss to a bite mark she hadn’t even realized she’d left on him. “Every time. Always. Fuck me just like that.”
“Hey, you said it,” he said, sounding startled.
She laughed. “I’m going to try to say a lot more things,” she promised. “I’m going to try to tell you everything that’s in my head.”
He reached to the edge of the carpet and retrieved the paintbrush. “Well, if you can’t find the words, you can always use this,” he said, tickling her spine with the bristles, gliding down her back until the tip of the brush nestled in the cleft of her cheeks.
She giggled and squirmed, feeling two things at once—the stir of his penis against her hip and a renewed tingling of arousal between her thighs.
“Tell me what you want,” she said. “Tell your very bad good girl how you want to fuck her.”
He put the paintbrush down and did exactly that.
NO SLEEP
Kristina Lloyd
He said he wouldn’t sleep with her because he didn’t want to get emotionally involved. This was a sex thing, nothing else, and he needed his distance if he were to keep seeing her as his dirty little slut. She agreed and said she didn’t want to spend the night with him either. If she saw too much of his nice-guy side, she might struggle to believe in that dark, rough brute who glowered and snarled as he fucked her.
But, like everyone, they were busy people, and the no-sleepover rule got problematic. Worse, they lived fifty miles apart so spontaneity wasn’t an option. Half their relationship (“If you can call it that,” he said, not unkindly) was conducted via email, Skype, and dirty phone calls.
Bound by Lust Page 8