Rise of the Fallen

by Donya Lynne

  Would she just fuck him already? His dick was as hard as steel and he just wanted to get off. He reminded himself never to invite her over again.

  She stood up and stripped out of her dress as he stroked himself and watched. She had nice tits. Fake, but he liked her nipples. They reminded him of someone, pale and small to the point where he couldn't tell where the nipple began and the rest of her tit ended. Who was it she reminded him of? It was just on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't remember. It wasn't like him to forget stuff like that.

  She turned and peeled her thong down, bending over as she took it off, showing him her shaved, glistening slit. Mmm, he wanted that.

  "You want my pussy? You like my hot little pussy, don't you?"

  Okay, well, maybe if she didn't talk he would enjoy himself more, but what the hell, he would play along just to get it over with.

  "Yeah, baby. Give me that hot pussy. That's right, climb up here and put that hot cunt on my dick. That's it, fuck me, baby."

  "Ooooooo, yeah, yeah, oooohhhhhh, so good, so—baby, what's wrong? What's wrong?"

  Steve stilled abruptly as his dick shriveled and went limp just as she lowered herself on him. "I don't know. This has never happened before."

  She hopped off. "That's okay, baby. I can get you hard again." She began to stroke him with her hand, but to no avail. He slapped her hand away and began stroking himself. Ah, yeah, there he was. His dick inflated again, lengthening and standing at attention.

  Sabrina hopped back on and her verbal dramatics started again, "Yes, yes, that's right, give me that big cock. Give me that big—baby! What the hell?"

  Once more, as soon as she lowered herself on him, he went limp. "I don't understand."

  She jumped up and started dressing as he whacked his peter back into readiness. "Wait, Sabrina. Try it again. Look, I'm ready for you now."

  "Screw you. Forget it, Steve. I'm out of here."

  "Sabrina!"

  She was still pulling on her clothes as she barged out of his bedroom. A few seconds later, the front door slammed shut and he heard her car start, her engine rev, her tires squeal, and then she was gone.

  He looked at his dick. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

  Six more times with six more women, he tried to have sex, but each time, as soon as he pushed inside her, he wilted like old lettuce. He tried having them give him blow jobs, then hand jobs, but nothing worked. He could get off with his own hand just fine, but nothing a woman did helped him achieve orgasm through any other means. She could get him hard, but as soon as they tried to do the deed the air blew out of his balloon.

  And he was in for a surprise the next time he laughed in public. Hopefully his bladder wouldn't be too full when that happened.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It had been a week since Sam had moved into the apartment with Micah. She tucked a stack of underwear into the top drawer of the dresser then glanced up into the mirror. The tiny marks on her neck made her remember the night before when Micah had bitten her again. If sex with Micah was good, sex with Micah while he was feeding was even better. She brushed her fingers over the almost invisible mark, smiling to herself for a moment before arranging folded socks in next to the underwear.

  Micah had not only moved her into his apartment, he had taken her to his house, too, a mansion—well, to Sam it was a mansion after where she had lived for the past year—in a manicured community in the suburbs. And he had shown her the basement in his house, as well as the room that took up half the basement. Where he had a collection of equipment that Sam had only heard some of the harder-core girls at the Black Garter talk about in passing. So, that's what that stuff looked like. Admittedly, she had been turned on a few times by what she had heard, and had often wondered about using whips or ropes or nipple clamps. What did they feel like? Did people really get pleasure from that kind of thing? It surprised her that she wanted to find out.

  "Which are you? A top or a bottom?" Micah chuckled and walked into the room with folded laundry.

  Sam jumped, startled. "Will you stay out of my head?"

  "Sorry, habit."

  She laughed. That's what he always said. "You are never going to stop that, are you?"

  He shook his head, wrapping his arms around her waist. "No." His grin was unapologetic. "I can't help it. I like the way you think. Especially when you're thinking about my special proclivities."

  Sam's eyebrow arched. "Proclivities? My, what a big vocabulary you have."

  "I'm just full of surprises." Micah pressed closer. "And I'm very well educated."

  Sam's heart raced. "I can see that, and I'm sure you are." She still didn't know how old Micah was, but she could bet he had matriculated more than a few times. His intelligence was a huge turn-on, and over the past week, she had become more and more aware of just how immense his mental faculties were.

  "Your intelligence turns me on, too." Micah bent his head and skimmed his lips over the side of her neck.

  "Would you stop that?"

  "Huh-uh. Nope. Never." He opened his mouth and closed it over her flesh, sucking gently.

  Damn him, but he was persuasive.

  "Well, can you at least stay out of my memories?" She shivered from the heat he lit inside her.

  He released her neck and straightened. "I can do that. Maybe." He grinned and his lips pressed against hers, holding her there for a long moment as if he was stripping off her clothes with his mind then he slowly pulled away and growled as he pulled himself back under control. "I'm going down to the corner store for beer. I'll be back in fifteen. Need anything?"

  It was Saturday and the playoffs were on. Trace was coming over to watch the late game. So, yeah, maybe they didn't have enough time to play just now.

  "Maybe some pretzels?"

  "Will do." He kissed her again then dragged himself away to grab his wallet off the dresser and shrug into his coat.

  "Which are you?" she asked as he started to leave the room, referring to his earlier question. He had only shown her the room in his basement. Interestingly enough, they hadn't talked about it. She got the impression he wanted to ease her into the idea slowly.

  He stopped and turned his blistering navy eyes back to her. "I'm a dom, but I also top. With you, I think I might actually bottom, though. But I'll never submit."

  "What's the difference between a dom and a top?" She had so much to learn about the whole BDSM scene, but she wanted to learn. It excited her.

  "A dominant requires submission, a top doesn't. As a top," he slowly stepped toward her as if he was hunting her, "I provide physical stimulation without requiring you to submit." He reached around and slapped her ass. Hard. "See, if you didn't like my slapping you as a top, you can stop me, or basically top me from the bottom. But if I was dom'ing you, I wouldn't allow you to do that. I would have control and your complete submission. Do you understand?"

  Her ass stung in the most erotic way where he had spanked her. "I think so. Topping and bottoming allows for give and take between the two, but between a dominant and a submissive, one gives and one takes. There is no give and take."

  He grinned mischievously. "Very good. You've just completed your first lesson."

  The air smoldered between them. "I look forward to the next one."

  "So do I." He backed away, grazing his fingertips over her cheek. "I'll be back. I love you."

  "I love you, too."

  She turned back to the dresser and took the clothes he had brought her and tucked them in to a drawer then headed to the kitchen to check on the chili. Trace and Micah loved her chili. It took six hours to cook, but it was worth every minute. This was already the second batch she had made since moving in.

  She looked toward the windows. It was snowing again. It had snowed earlier and an icy mix was forecast for tonight so Chicago would be a mess. Trace would probably spend the night rather than drive home. She didn't mind. He and Micah were becoming good friends, and Sam had to admit, she liked Trace. He and Mic
ah were so similar, it was hard to like one and not the other.

  She grinned to herself. When Apostle and his crew had turned up dead, Trace had acted like he had known nothing about it, but she could tell Micah knew better. And, so did she. Maybe it was something about the secretive glint in Trace's eye when she had asked him about it, but she was sure Apostle's death had been Trace's doing. The scene had been pretty gruesome from the sound of it. It made her wonder what kind of power Trace kept hidden under the surface, and she was thankful he was on her side.

  Going back to the bedroom, she hunted through the closet for her old Chicago Bears sweatshirt. She was still getting used to where her things were, and as she shuffled through the hangers in the part of the walk-in closet Micah had cleared for her, something fell from the shelf above and bounced off her shoulder. She jumped back and looked down. The red and black leather mask she had stolen from the club looked up at her, giving her an idea.

  * * *

  Micah returned to the apartment with a bag of pretzels and a six-pack of beer. He didn't drink much, and neither did Trace. Sam might have one bottle.

  "Sam?"

  The apartment was unusually quiet, the TV droning on with pregame stats. The spicy scent of chili was so strong he had smelled it in the elevator on his way back up.

  Sam didn't answer him and he instantly went on alert, setting the beer and pretzels on the kitchen counter before walking cautiously down the hall toward the bedroom.

  Opening the door, his mouth twitched and his eyebrow ticked upward.

  Sam stood in the middle of the room, wearing a black lace bra and panty, black garter and stockings, and the black, high-heeled ankle boots he had wondered if she would ever put on for him. The black and red leather mask covered her face except for her mouth. Her blood red lips grinned coyly.

  "Close the door," she said and smacked the rounded end of a wooden spoon against the palm of her hand with a loud crack.

  His cock strained against the seam of his jeans, his chest pumping. Fuck, she was hot.

  "I told you to close the door."

  "Our lesson gave you ideas, did it?" he said, reaching back and pushing the door. It swung and latched, shutting out the light from the living room, but the lamp behind her by the bed was on, and it threw her into shadowy silhouette.

  "Take off your clothes."

  Micah could feel her uncertainty. She wasn't used to this kind of play, but the mask gave her courage, allowing her to play a role.

  "You're doing wonderfully," he said, trying to reassure her.

  He felt her pleasure from his compliment, but she only smacked the spoon against her hand again and stepped to the side. "I told you to take off your clothes."

  Micah had only ever bottomed once when Jackson had wanted to experiment with topping him. And even during that entire scene, Jackson hadn't gotten him as hot as Sam had in only a few seconds.

  He watched her walk a half-circle around him as he untucked his shirt and calmly pulled it over his head. He was back to his old weight, his body filled out and strong. He couldn't see Sam's eyes behind the mask's lenses, but he could feel her gaze razing him and hear her appraising thoughts. His body turned her on.

  "Would you like to assist?" He asked, turning toward her and unbuckling his belt.

  She stood in place, watching. "No. And turn away from me while you undress."

  He did as he was told, slowly rotating in place to face the bed before the metallic sound of unzipping his jeans broke the silence. As he pushed them down, along with his boxers, he toed off his boots, pushing them aside before stepping out of his jeans. Finally he bent down and pulled off his socks, his hard-on jutting out like a third arm as he stood back up, calm, his back to her.

  "You're so fucking sexy like this," he said, testing the boundaries of the scene.

  The spoon thwacked against his ass and his body jerked as the pain registered on his face, his eyes blinking from the sting of the strike before he breathed and calmed himself again. So, no speaking unless he was told to speak, he was guessing.

  Her nails raked down one side of his back from his shoulder to his ass as her tongue left a heated trail down his spine and she sank to her knees behind him. He stood stoic, still as a statue, his cock weeping as she gripped his hips with both hands and bit the place on his ass that she had struck with the spoon. He fought back a moan, daring to look down and behind him. The spoon sat on the floor beside his left foot and her long fingers dug into his flesh, holding him as she switched from biting to licking. This time he did moan, drawing his head up and letting it fall back. The combination of sharp and soft, pain and pleasure heightened his arousal. So this was what it felt like to be a submissive. Well, maybe not exactly, but she was doing a damn fine job going dom for her first time.

  "Turn around," she said, letting go of him.

  With pleasure. Turning around, he looked down at her. She knelt on the floor like a loyal subject worshipping at his feet. He felt the power shift briefly, almost as if she slipped and handed it over to him before taking it back as she sank on her heels and simply looked at him.

  He didn't move because she hadn't told him he could. So, they were at a stalemate. He saw inside her thoughts, felt her wanting to lean forward and take him in her mouth like she had last night. And maybe that was the scene. Yes, it was, wasn't it? She knew he would crawl inside her mind and follow her thoughts. She knew it would drive him mad with lust to see what she wanted to do to him while she refrained from doing it. And she was right. Knowing what she wanted to do to him, but not experiencing it in the physical, was torture. Raw, unforgiving torture.

  When she picked up the spoon again, he saw the image in her mind right before she flayed the side of his thigh, and again, and then again. The pain didn't stop as she switched hands and abused his other thigh. Through it all he didn't flinch. He took her punishment, gritting his teeth, fighting the sting in his eyes. When her mouth finally wrapped around his hard length, he nearly passed out from the combination of sensations. Grunting as his legs shuddered precariously, she had him within an inch of his sanity, the boundaries of reality blurring into gray as his mind shattered.

  There was no stopping the almost immediate, mind-blowing climax that ruptured every nerve ending in his body as he filled her mouth. But somehow he managed to remain standing. Through it all, he kept himself on his feet.

  Pulling away, she licked her lips and lay back on the floor, opening her legs wide as she propped herself on one elbow. Her swollen labia protruded around the black lace, which she bunched up and pushed aside, allowing him to see her rosy pink lips as she played her fingers up and down over her slit, her honey glistening her skin and coating her fingers.

  She didn't speak a word, and she didn't free him to move, only forced him to watch as she dipped her fingers inside then pulled them out to massage her clit in rapid, tiny circles with her slick offering.

  Her arousal was as thick as an inferno, overwhelming him with its heady, musky scent, like smoke permeating the air around him. Tiny gasps burst from her throat, and the stiletto heels of her boots pushed into the carpet as her legs tensed and her stomach quivered. But she refused to look away from him, those blacked-out lenses tilted toward his face, her red lips parted so he could see just the edges of her teeth.

  Faster her hand moved, her finger pushing back inside her as her palm massaged her clit. Harder she finger fucked herself, her hips gyrating and grinding, her gasps bursting into harsh moans, until, "Ungh!" Her hips shivered abruptly, rising off the floor as she squirted just ever so little against her hand, which pumped several hard times, milking her orgasm.

  Fuck. He almost came again. He'd never been with a female who squirted, and even though it hadn't been much, it had been enough to soak her hand and wet a spot on the floor. It took every ounce of obedience not to drop to his knees and fall between her legs to lick her clean.

  Collapsing to the floor, she rolled her hand forward and back over her nether lips, smiling,
pleased with herself. Then, as if reading his mind, she commanded him, "Come. Taste me."

  Micah wasted no time, diving head first between her legs, licking, sucking, drinking down her feminine offering as she rocked against him. He heard her mind give him one final command: Tonight, while Trace is here, know that I will be wearing no panties under my pants. I will be wet thinking about you. I will be thinking about your cock inside me. And after we've all gone to bed, you will take me out to the couch and fuck me like you've never fucked anyone before, where Trace could come out and see us at any moment.

  He grinned against her nether lips, pulling back only long enough to say, "Yes, ma'am," before continuing to lap away every last remnant of her release.

  Twenty minutes later, Micah hopped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. Sam was already dressed in sweats and a Bears sweatshirt and he stopped, his eyes dropping to inspect her for panty lines. There were none. His eyes met hers and a secret grin passed between them as she blushed and darted into the bathroom.

  He was reaching for a pair of sweats when the doorbell rang. That must be Trace.

  Sweats in hand and the towel still around his waist, Micah flipped his wet hair back and went to the door.

  "Hey, Trace, come on in…" His voice trailed off when he looked up and saw who it was. "Jackson."

  The male nodded and smiled nervously. "Hey, Micah."

  "What are you doing here?"

  "I was in the neighborhood."

  That was a crock. Jackson had no reason to be around this part of town. His place was miles from here, and so was his job.

  The elevator dinged while the two stood and stared at each other. Trace appeared, slowing slightly when he saw Jackson standing there, then he resumed his pace, trying to act cool about the scene, but it was obvious he didn't like the uninvited guest.

  "Hey, Mike." Trace's gaze dropped to the towel around his waist as he pushed past Jackson like he wasn't even there. "Nice pants. Where's Sam?"

  "She's getting ready," Micah said.

  "Mmm, smells good," Trace said before disappearing into the kitchen. "Chili."