Hearing Jackson praise me was one of the greatest things to ever happen, and I hoped it would never change. I ate my food quietly as I watched him finish his plate, eating his salad last, as always.
“Let me get you some more, there’s plenty,” I said.
He shook his head as he wagged his index finger in the air.
“Hold up a minute. You’ll need to excuse me for a second, I’m gonna grab my phone out of my cut. I gotta send Sarge a picture of this meal. His Ol’ Lady can’t cook a lick, and I want him to see this shit I’m eatin’. How much is left?” he asked as he pushed his chair away from the table.
“Well, I cooked six breasts. I’ve had one, and you’ve had two, so there’s three left,” I responded.
“I might save one for him to try. Be back in a second,” he said as he stood from his seat.
Little things about Jackson not only surprised me, but provided support to his claim of being different than any of the men he rode with. He never carried his phone with him in the house, and rarely used it when we were together. Other men I had been with were constantly texting on their phones. Jackson didn’t even have a Myspace account, and had no interest of ever setting one up. Although he had sent me a few text messages, it wasn’t common for him to do so. He typically called me before he left the shop, just to let me know he was on his way.
His home was filled with pictures of Sarge, Chili, Woody, Fat Bart, and his sister. According to him, they were his family. Accepting him as being an orphan and not having family was easy, but understanding what he had been through as a child was impossible.
His manners, excusing himself from the table, and saying ‘thank you’, ‘please’, and ‘you’re welcome’ on every occasion he felt necessary was a result - according to him - of being raised by a preacher who demanded the foster children adhere to his policies regarding behavior in the home.
He walked into the kitchen, flipped open his phone and held it over the chicken. After taking a few pics of the potatoes and salad, he sat down and tapped his fingers against keys and texted the pictures to Sarge.
Upon satisfying himself the photos had been sent, he stood, walked to the bedroom, and promptly returned.
“Sarge’s Ol’ Lady can’t cook to save her ass. He eats it anyway, but he always bitches,” he said as he carried his plate to the kitchen.
He returned with two more chicken breasts, half a plate of salad, and several of the potatoes. As he sat down, he clutched the plate in his hands, turned toward me, and smiled.
“I’m grateful for you, Em. I really am. Not for the things you provide me, but for how you make me feel. As far as I’m concerned, you’re proof the man upstairs hasn’t given up on me yet. You’re never going to regret taking this step with me.”
He sat there for a moment, blankly gazing beyond me. He was as handsome of a man as I had ever seen in person, and believing he was satisfied with me was difficult, but I forced myself to accept it. Each time I studied him, I became more aware of just how handsome he really was, and a strange pride developed within me as I realized of all available women, he was committed to me.
Eventually, he gazed down at his plate and shook his head. After a short hesitation, he glanced upward. A smirk washed over his face and he chuckled lightly.
He didn’t laugh very often, but he did smile much more than when we met. The dimples I had thought were almost non-existent had become rather common, but I knew better than to point them out. I simply looked forward to him producing them, knowing they were reserved for when he was happier than any time at all.
His dimples were my little secret.
“What?” I asked.
“I was just thinking of the hog we ate last year that made everyone sicker than absolute fuck. Woody had the entire club sick because he had no idea how to cook it. Meat temperature was probably way too low. Anyway, on Saturday we’ve got a poker run and a keg party at Chili’s place afterward. I want you to plan on going,” he said.
Eating raw pork, food poisoning, and barfing were on my list of things not to do. I had no real idea what a poker run was, but I’d heard Jackson talk about them, and suspected it was some type of a biker rally. Although none of those things were something I would have done six weeks prior, and I would never do them alone, in Jackson’s presence I would try almost anything.
“Okay,” I said as I chewed my chicken.
“And when we’re done eating, I want you to go take a warm bath. I’ll clean up the dishes,” he said.
I knew better than to even attempt to argue with him or make any effort to try and change his mind. A warm bath sounded good. As I finished my meal and watched him finish his, I realized the thing I wanted the most had become the least of my worries. Jackson’s warm heart, simple way of living life, and constant praise provided me with more than enough satisfaction.
The sex would come eventually, I was sure of it. But for the time being, I was quickly becoming the happiest woman on earth.
One stolen internet recipe at a time.
Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Three
EMILY
June 27, 2006
Being deprived of my eyesight wasn’t something I had ever dreamed of happening to me, nor was it something I ever thought could or would be sensual. What little I knew of being blind was that the remaining senses, according to my understanding at least, were heightened or more refined.
I now had first-hand information to support my previous beliefs.
Long after he walked out of the room - and he had done so several times already - the smell of his cologne lingered. When he returned, his footsteps echoed throughout the house until he reached the carpeting in the bedroom. His breathing sounded as if he were a bull preparing to charge the matador in some third world country - even though I realized it was no different than any other breathing that had gone unnoticed on previous nights we had spent together. I had no idea of how long I had been deprived of my sight, but I suspected it had been at least a few hours.
I knew one thing and one thing only.
The size of the wet spot my overly aroused pussy had deposited on the comforter was large enough I could feel it against my hips.
With my hands and feet secured to each corner of the bed, I was face down, naked, blindfolded, and whatever the polar opposite of exhausted would be. I felt the way I suspected a meth-head would feel after smoking a paycheck’s worth of rock over the course of a weekend. As my heart continued to beat out of my chest in anticipation of what may or may not be happening next, Jackson startled me as he dragged something along the skin of my inner thigh.
My every muscle tensed and my pussy ached as if it were going to pop.
I bit my lower lip and pressed my face into the comforter. Enveloped in complete darkness, I could hear the springs in the mattress creaking as he shifted his weight from side-to-side on the bed.
The tickling of my inner thigh ceased. Short of the ceiling fan and his breathing, the room was now silent. In the distance, I heard the refrigerator humming. The sound of the ceiling fan whirring above me became the center of my focus, the dull drone comforting me, slowly bringing me back down to earth with each rotation.
I flinched as I felt something pressing against my aching pussy. Whatever it was slid inside of me without much effort what so ever. As I moaned into the surface of the cool comforter, I wondered if his decision to not gag my mouth was by mistake or part of a careful plan he had devised.
As I became lost in what I now believed was his finger inside of me, I decided nothing Jackson did would be without thought.
Having him not speak to me the entire time was something that took a little getting used to, but looking back on the entire experience, his initial demand of ‘unless I speak to you, do not say a word’ answered my question of whether or not the lack of a gag was intentional.
He was testing my ability to follow his demands.
Or something of that nature.
As his finger slowly worked my pussy into
a lathered up little mess, I decided I really didn’t give a fuck if he planned it or not. Whatever he was doing was working and working well. I had never been so sexually aroused in my life, and I felt as if each minute would certainly be my last, my death a result of some profound reaction of my brain’s inability to process my aching twat’s signals into meaningful feelings. His finger continued to torture me, the tip tickling my g-spot with each stroke. An odd tingling sensation began deep inside my pussy and rang throughout my body, eventually making my overly sensitive nipples feel as if they were being mildly electrocuted. I had officially reached the point of climax, a heightened feeling of sexual bliss I had never known to exist. All as the result of a little light tickling, slapping my ass with a paddle, and his finger inside of me.
I bit into the down comforter and prepared for an earth shattering orgasm which was slowly building within my soul.
He pulled his finger from my pussy and wiped it on my cheek.
Fuck.
His breathing came closer and closer until I felt it against my neck. As the warmth of his breath against my ear caused me to wince in anticipation, he spoke the first words I had heard in hours.
“If you have an orgasm, I’m going to deprive you of sex for six months. Is that understood?” he asked.
I nodded my head. “Uh huh.”
His weight shifted from the bed. I heard light footsteps across the room, some shifting of objects, and slight weight on the edge of the bed again.
Whack!
I felt the pain a fraction of a second after the sound of the paddle slapping my ass filled the room. I yelped out in pain against the comforter.
The stinging was like fire against my skin. I tensed my muscles and pulled against my fur lined restraints, preparing for another slap of the paddle against my overly sensitive skin. The cool flat surface of the paddle pressing against my left cheek startled me as his breath filled my right ear.
“If you have an orgasm, I’m going to deprive you of sex for six months. Is that understood? A Yes, Sir, or a No, Sir will suffice as a response,” he breathed into my ear.
I swallowed heavily, licked my lips, and responded.
“Yes, Sir,” I murmured.
I heard the paddle fall to the floor beside the bed. The unmistakable metallic clank of his belt unbuckling followed. Then, I grinned as I recognized the sound of his zipper being unzipped. As my ass continued to burn from the previous swat of the wooden paddle, I heard a noise similar to opening the mints the usher gave away at the movie theatre.
A condom?
The left edge of the bed shifted downward as it absorbed his weight, and almost immediately I felt his massive chest press against my side. As the forearm of his right arm pressed into the middle of my back, his hand gathered my hair and gripped it tightly. He pulled against it, lifting my head from the bed as he breathed into my right ear.
“Not a word,” he exhaled into my ear.
Fearing the paddle if I responded, and further fearing the paddle if I didn’t say ‘Yes, Sir,’ I opted to keep my mouth shut. As close as I was able to discern, I only needed to respond if he asked me a question.
And, he had not.
With my muscles tensed in anticipation of the swat, he crawled on top of me. I felt his cock against my inner thigh as he situated himself, and realized as much as I wanted him to be inside of me, his instructions were clear.
No orgasms.
As I felt him begin to guide himself into my throbbing mound, I realized I had never seen him naked. I had never seen his cock. I had no idea if he was massive, sufficient, or small. Although it didn’t really matter at this point in time, I for some reason found it odd. While my mind soared into the possibilities of someday seeing him naked, his lack of continued penetration left me wondering just what he was packing between his legs.
And, as soon as the wonder filled my mind, the feeling of being impaled removed all speculation.
Oh dear lord.
I arched my back the best I was able and attempted unsuccessfully to lift my ass in the air. The angle at which he was now fucking me was determined primarily by the fact I was tied to the bed and stretched to my limits. My arms extended straight out toward each corner of the bed, and my legs stretched in the same manner, he was forcing himself inside of me at an odd angle.
Odd, but beyond pleasurable.
With each stroke, the tip of his apparently massive cock was grinding against my g-spot. At this rate, I knew I’d be lucky to last thirty seconds. I had no idea what the punishment would be for not following his instructions, but granting his request of not reaching climax was going to be impossible.
As he rhythmically worked himself in and out of my ever-so-willing pussy, instead of fully enjoying the experience, I worried. After what was probably only a few seconds, but seemed like thirty minutes, I decided to count my accounts receivable list as I could best recall them.
In alphabetical order.
When I reached the letter ‘D’, he was roughly thirty strokes into the torturous affair. I could feel every millimeter of his length as it slid past my wet pussy lips. Within a matter of seconds, I was certain I would explode.
His tight scrotum pounding against my swollen clit didn’t help matters.
As I felt him tugging against my hair, I was reminded there was a lot more going on than I was even capable of comprehending. His warm breath against my right ear warned me he was going to say something, undoubtedly causing me to make a decision I would inevitably screw up.
“If you pleasure yourself with an orgasm, Em, there’ll be hell to pay,” he breathed into my ear.
Fuck…
I bit my lower lip and began my effort to recall all of my clients in reverse, starting with ‘Z’.
He continued to pull against my hair, pound his hips against my ass, and force every inch of himself inside my aching pussy, all the while breathing into my ear with each stroke.
After a few more minutes, my level of arousal had risen to a point of no return. The absence of my sight, his warm breath against my ear, the sound of his skin slapping against mine, and the lingering smell of sex proved to be more than I was able to dismiss. I felt myself begin to contract making each stroke of his cock that much more pleasurable.
“If you come, I’ll paddle your ass so hard you’ll wish for the next year you hadn’t,” he growled. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” I whimpered.
As I felt his weight begin to shift, I corrected myself. “Yes, Sir!”
His torture continued. Now fucking me as if I were his last potential piece of ass on earth, he pulled my hair taught, arching my back, and thrust himself into my twat as if possessed by the devil himself. Although the entire event had previously been without speaking for the most part, his methods changed within an instant of his newfound energetic pattern of providing me pleasure.
“Fuck yes, Em, that little pussy of yours is a tight little fucker,” he bellowed.
“You like that big cock?’ he asked.
“Yes, Sir!” I shouted.
His free hand slapped against my ass. As I whimpered to myself from the pain, I was grateful, if even for a short moment, it took my focus away from him fucking me.
He leaned forward, smashing me into the comforter. As his chest pressed into my back, he bit my earlobe and exhaled into my ear.
“I’m going to pull this cock out of you and come all over that cute little face of yours, you submissive little shit. Do you understand me?” he growled.
“Yes…Yes, Sir,” I cried.
His scrotum pummeled my overly sensitive clit, causing the little love button to send a tingling sensation throughout my entire body. As he lifted his weight from my back and pulled against my hair sharply, I arched my back for a little relief.
“Don’t do it,” he demanded.
“No, Sir!” I wailed in response.
The weight of his body shifted as he fumbled around on the bed. After a few seconds of awkward feeling
sex, his hands fumbled with my nipples, and then a pinching sensation…
Holy fucking…
Oh…my…god…
They felt as if they were on fire. I didn’t need to see them to understand what he had done. My nipples were in clamps, and ached like hell.
The feeling soon became a strangely satisfying one, and as he thrust himself in and out of my soaked and seemingly never-going-to-dry-up pussy, the ends of the devices he had clamped to my nipples scraped against the comforter with every few strokes of his cock. I could feel the sensation shooting through my body, all the way to my pussy.
He pounded away, and each time, my body tingled from nipple to crotch. The sensation was so pleasurable it was more than I was capable of enjoying without reaching climax.
Note to self: I love nipple clamps.
As I fought to forget what was happening and tried to force myself to hate it, I eventually embraced the feelings and allowed myself to enjoy them fully and totally, escaping into a blissful part of heaven only I knew to exist.
His screaming cast me from my safe place and brought me back into the reality of being fucked to death by a biker on a squeaking bed.
“You may…” he grunted.
He pressed himself against my back. “Reach…”
“Climax…” he breathed into my ear.
Confused, excited, and somewhat scared, I tossed my thoughts aside and focused on my throbbing clit and cock-filled pussy. As he continued to pound himself into me, the only noise in the room was the flesh-on-flesh sound of my wet pussy being owned by the most intriguing man in the world.
I arched my back, lifting my nipple clamps from the comforter slightly. As the tips of them brushed against the fabric, almost bringing me to climax, my entire body began to tingle. He continued to slide in and out, filling me with his manhood, and all of a sudden, my ears began to ring…
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