by Stasia Black
Slowly, ever so slowly, I push my fingers in and out. “I’m inside of you. Can you fucking feel me? Inside you this time.”
“Yes, Mistress.” His voice is little more than a croak.
“That’s right,” I coax. “Let it out. I don’t want you to be quiet. I want to hear noise. I want you to be an animal underneath me. Don’t analyze. Just fucking feel. That’s a command.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Good.” I pull back so I’m sitting more firmly planted on the bed and have better leverage with my fingers.
The key isn’t to just push in and out, I know. Instead, I go in a little ways and then start pressing down on his prostate gland. The G-spot for men. That’s where I start massaging back and forth, keeping firm pressure.
A shocked noise chokes out of Jackson’s mouth and I smile. Good. I’ll take that to mean I found the spot. I’ve heard you can make men come from this alone, but I’m not in the mood for experimenting.
I have a very specific goal here. I’m going to make Jackson Vale come harder than he ever has in his entire fucking life.
I continue with my fingers for just a moment longer before pulling out. Quickly, I lube up the prostate stimulator I grabbed from my bag. These things are supposed to be intense as hell for a man. Just what I’m looking for to push Jackson to the highest high possible.
“I’m not hearing you,” I say. Grabbing his steel cock in one hand, I start jacking him off. I don’t bother to be gentle. Hard as he is, I bet he wouldn’t even feel gentle at this point. Once he’s good and rutting against my hand, I work the toy in his ass. For a second I’m not sure he feels it either so I maneuver it and press down on his gland. Then I turn it to its most intense vibration setting and click it on.
His body lurches so hard, it’s like I shocked him with a stun gun. The bed bounces and it takes my beauty pageant balance training not to be knocked off my knees and faceplant on the bed.
“Fuuuuuuuuuck!” Jackson roars.
This time it’s me left panting, wetness all but spurting between my legs. His ass flexes in front of my eyes as he bucks into my hand. I do my best to keep up, rubbing up and down his shaft that’s so thick, my fingers don’t even touch where I’m wrapped around him.
The bed board bangs every time he lunges into my hand. I find a perch half-curved around his body so I don’t fall onto the bed or lose my grip. With one hand, I work his cock and with the other, I press the vibrating prostate stimulator down mercilessly.
He continues yelling, but it’s just grunting gibberish like he can’t help but vocalizing, maybe just because I ordered him to. He’s desperate. Wild. Uncontrolled.
Mine.
His whole body goes tight, he’s flexed from his neck down to his outstretched toes. God, he’s right on the edge of blowing.
“Say you’re a good man,” I demand. “Say it or you can’t come.” I squeeze the head of his dick, a trick to ruin orgasm even if he’s right at the brink.
He growls through his teeth and throws back his head, shaking it no.
“Say it because your Mistress commands it and because it’s fucking true,” I shout at him. “Say it!”
“I’m a good man!” he shouts back.
“That’s right! Now come!” I massage his cock the way I know he likes best, back and forth over the rim, paying special attention with my thumb to the vein right underneath the head. I rotate the stimulator down on his gland and put as much pressure as I can. I press my chest into his back and shout, “Mine!” into his ear.
Jackson gives one last thunderous bellow and then ropes of creamy cum explode all over my hand.
His whole body tenses as he comes, every muscle and vein straining and then the room that had been so filled with grunts and shouting just seconds ago is… suddenly very quiet. There’s just both of us panting.
I expect Jackson to collapse after what I’ve just put him through, but he stays there, on his knees if slightly slumped. His back is sweat-slicked. Well, his entire body is. I push my hair back from my eyes and realize I’m wet with sweat too.
I slip the stimulator out of him and I’m about to say something to break the quiet… or no, I still need to be Domme for a little while longer, I should be in aftercare mode, checking in with him and making sure he’s okay—
“Now you.” Jackson’s voice is so low it’s half a growl.
He reaches over with his left hand and jerks back the comforter to reveal silken maroon sheets below. The next second, he rolls me so that my back is on the sheets. He kicks the comforter soiled with his release off the bed. Immediately, he’s on top of me, bulging arms on both sides of my body.
His cock, which is somehow still hard after his explosive release, nudges at my slick entrance. I grin in readiness.
But then his right hand comes to my throat in a chokehold.
I jerk beneath him in surprise, immediately gasping for breath. He loosens his hold slightly so that I can manage the barest gasp. But once I’ve got it, his grip cinches tight again.
Then he enters me. He grinds his body low and deep so that the contact against my clit is fantastic. I blink rapidly. It’s all so much—almost too much.
He thrusts several times. Oh God, it feels so good. I try to suck in air but Jackson’s firm hand at my throat keeps me from getting in anything except the barest wheeze.
I stare at him. He’s wearing his stern Dom face. His arm muscle glistens as he dominates me completely. I squelch around his cock because the sight is the most fucking erotic thing I’ve ever seen or even considered.
Except. I can’t— Need breath—
And in a flash I’m back in the room. Arms holding me down. Men surrounding me. Inside me. I can’t breathe! No, not again! Not again!
I grab the arm holding me down and struggle—
The grip immediately loosens and—
It’s Jackson. I blink.
Of course it’s Jackson. His dark eyes meet mine. The vulnerability when I broke him down earlier is still there, underneath the Dom.
“Do you trust me?”
Oh God. He has no idea what he’s asking. I meet his searching gaze and take a deep breath in. Air. Precious air.
Together he’s helped me take back so much of what they stole. Is it possible to gain this last territory? My very breath?
I take one last gulp of air. Then look him straight in the eye. “I trust you.” My voice doesn’t even tremble as I say it.
I release my death grip on his hand around my throat and lift my arms above my head in surrender. I don’t miss the look that comes over his face either—relief but also empowerment, like I’ve just given him what he needs to truly be not just a Dom in this moment, but to be a man. A good man. I could tell him I believe it until I’m blue in the face, but maybe he’ll never believe it until I prove it. Because if I thought he were in any way an actually violent man capable of rape, I would never trust him to do this. Can we both take back what Gentry stole from us in this one act?
Goddammit, I’m going to try. So no matter how fucking terrified I am of putting my very breath in someone else’s hands—for Jackson and only Jackson—I’m not just going to try. I will do this.
My entire body trembles as his grip on my neck cinches tight again. “The most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs as he begins to thrust inside me with torturous slowness. Every time he bottoms out, he swivels his hips around and around until I’m keening with pleasure. Against his grip at my throat, my cries only come out as choked half-whimpers.
Which makes the whole thing even more bizarrely fucking hot.
Jackson starts moving faster. He hisses through his teeth as his body fuses with mine, panting as he holds himself up with one arm beside my head, the other hand held unflinchingly against the base of my throat.
And God it feels—there’s absolutely no more room in my head for reflection. I’ve moved to that place where it’s all sensation. My eyes are on Jackson’s. The world’s becoming fuzz
y at the edges as the pleasure ramps up and up and oohhhhhhh—
My back arches and I lift one leg to wrap around Jackson’s hip. Closer. I need to be closer to him in any way I can. In every way. I’d do anything for him.
Everything narrows. Light shimmers around us. There’s only him. All the feelings. Pleasure, but so much more. Oh God. Tears slip down my cheeks.
Him. Him. Him. Only him.
Spots dance in my vision as my climax lights me up. He notices, of course he does because he’s in tune with me. We have become one.
He releases my throat and I take in a gulp of oxygen that’s like lighter fluid on the flame of my orgasm. It erupts from within like a flash fire.
I pull Jackson down to me and sink my teeth in his shoulder as I screech out my pleasure. He pounds me with several more punishing thrusts as I ride out what’s the longest orgasm of my life and then I feel his body shudder as he comes with me. I’m still spasming in aftershocks around him even after he’s flipped us to the side and pulled me on top of him so that he’s not crushing me.
“I—” I try, but then close my mouth because there are no words after what we just experienced. They aren’t necessary anyway, I realize. We just communed in the deepest way two human beings possibly can.
Jackson’s fingers play with my hair and for once, I’m the one who drops off to sleep first.
Twenty-Two
CALLIE
Things between Jackson and I stay good all week. Except for the fact that I still haven’t told him that Gentry tried blackmailing me to steal his prototype. But, really, is there any need to at this point? Because I’m not doing it. Everything that happened last weekend made a few things very clear.
What Jackson and I have is too important to throw away. He told me he loves me. And after what Gentry did to him… God, there’s no way I could betray him on Gentry’s behalf. I just can’t.
That video Gentry’s threatening me with is despicable and yes, it might color the judge’s opinion of me, but with my kick-ass lawyers, it won’t be admissible in court. My lawyers. I have to remember I have the best. If I play it right, maybe Jackson doesn’t ever even have to know about what’s on that tape. God, the thought of him seeing me like that…
Maybe there’s something else I could do so it won’t even come to Gentry releasing the tape. Granted, I have less than a week to come up with a brilliant plan. Charlie’s custody trial is next Thursday. Unfortunately, every pseudo-plan I’ve thought up so far gets shot down within half an hour of further research.
If I try to give Gentry fake code, he’ll test it and realize it’s crap within a day. Same thing if I give him an old version of the firmware. He’d quickly find the same problems with Falcon Six that we saw in our last demo.
I’ve thought about giving him the real version, but with some kind of virus that would infect his whole system and put the company out of commission for a few weeks. Problem is, I only know how to code some basic Trojans that are the kind of low-level thing that Gentry’s malware detection software would pick up like that.
It’s not like there’s a Hackers 101 class at Stanford where you learn that kind of shit. Even if I spent every second in the next hundred hours or however much time I have left learning everything I can about how to sneak a virus into the firmware undetected, it’s nothing that couldn’t eventually be sorted.
And in the meantime, Gentry would know I was fucking with him and voila, the video still gets released.
My phone beeps with a reminder I have an unread text. From Gentry. I’ve been ignoring it for the last thirty minutes but I doubt he’ll allow it for much longer. From the preview, I saw that he’s asking when I want to meet to exchange the prototype for the blackmail video.
“Miss Cruise?”
I try to shake off thinking about it as I stand up and walk through the familiar reception office at Charlie’s psychologist to see him for my weekly supervised visit. If there is any justice in this goddamn world, this will be the last time I have to be supervised just to see my own son. Although, knowing how slow the fucking court system takes to come to a decision, it will probably be at least another two months of this before the judge’s ruling gets implemented.
Anger makes my jaw tense, but no, calm the hell down, Callie. Charlie’s always been able to pick up on it if I’m upset and I only want him getting good vibes from me.
I take a second outside the door to grab several deep breaths and focus only on my little boy. The softness of his little-boy hair. The feel of his chubby little fingers when they curl around mine. Finally, when my heart rate is chilled out enough, I step inside.
Sometimes when I come in, Charlie is already playing with the blocks or the train set or coloring with the child psychologist, a friendly older woman.
When I open the door today, however, there’s some strange man I don’t recognize standing in one corner with a clipboard.
Charlie’s on the ground in the center of the room, tearing pages out of a book. Ripped and crumpled pieces of paper circle him, as do a completely upended box of scattered colored pencils and crayons. Not to mention the red and blue scribbles all over one wall. Right at Charlie’s level.
Oh shit. I really hope they’ve had other kids in here and it was one of the other kids who made most of this mess. I glare at the man with the clipboard in the corner. Who the fuck is this incompetent shit who’s supposed to be watching over the kids who come through here?
“What’s going on?” I march straight up to the aforementioned incompetent shit.
He looks up at me briefly before his eyes zero back in on Charlie.
I snap in front of his face. “Hey, I’m talking to you. Where’s Martha?” I hope the name of the normal child psychologist will get me somewhere.
“I’m filling in today.” An especially loud ripping sound comes from the ground behind us and Incompetent Shit looks down and scribbles away at the notepad attached to his clipboard.
I push the clipboard down and force him to see me. “Don’t you think you should be paying more attention to the child in your care than taking notes? He was basically unsupervised before I got here.”
The man looks at me with dispassionate eyes. “You were late.”
“Wha—?” I grab my phone out of my pocket and check the time. It’s two minutes after five, and considering how long I’ve been dealing with Incompetent Shit, I was maybe one minute late.
Screw this, I’m not getting anywhere and I’m missing time with my son. I turn around and go to sit with Charlie.
He starts to rip another page but I put my hands on his. “No,” I say in firm Mom Voice. “This is not how we treat books.”
Charlie’s chin starts to tremble. I know what’s coming next and brace for it.
“Aaaaaaaaaaa!”
Right on cue—the ear-splitting wail I was expecting. I see Incompetent Shit flinch in the corner and probably fail to hide my slight smirk. Charlie tries to reach for another book, but I pull it out of his hands as well.
“We treat books with respect. We do not rip out the pages.”
“No fun! No fair! No fun!” Charlie throws himself on the ground and starts to absolutely freak out, pounding his fists and feet on the ground in a total toddler meltdown.
Oh Charlie. My baby, what is going on with you? I’ve seen this before, but only when he was a lot younger and once seven months ago when he missed his nap and was extremely overtired.
“Baby, you need to calm down. Take a deep breath. Breathe with mommy. One, two, three,” I try to demonstrate breathing in and out.
He’s not listening at all.
“Charlie. Charlie.” I try several more times to gain his attention, but he’s working himself more and more up. If he doesn’t stop soon, I know from experience that he’ll make himself throw up.
“Charlie, it’s time to calm down or you’ll have to do it in time out.”
More nonstop freaking out.
“Okay, I need you to look at me.” I put a h
and to one side of his face and he turns and tries to bite me.
Screw that. This has gone far enough. I’m not mad at him. Shit is obviously going on with my sweet boy. He was not like this when he was under my care. He’s three and this is not his fault. I want to murder my ex, but in the meantime, I need to take care of my baby. That does not, however, equal spoiling him and contributing to the problem.
I stand up and grab Charlie underneath his armpits, hiking him up with me.
“Charlie Bryan Cruise, you know this behavior is absolutely unacceptable and you’ve earned yourself a timeout.”
His crying abates for just a moment and then continues louder than ever. He struggles and kicks and the only way not to lose my grip is to hold him firmly against my body.
I go to a corner of the room that is emptier than the others and I sit him down.
“Two-and-a-half-minute timeout and then we’ll go clean up your mess,” I say, addressing Charlie directly.
He immediately stands up and tries to run away from me. My mouth drops open. He never did that when he was with me. He knew timeout meant serious business. What has been going on at his father’s house?
“Charlie Cruise, you have five seconds to get back in timeout or I’m adding a minute.”
He starts scrambling even faster out of the time out area. He takes advantage of my shock and grabs one of the crayons, runs to the wall and starts to scribble on it before I can snatch him back up again. He’s got a death-grip on the crayon. If I thought he was wailing before, it’s nothing to the screeching that comes out after I finally pry the green crayon from his fingers and take him back to timeout.
I want to press my hands over my ears to shut out the noise, but I don’t. A quick glance up shows the psychologist guy watching me with interest now. To him we are both fascinating specimens in a lab.
What a bastard. I should have made timeout in the corner right beside him to make sure Charlie’s screeches give him the migraine I can feel pulsing behind my own eyes.