by Jamie Knight
“Shit,” I groan, feeling my cock threaten to shoot its load in her right now, before she’s gone. Get it together, Ambrose! You’re the experienced one, not the virgin! So, act like it, and don’t come prematurely! Even as I chide myself in this way, I know it’s hopeless to resist her. I didn’t think having her describe those things to me would be so fucking hot, but it is.
To distract myself, I start fucking her harder. Plunging deep inside her, as I change our position. From being on our knees, I push her so that she is sitting on me, and then curled up, legs behind her head, presenting her lower lips to me. Through all this movement, I never lose my position inside of her. I never come close to slipping out. When I have her right where I want her, I go back to fucking her as hard and fast as my body will let me. The slapping, wet noises are delicious to me, but I want her to tell me about them. So, I say, “What you hear? What do you feel?”
I continue pounding her pussy. Karen answers me, over squealing, dragging breathes. “I can hear your cock going in and out of my pussy! I can hear my pussy being wet for you!” She groans and shutters, enjoying the latest noises. “I can hear your cock stuffing me full, stretching my dirty hole!” She squeals again and continues, “I can feel all my juices flowing for you! Sweet sticky, juices! Naughty juices from my fucked, virgin pussy!”
Again, my shaft strangles. My balls clench, and I have to fight off cumming in her right then and there. “Good girl,” I growl, picking up my speed. Now I’m slapping and grabbing her ass as I thrust my cock up into her depths, her molten, quaking center.
Her breathing picks up, and the shakes that were in her pussy and hips are now in her entire body. “Please, Ambrose! Please let me see you!” she screams, buckling against my girth, the deep fucking I’m giving her. “I’m about to come! Please let me see you as I do!”
As much as I want to give in to her request, I can’t. I have to make sure that she’s learned her lesson, and that she knows I’m in charge. That I meant what I said about being a man not for everyone’s gaze, even hers. “That’s up for me to decide. I may decide to reward you in that way, I may not. You will have to be satisfied with either, my girl.”
Whether she’s upset with me or not, it doesn’t show. The moment my voice caresses her ear from behind the cover of the mask and her spiky sunset of hair, she creams. On me, on the bed below, marking the sheets with her glistening, silky cum. I moan at this, feeling my cock get extra warm and stimulated with her fluids flowing around me. I get even more speed and sensations from her, and I’m hopelessly gone after that. The moment I hear the extra squishy and spongy sounds from her pussy, I explode. I fill her full, watching as some of my cum leaks beautifully from her. Like frosting in a lava cake, my pale love dribbles out of her, covering the sheets as well.
Exhausted, I kiss her tenderly — something I always do but never feel tender about — and help her get under the covers. I climb under myself, unable to deny what I’m starting to feel for Karen. Underneath the typical feeling of satisfaction and release, I’m feeling bound. I’m connected and chained to her in a way I never thought I would ever feel.
As I drift off into a fuzzy, drunken sleep, I’ve got one thing on my mind. Doing this all over again when we wake. Then for another night. For as many nights as she’ll let me.
Epilogue - Karen
Having my virginity taken in total darkness was beautiful. In that deprivation, I felt things I never thought I would feel. I saw colors and designs no earthly experience would’ve prepared me for. And, as I slip off to sleep after being so thoroughly loved and dominated, those otherworldly colors and designs become my dreamscape. They create the backdrop for a whole new gallery of paintings. Paintings concerned with this club, all the sights and smells and feelings. But particularly of Ambrose, my mystery man.
Even if he never shows me his face, even if I get nothing more than his body against mine, his cock in and around my body, I’ll paint him anyway. I’ll paint his soul, capture it in those paintings, and let everyone know just what kind of masculine love touched my life. Even if he is never anything more than a series of sensations, he will have his body in my work. He will have his essence and be immortalized, captured for all to enjoy.
This pledge drifts through my dreams, and in that moment, even though I’m committed to capturing them in my art, in whatever way I’m blessed to, I’m still hungry for him. I thirst for a single glimpse of his face, even if it only lasts a second. I could make that second last an eternity, if only he’d let me.
****
I don’t know what time it is when I awake. I have no idea how many hours have passed, or if it’s days and nights that have passed, it feels like an eternity. All I know is the familiar darkness around my eyes. The feeling of the silky blindfold on my lids and the bridge of my nose.
On instinct, I go to remove the blindfold. As I do, I feel the heat of him all over my body. I’m tempted to relieve myself of the darkness, the black horizons, but I stop myself. I freeze, remembering Ambrose’s words. “That’s up for me to decide. I may decide to reward you in that way, I may not. You will have to be satisfied with either, my girl.”
My respect for him, for what these last hours has taught me, that makes me leave the blindfold alone. I put my hands down and away, deciding to listen for him instead. I use my other senses to paint a picture for me. The moment I go still and silent, resigning myself to the darkness again, I hear him.
He’s in the bed next to me, breathing softly. Rhythmic and slow. I can tell he’s dreaming peacefully. As I listen, I swear I can even hear the smile on his lips. The joy in his soul. I reach over (albeit a little clumsily) and stroke his chest, his arms. To my delight and surprise, they are toned and sculpted. Muscled and strong, but still defined and slim. Not muscled out like a bodybuilder, but not thin or horribly skinny either.
I lose myself in stroking him, building my picture of him in my head. Though my fingers can’t give me any indication of his skin, hair or eye color, I’m happy to have him so near. Touchable and caressed, even if I never see any more of him. Just as I’m about to risk taking my fingertips to his face and tracing him, I feel his hand come up to hold mine. He weaves his fingers in between mine, kisses the top of my hand, then all of my fingers.
“I never sleep at the club, my girl,” he murmurs. He sounds tired but happy. Satisfied. “You wore me out.” He strokes my face, the area below the mask lovingly. “But it’s not something I’m dissatisfied with.” His fingers brushed over my lips. “Quite the contrary, I’d like to feel that way again with you.” There is a heavy, curious pause. “You have two choices. You can either get out of my bed now, leave this club and never see me again.” I stiffen at this, knowing that’s exactly what I don’t want. I never want to leave him, even if I have to stay in his blindfold for the rest of my life. “After all, I don’t typically spend more than one night with any woman.” He lets out s heavy, shattered sigh. “But you, you might just be different.” There is another grating pause. Now the silence is worse than the dark.
“What’s my other choice?” Desperation sits in my voice, but I don’t care that he hears it, or that I feel it in my soul. Now that I’m here with Ambrose, I don’t want to leave. He’ll have to kick out me himself if he wants that.
“Your other choice,” says Ambrose, lingering on his words and on his caressing of my face, “your other choice is to stay and fuck again.” Another pause, resonating with equal desperation. “What’s your choice?”
“Stay and fuck,” I say. Now I don’t care about seeing him when I orgasm. I just care about staying with him for as long as he’ll let me, for as long as he gives me that choice. To prove that I’m different, that I’m worth him keeping around.
I think I hear him sigh in relief. I think I hear him thank his lucky stars under his breath, praising God I didn’t think he believed in, but I’m not sure. The next thing I know, he’s got my legs up and around his thick, muscular shoulders, and his cock in me. It slides in be
tween my lower lips and deep inside before I’m even aware he’s moved. It drops into my core, like wedding rings down our fingers. As he reaches the edge of my walls, the tip of my cervix, I know I want no other man than him.
We are perfection together. We are two pieces of the same puzzle, and I say as much as he begins to pump in and out of me. “You feel so good to me,” I say, feeling tears collecting on the underside of the mask. “You feel like my other half. Like the man who is meant to fit me, no matter where he goes.” I groan, feeling his long, strong shaft cozy into my depths. “You make me so full. But not just in my body. In my life too, Ambrose.” Tears escape the fabric shield on my eyes, the silken top layer of the blindfold, and go streaking down my cheeks.
Ambrose says nothing. Instead, he continues to fill me with him. The only thing he does differently is add a few fingers along my clit to stimulate as he rolls and thrusts in and out of me. The stretching, aching sensation in me is a beautiful ribbon of pleasure and pain. Unforgettable. It is the outline, the backdrop to my vision of him. The one I’m going to paint when I return home, though I don’t want to think about that anymore. I don’t want to think about being in a place without him.
More tears glide down my cheeks, but these are not just from premature grief. I have a deep love for him. These ones are also infused with pleasure. Overwhelmed from all the sensation racking my body. His cock is filling me to the max. Plugging and cradling me beyond anything I felt last night. But it’s his fingers, his thumb, rolling and swaying over my clit, that’s making me cry and gasp like a mad woman. I’m reaching for him, for his comfort and strength, but he just continues to plunge himself in and out of me. Ride me like a wild, foaming wave.
My clit jams in between his fingers than, and I feel fluids beginning to rise. They bunch in my pussy, ready to leak out and spray as they did before. But just as those fluids start to come, just as my hips and back shoot off the bed, suspended there by the lust and the feeling of lightning cracking through my veins, the blindfold comes off. In a blinding, shocking moment, I get an eyeful of him. Of my Ambrose.
And he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. Dark and curling hair, he looks like a noble out of a different century. His strong features only added to this, with his cheeks and chin, having fine, sharp lines. His eyes, a dark, commanding brown, pierce into me with both love and lust. I’ve never loved a person’s eyes, never thirsted for the light in them as much as I do in that moment. I drink all of him in, murmuring, “I feel you inside me. I feel you getting hot and heavy. Come. Unleash your load in me, my Ambrose. Paint all over.” I work to focus on him as another orgasm rattles through me, just as I feel him release. As his liquid love escapes him, Ambrose’s eyes glow slightly golden. They shimmer with tenderness and sensitivity I never imagined I’d see in him, let alone feel.
He wipes away my tears as he lays against me, pumping the last of himself deep inside. “I never thought you’d stay,” he says. He looks down at me and kisses my lips. “I never thought I’d want you to.”
“And I never thought I’d see your face,” I say, and return the gesture. I never thought I’d love it when he blindfolded me.
A few hours later, stepping outside of Club Lush together, it’s the brightest, sunniest morning I’ve ever seen. It’s also the first time I’ve ridden in a limousine. The white, pristine vehicle pulls up to the curb the moment we arrive at the street’s edge.
A driver steps out, addressing Ambrose. “Home, Mr. White?” He looks at me. “And shall I call a cab for the lady?”
“Absolutely not. She is coming with me to my mansion, Jeffries,” he says snappily. “And stop for some breakfast along the way.”
Jeffries, the driver, is quick to respond. He is quick to open the doors for us, though it’s Ambrose who loads me into the backseat with him. He guides me to the seat like I’m his lady; he buckles me in as though I’m his most prized possession.
As we get settled, and the limo pulls away from the club, now bathed in the light of a crisp New York morning, I ask Ambrose the thing I’ve been dying to ask him ever since he asked me to go home with him. “Will you let me paint you? When we get back to your mansion, I mean?”
Ambrose just arches a perfectly formed, dark eyebrow, then tucks a bit of his hair behind a rounded and sexy ear. “Paint me?” He studies me, a mischievous smile twisting on his lips. “Have you learned nothing from me making you wear that blindfold?”
I blush. I drink him in again. “I have, Ambrose.”
“What did you learn?”
“That I’m going to be a better painter,” I say.
“Oh?” Ambrose leans in, kissing me.
“Yes,” I say. “I learned that there are more things in this world than what can be seen with the eyes and conceptualized physically. You taught me how to use the rest of my body, the rest of my senses to paint pictures. That’s going to make me feel it more, the way my parents always tell me I should.”
“I’ll let you paint me,” he says, gathering me close, preparing to unbuckle me and lean me back along the seat. “And it better be good, so that I can brag to everyone about who painted it.”
I blushed deeper, hotter.
“And who will you say painted it?”
Ambrose rakes his fingers down my clothing, exposing my breasts, just for him. He begins to suck on them, while lightly fingering my clit. “My forever playmate and wife, Karen White.”
THE END
Super Big Game
An Enemies to Lovers Sports Romance
A Standalone Book in the Connected Super in Love Series
Book 4
Copyright © 2019; All rights reserved.
Jamie Knight –
Your Dirty Little Secret Romance Author
Chapter 1 - Stacy
“Excuse me, Mr. Carson, can I please ask you some questions?”
The running back ducks his head as he comes out of the locker room, his head turned away from me, as if he didn’t even hear me, but there’s a look on his face that lets me know that he has. It’s a look of pity. It’s almost the same look you give after someone asks you for change on your way into a gas station, but you don’t have any, so you pretend you didn’t hear them or don’t speak their language.
But instead of spare change, I’m asking for hand-outs of a different form. I need one of these football players to give me a statement about the upcoming Superbowl. Their team, the Leviathans, just won the play-offs and are headed there in two weeks.
As a rookie reporter trying to work the beat and make my way up on the sports reporting circuit, I have to take a lot of rejections like this until I get someone nice enough to bite and to throw me a little bit of a scoop. It’s rough out here, with players not liking to talk because they don’t want to spill the beans on what their predications are for the big game. Plus, this particular team’s coach, Coach Kramer, is known for being tight-lipped.
He probably told his players not to talk to me, or anyone, today, so as not to jinx their chances at the Superbowl or say something stupid that will make them look bad in the press, which is always his number one concern. I’m sure that’s why they all look particularly stand-offish as they rush out of here – even more so than normal.
I’ve been standing outside the locker room – because I hadn’t been invited in – all evening, and there are only a few stragglers left to come out. A couple hurry by me but one is going slow. I hate to bother him, but I also hate to come up dry on my assignments, and my current one is to get some sort of statement or story.
My boss, Monica, will have my head if I don’t.
She is a very insistent boss.
“Mr. Mason. Lucky number 14. How’s your injury healing up?” I ask the next player who walks out of the locker room in a fake friendly voice, trying not to sound too desperate.
He just shrugs and walks by me with a slight limp. I suppose that that fact, combined with the one where he was the last one out of the locker room, could be a juicy tidbit
– maybe a story in and of itself.
I take out the small notebook and pen I keep in my pocket and scribble down a note to myself for later.
Mason still injured and slow. Won’t be playing in two weeks? Speculation. But probably accurate. Based on eyewitness testimony of this reporter.
I put my notebook back in my pocket, wondering if it’ll be enough to satisfy my boss. Probably not, I decide, but beggars can’t be choosers.
“You know, you really should get a dictation machine,” someone says, and I spin around to see a player I don’t recognize, leaning against the entryway to the locker room.
He had come out of nowhere and I have no idea who he is.
Had the Leviathans traded a player so late in the season and gotten this guy instead?
Who would they have even given up, though?
That scenario didn’t seem likely, but then again, Coach Kramer is a very unorthodox coach known for doing things that leave even the most seasoned sports commentators scratching their heads and guessing as to the purpose or strategy behind his actions. It’s as if he takes special pleasure in keeping the press and everyone else in the dark.
He also has a bad temper and could replace one player at the drop of a hat, due to any crazy whim that crosses his mind. It could be as simple as the fact that they got a new tattoo he didn’t approve of. He’s known to go on power trips over dumb things, so who knows what this could be about.
It could definitely make for a good story, though, I think.
Could it really be that my persistence in hanging around the locker room to try to talk to players long after it was obvious that no one wanted to, or at least, was allowed to, has paid off? Any other reporters had given up and gone home half an hour ago or more.