by Callie Hart
Floored.
My eyes, even in the dark, see stars. I can barely breathe with my windpipe cut off and his cock pulsing in and out of my mouth. “Stay with me, okay?” he grunts.
Fear and excitement pool in my stomach. It’s the same sort of sensation I used to get when I was a kid waiting to ride a roller-coaster, only amplified a thousand times. And a whole lot scarier. Between my legs, my pussy tightens as he works his hips back and forth, keeping just enough tension on the belt strap so that I can drag the tiniest amount of oxygen into my lungs.
He shivers as his erection turns granite-hard. If he doesn’t stop now, I think I know what will happen. But he does stop. Breathing heavily, he withdraws and crouches down beside the bed, easing his fingers beneath the belt and loosening it. His face is so close to mine, I can feel the intense power of his gaze as he stares at me in the dark. I still can’t see a thing, but maybe he has better night vision than I do.
“Your mouth is perfect,” he whispers. And then he does two things that surprise me. Firstly, in the most reverent of ways, he brushes his hand against my sweat-soaked skin, sweeping my hair out of my face. And then secondly, he places the softest kiss against my forehead.
“For being such a good girl, I’m going to make you come now,” he breathes. A tremor of anticipation shimmers across my skin, and he chuckles. “You’re being a very good girl.”
He climbs up onto the bed and positions himself, hooking his arms underneath my hips, hoisting me up to meet him. The position is awkward with my ankles still bound to the bed, but all thoughts of my discomfort are forgotten when he buries his face between my legs and starts sucking on my clit again.
“Ahhh!”
The sensation is too much. I can feel myself climbing, ascending higher and higher as an unfamiliar, unfathomable feeling builds between my legs. It unfurls in gentle pins and needles throughout my body, growing more and more intense …and then…
I’m screaming. Unintelligible screaming. I’d scream for God but I doubt He would approve of this situation right now, and I have no idea who this guy is so I can’t scream for him, either. I just scream for myself and the fireworks going off inside my head, the inferno licking over my skin, burning me out, leaving me hollow and spent. I fall slack, trembling as he continues to sweep his tongue over and over my clit.
“Stop, stop, please,” I rasp.
“Mmm, so selfish,” he hums into my pussy, making me clench. “Don’t forget. It’s my turn.” He fiddles around for a moment—condom? Fuck, I hope that’s a condom. And then he drops my hips and thrusts into me in one fluid motion, his hands tight on my pelvis, trapping me.
Oh…my…
The pain is almost crippling. An uncomfortable feeling, a buildup of pressure and then a stinging release, let’s me know that it’s done. He stops.
“What…?” He inhales deeply. Exhales. “You probably shouldn’t have kept that from me,” he says softly. He sighs, as though he’s disappointed in me, which is the most messed up thing ever. “Are you ready?” he asks.
My voice is a faint whisper when I reply, “Yes.”
“Try to relax.” He fills me up, stretches me, makes me whole. He starts off slow, gentler than I think he would have done if he hadn’t just deflowered me. After a while the pain subsides, gradually transforms until I’m no longer tensing with every thrust, but leaning into it. By the end, he’s fucking me like a freight train—unstoppable and raw with need. He comes so hard, he practically roars.
I don’t, of course. It’s my first time, and the pain just about outweighed the pleasure. My mind is too fogged to understand what’s going on as he climbs off me and slides down my body. His lips caress the inside of my thigh, and I shiver as his fingers carefully stroke over my core. The touch isn’t designed to excite me—it’s more of an apology. He moves around in the dark, undoing my wrists, my ankles.
“You enjoy that?” he rumbles, and the depths of his voice make my legs press together.
“Yeah, I—I did.” The most startling thing, the thing that makes me most sick, is that I’m telling the truth. What the hell is wrong with me?
He grunts, unthreading his belt from around my neck. The release of pressure makes me feel like I’m floating two feet off the bed.
I’m immobile as he packs up his things. I can sense him next to me pulling on his clothes. Then, when he’s dressed, he stands beside the bed looking down on me. He brushes his fingertips against my cheek again, so soft it’s almost not a touch at all.
“Be seeing you.” He heads for the door, and the light from the hallway nearly splits my skull apart when he opens it. And there my mystery man pauses, and I catch the one and only glimpse of him I ever get. Wearing a worn leather jacket, his back to me, a black duffel bag in his right hand, he tips his head down to his shoulder. He’s doesn’t look back at me. He hovers there long enough for me to make out the silhouette of his profile, his dark, mussed hair, the bruised pout to his full lips.
And then he goes.
I never find out his name.
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