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He’s dragged up one side of my skirt, splitting it wide at the slit, and his face is pressed between my legs. I flinch and muffle a moan when he circles my clit in hard, relentless circles with the tip of his tongue. Pleasure and shame shudder through me in equal measure, making my clit swollen and more sensitive than it’s ever been. My legs quake, threatening to collapse, as his tongue circles and flicks. When he groans, latches on and sucks, it feels like my entire spine has turned to viscous honey.
I don’t realize I’ve stopped playing until a vicious thwack! fills the silence.
“Ah!” I cry. “Fuck!” The burn on my ass cheek is sudden and bright. Just like Elio did last time, he massages me firmly immediately after doing it, dispersing jerky waves of prickling heat over my ass and through my core. It feels like my nerves have been replaced with sparklers. Like everything is darkness until Elio’s hand connects and makes white light burst into a million glinting shards.
“Eighty thousand,” he rasps into the damp curls between my legs.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit!
My sense of victory is fading fast. I shakily raise my bow and violin, and then moan in complaint when he draws a slick, greedy stripe over my clit with his tongue.
“This isn’t fair,” I whimper.
“I’m not a fair man, Deirdre.”
There’s no deep, abiding sense of morality guiding Elio at his core. No good man under the demands and violence. He only speaks the languages of death and sex and money. Languages that, up until this moment, I’ve never known a word of.
“I… I can’t-”
Thwack! Another hot smack. Another long, delirious suck on my clit. Another faltering yet inevitable step closer to climax.
“Seventy thousand.”
Why is this happening? Why am I letting this happen? Why am I not pushing his head away, kicking and screaming and fighting? No one’s ever gone down on me before, and I shouldn’t let him be the first.
I shouldn’t be panting and clenching, practically vibrating against his tongue. I shouldn’t be waiting in wriggling anticipation for his hand to find my ass again.
I shouldn’t look down at his dark head at my pussy, because fuck, that’s the worst mistake I could have made. Because he looks good, and I don’t want to think he looks good, but he does. His hair is so black and thick and curling ever so slightly at the ends. It’s not cut very short; it’s long enough that pieces have tumbled forward over his forehead.
He meets my gaze, looking up through his hair and lashes that are darker and thicker than I’d previously noticed. He lifts his hand, the black leather shape of it in the air like an omen.
Just that, just that simple threat, has my hips rocking forward against his face, nerves in my clit jumping with expectation. But I halt the movement, and furious pride fights against my submission.
I grit my teeth and put my bow to the strings once more.
Only, I truly don’t know how long I’ll last now. I don’t know if Elio is trying to reward me for doing what I’m told, or trying to break me. Because his mouth is suddenly harder, hungrier, his tongue dragging backwards to circle my entrance before moving forward once more to devour my quivering clit. My arms feel like they’re full of sand and it’s a miracle I can lift them at all at this point. My posture is completely off – I’m hunching further and further forward, like I’m curling towards Elio, curling around him, my body seeking contact even though I rebel against it.
I fight to keep my arms in place. Every press and slide of my fingertips is a battle. Every grind of my bow a war.
I don’t know if this war is with Elio…
Or with myself.
His tongue dips backwards again, and then jabs inside me, making my toes curl against the smooth hardwood floor. But I won’t stop again. I swear I won’t. I’ll keep going until, until…
Until the firm, leather press of his thumb sends shockwaves through my pulsing clit. He moves his tongue inside me, almost like he’s fucking me with it, while his thumb grinds on my clit and everything clenches and burns and constricts and I can’t, I fucking can’t.
My violin and bow sag down, and I arch forward, my spine collapsing, until my hands and instruments connect with Elio’s broad, muscled back. The pressure of his thumb disappears from my clit, and I know exactly what it fucking means, because I’m trembling and ashamed and so fucking ready for the terrible, electric collision of leather on silk. Hand on flesh.
Elio waits a moment before he does it. Like maybe he’s giving me one final chance to finish the song.
Or maybe he just wants the crackling anticipation of the threat to build, build, build alongside the throbbing at my core, the pleasure rising like a dark symphony inside me. I’m right there, right there, and I can’t stop it. I can’t fight it. And the worst part is that maybe I don’t even want to, now. Maybe there’s something dirty and broken inside me, some part of me that thinks maybe I deserve this, that I need it. That the punishment is an answer to a question I’ve never dared to ask. The reply to some prayer that’s lived, unspoken and unacknowledged, at the very core of my soul for the past ten years.
Elio’s hand finally connects, the sound of the slap ripping through the air. A ragged moan tears from my throat. Biting pain and pleasure expand from where his hand grips my flesh, undulating downwards and inwards until my pussy clamps down on his tongue, over and over again.
My hands jerk and then release, my violin and bow sliding down Elio’s back until they hit the bed. I fist the back of his jacket so hard I wonder if I’ll rip the expensive fabric. The sounds coming out of my mouth are a fucking abomination. I don’t recognize my own voice as I moan, so horny and pathetically needy as I come from getting spanked and tongue-fucked by this man who’s taken everything from me. I can’t even control the grinding motion of my hips now, and I whimper in embarrassment as I ride Elio’s tongue, then whimper again, louder, when he pulls it away.
“Fuck,” he groans. He’d been bent over, hinging at the waist to access my pussy, but now he straightens up in his sitting position. My pussy clenches again at the sight of him. So huge and dangerous and purely masculine, muscled thighs spread, shoulders straining the tight confines of his suit, scarred jaw flexing. Cock standing straight up from a thatch of dark hair at its base, thick and veiny and so engorged his tip is red, almost purple. And, oh God, his face. His eyes. He’s got that look again. The one he had when he watched me lick the cake off my hand at the gala. That expression of murderous darkness. Rage so ravenous I can’t tell it apart from desire.
