Page 27 of State of Ruin

Kneeling before me, she wraps her fingers around my aching dick, and I shudder out a sigh of pleasure. She reaches between my legs with her other hand and fondles my balls. Her touch is careful, hesitant, her breath warm against my sensitized flesh. I stare down intently as she finally, finally leans forward and licks a path along my poor, weeping slit. It is shockingly good, white-hot in the pleasure it gives me. I let out a groan that sounds every bit as pained as I feel, and she freezes, looking up in alarm.

“Don’t stop,” I rasp. “So good. Keep going.”

And so she does, using that pretty pink tongue of hers to circle my crown once, twice, making a little humming noise as she does. Then she’s taking me in her mouth, tentatively at first, as she finds her way, and then more confidently. She leans in farther, her fingers squeezing me even more tightly. My crown hits the spongy back of her throat, and I practically shoot through the roof. There’s a small, spluttering sound from her, but the little beauty doesn’t gag, just does it again.

Arousal is spiraling through my body like a tornado, ratcheting up and up and threatening to chuck me through the roof of this fine establishment. I yield to instinct and thread my fingers through her shiny curtain of hair so I can grip her jaw and dictate the pace. Her eyelashes flutter, my dick gleams with her saliva, and the muscles of her jaw work so valiantly beneath my fingertips. I tell her, with decreasing coherence and increasing fervor, how good it feels to fuck her mouth, how filthy she looks on her knees for me, and how good it’s going to feel when I return the favor.

My dick is insanely hard, insanely swollen. The poor woman can barely fit it in her mouth, but boy, is she a trooper. I want to sink to the floor and die with the sheer pleasure of this sensation. I want to shoot my load equally down her throat and all over those pert little tits of hers, and I’m wild with the thought of either, with the knowledge that, any second now, she’ll force me over the edge.

The tits win.

“Wait,” I gasp, sounding every bit as out of control as I am. “Stop.”

She stops immediately, popping off my dick with an audibly wet slap and leaning back a little.

“Just like that,’ I say, easing her hand off me and replacing her fingers with mine. “Stay just like that. Keep totally still like a very good girl so I can paint you.”

“Okay,” she says, her beautiful dark eyes darting frantically around my face before latching on to my dick. I’m gratified to see them widen as I work myself like a maniac, pumping and pumping away at the very last vestiges of my self-control until I erupt, my groans ragged and my cum spurting endlessly as I empty myself all over Elyse’s perfect, pale little tits.

CHAPTER 15

Elyse

“Leave it,” he orders me as he helps me to my feet. My knees scream as I get up from the hard floor, but my pussy is screaming more: further evidence that Katrin knows my kinks better than I know them myself, because that was hot as hell. It wasn’t just how insanely, unthinkably beautiful he is, standing before me in his bronzed, majestic glory, but the way he put me to work.

Being ordered to my knees, being ordered to suck his enormous dick, and then being commanded to stay still so he could brand me with his cum like some whore was so demeaning and so liberating that I want to float away. I want him to order me about and treat me like his little fuck toy until an overdose of arousal poisons me from the inside out and I die of happiness.

Speaking of arousal, his is dripping down my breasts and off my nipples and dribbling down my stomach. I want to wipe it off, because it tickles, but I also want to wallow in it like a pig in mud. Most of all, I want him to look at me the way he’s looking at me now, with hooded, delirious eyes, as his entire body shakes with huge pants. I did that.

It takes about a second to ascertain why he wants me to “leave it.” He starts swirling his fingertips through his own cum, drawing patterns on my stomach before he rubs his arousal into my nipples, pinching and plucking at them, his fingertips slippery as he bends to kiss me hotly, which has me moaning into his mouth and my legs threatening to buckle.

“Chair,” he orders me against my mouth, gripping my biceps and frog-marching me backward until my thighs hit the chair. I was low-key amused when I saw it earlier—guys are so predictable—but I can’t deny there was a twinge of apprehension. It’s not like I’ve ever had a moment in a chair like that that wasn’t unpleasant, uncomfortable, and awkward as hell.

Now, though, there’s nothing but hunger for whatever games Sinclair wants to play. I am greedy, greedy, greedy. Let’s be honest here: I don’t even need the stirrups. I would keep my legs open so wide for this guy, give him all the access he could ever desire. But that blowjob, and the way he used my body, really got my newly found kinky side going, and I put up zero resistance when he gently but firmly maneuvers me down.

I’m feeling too cavalier—and too turned on—to even care about the huge red flag that is the steel table standing next to the chair. It’s just like the ones you get in the doctor’s office, only instead of speculums and whatever else they use, there’s an assortment of what look like sleek, all-black vibrators.

The chair itself is a regular ob-gyn one: a bit like a dentist chair, made from steel and black leather, except that the seat part is very shallow and doesn’t allow me to get much more than my butt on it. I shuffle back as far as I can as Sinclair kneels before me, pulling out the stirrups so he can lay one leg and then another onto them. Once I’m in, my heels and calves secured firmly, he wraps Velcro straps around my ankles.

Holy shit. I’m pretty sure those restraints do not come as standard for any doctor who adheres to his or her Hippocratic Oath. I consider it a win that he doesn’t do the same to my wrists.

When he’s satisfied I’m not getting out of this thing, he pushes the stirrups farther and farther apart until my legs are spread as wide as possible for him. Even naked and kneeling before me, there is no doubt at all that Sinclair is the one pulling the strings. He gets to his feet, looking awfully pleased with himself, and his eyes rake all over my body. I must look quite a sight, with all my private parts fully on display and his cum growing sticky on my chest.

The pillory thing was mortifying, but this is just as intense—more so, possibly, because I’m so open and because I can see every bit of him: his body, his reactions to me, his apparently-hardening-again cock, and, worst of all, the wolfish smile with which he considers just how best to take advantage of his sex-prisoner.

He is, without a shadow of a doubt, the hottest guy I’ve ever been with. It seems unfair that he has not only billions of dollars and all the privilege that his social status affords but that he looks like this. For chrissakes, share the blessings around a little, dude.

I take him in: the dark hair now mussed up and falling over his forehead; the lean muscularity of his body that must be a combination of world-class genetics and a commitment to looking after himself very well; the face that I’ve googled to distraction and which is so freaking gorgeous up front. All of this and he’s some kind of alpha sex king, to boot. I’m no star fucker, but I realize just how many women would kill to trade places with me right now and put themselves in Sinclair Voss’s diabolical hands.

He pulls over a little stool on wheels and perches on it, seemingly unbothered by his nakedness but very interested in mine. He scoots into the chasm between my legs and puts his hands on my inner thighs. “You’re so beautiful. In every fucking position, you’re perfect. But this may be my favorite one so far.”

The sincerity in his voice, the intensity on his face, takes me aback. He looks as though he wants to devour me. He drags his palms up my thighs, his splayed fingers skirting the very parts I need him to touch, and up my sticky stomach, over my equally sticky breasts. “Wait here,” he says unnecessarily. Then he’s disappearing into the en suite—small, high-end, and incredibly porno with its dim lighting and large mirrors and black marble—and returning with a wet washcloth. Back on his stool, he wipes me with it. Over my stomach it goes. Around my breasts, the rough pile chafing my nipples. Even cleanup feels like foreplay with this guy. As a final touch, he drags it lower, lower, not taking his eyes off my face. I watch him, entranced, as he brushes it over my clit for not even a full second and then throws it on the floor.

“Nooo,” I whimper, and he grins evilly.

“Just getting you nice and clean so I can dirty you up again.”

I like the sound of that.