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Taylor chews her lip a moment, then takes hold of the bralette, shimmying it down over her hips in a way that makes her naked tits jiggle. Rounded and full and topped with pouting nipples. I groan at the intense rush of pressure between my legs, tearing my attention from the reflection of her breasts in order to look down, watch her bend over right there in front of me in a thin pair of panties, pulling the bralette down her knees, over the curve of her calves, until the lace touches the ground.
But I don’t let her stand up.
I slide my fingers into her hair and keep her bent over, pulling her head back. Just her head. Slowly fisting her hair tighter and tighter until she whimpers.
“Jesus. Look at you.” My free hand twists in the back panel of her underwear. Twists and twists until she cries out because the material is so tight over her pussy. Separating her lips and ass cheeks, applying pressure to everything in between. “Would anyone call you cute now?”
Still being held in that bent over position, she studies her reflection through glazed eyes. “No,” she hiccups. “No.”
“No. Me either.” I lean back slightly, tugging her twisted panties to one side, groaning at what I reveal. “Well, let me clarify. I can see your tight asshole and nothing could stop that from being cute, but the rest of you?” I press my lap to the taut curve of her ass, letting her feel the painful effect she’s having on my cock. “Now you’re a girl who likes to fuck dirty.”
A shudder wracks her body and I have the most compelling urge to gather her against my chest, warm her up. Tell her how beautiful she is. But I’m not going to pretend I’m not enjoying this. What we’re currently doing. Taylor watching herself in the mirror. Witnessing the surprise come over her, the change in how she sees herself. She’s nearly naked, bent over in front of an unscrupulous man, tits on display, mouth swollen, pupils eclipsing her irises.
Lust. She’s in it.
My God, so am I.
I’ve never been harder in my life.
Or at least that’s what I think. Until she seeks out my eyes in the mirror.
And says, “Rougher.”
So much blood travels south so fast, I almost double over on top of her. I’m aching to pull down her panties and pump home from behind, just like this. She’s wet. I don’t need to feel her pussy to know it. The evidence is part of my consciousness. It’s in my veins. She’s practically trembling in front of me, her ass working up and down in my lap. Hips tilted up. I know what the hell she’s asking me for.
I twist her fisted panties one more time, lace biting into sensitive flesh until she cries my name, her thighs starting to tremble. “You want me to slap the cute out of this ass?”
“Yes.”
My hand is already moving, but not to spank her. Not yet.
No, I reach between her legs and massage her pussy roughly, leaning down to mutter praise against her spine. Drawing her so close to me I can’t tell where she ends and I begin. I’m losing control here. I’m no longer thinking objectively. Sensation is leading me completely, along with a driving hunger for her satisfaction. The best she’ll ever have. As soon as she begins to grind her sex into my palm, I let go, remove my hand from between her thighs and rain a smack down on the supple curve of her right buttock.
I don’t know what I’m expecting. Gratification, yeah. A feeling of authority, sure.
I get those things.
But just like that morning, a savage sense of responsibility takes over, demanding I soothe her immediately afterward. Like it’s my job. My right. I cup the place where my palm connected and rub it, my mouth kissing up her spine and burying in her hair. “Good. That’s a good girl.”
Even while I’m kissing her neck, licking over sensitive spots and whispering words in her ear, I raise my palm again and bring it down even harder—and she whimpers, “Yes, yes, yes,” so I do it again. I repeat the pattern three more times. Spank, soothe, spank, soothe until her knees are so weak, I’m holding her up. “Rougher,” she whispers.
And I’m done. I’m fucking done.
I might be dominating her, but she’s owning me.
I let Taylor go down on her knees and I straighten, grappling with the zipper of my jeans. My composure is in the incinerator. All I hear is her asking me for rough. Rougher. All I can think about is getting my cock in her gorgeous mouth and she wants that, too, or she wouldn’t be helping me lower the zipper over my painful swell of flesh. She wouldn’t be exhaling on my belly, kissing me there with tongue, totally unrestrained, tilting her face up to meet my groaning advance, allowing me to sink my cock into her mouth without waiting or teasing or playing games. Yes. God yes.
