AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I mean, I’m kind of joking, but the thing is… I want to submit.
I’m so turned on, and so much blood has left my brain to congregate around my pulsating sex that it’s a miracle I have enough life force left to remain standing, especially as the last two minutes have basically involved me attempting not to dissolve into a dripping puddle on the sand.
I used to like to submit with the boyfriend I had before Kohl. Kohl kind of treated sex like some mechanical act he was rehearsing for to prepare for his eventual reincarnation as an android.
He barely kissed me, or at least not with his tongue, and I don’t really think my pleasure was much of a priority for him. I stopped being really turned on by him within a few weeks of our on-off relationship. He was sweet and attentive most of the time, and I could make myself come without his involvement anyway, so I just kind of made the best of it in the hopes it would get the feel of Micah off my skin.
With him, well, let’s just say there’s no pleasure to be had in submission when it’s not earned nor given willingly. Sex Micah-style is no longer about dominance and submission for mutual pleasure, but about control. Force. Power.
And I never want to experience anything like that again.
But dammit, I do yearn to experience submission once again—with someone safe. Surely that can’t be a dominant socially invasive man like Grey… can it?
I mean, I would say no, but I’m so turned on by him that I really think I’m gonna need to invest in a wet floor sign to carry around with me for the duration of my vacation.
Hell, as I glance around at the tall reeds, I’m half tempted to pull down my shorts and beg him to fuck me right here.
To fuck the feeling of Micah right out of my body. Hopefully for good.
This isn’t really like me. My therapist told me I’m a demi-sexual, unable to feel pleasure during sex unless I feel something really strongly for someone.
And I certainly don’t feel that with Grey… do I? How could I? I hardly know the man. Plus, we can barely be in each other’s company for more than five minutes without wanting to drain each other of blood.
And yet, myneglected-to-the-point-of-dormantpussy is practically having its own hot-tub party down there with the pulse setting on extra high.
Grey doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t fidget the way I can’t help but do as he watches me, waiting to see what I’ll do, whether I’ll obey his command and open my mouthlike a good girl.
I have no idea myself. I’m torn between two opposing reactions: chewing him out for speaking to me in such a lewd manner, and… ripping my own clothes off and jumping on top of him, begging him to ride me in front of the handful of people slowly ambling down the beach in the peachy glow of the setting sun.
Perhaps something reasonable between the two poles, Indie, I advise myself before taking a breath and slowly opening my mouth for him if for no other reason than my frozen statue routine has to come to an end at some point.
And because I want to see what he does when I obey his command. I want to track the angular lines of his stunning face for twitches he can’t control. I want to see if his eyes widen, if his neck flushes, if his lips curve, if he groans…
I want to hold my gaze as his meets it.
I want to undo the last year of my life.
I wasn’t expecting to hear a sound, but if I’m not mistaken, the frail ghost of a raspy moan escapes his throat as he watches my concession—a gesture of submission I’d have thought about as likely as me climbing naked up the Washington Monument.
Even this second as my lips are parting wide beneath the fervid gaze tracking them, I hate that I’m doing it…
And I like it…
No. I love it.
I feel turned on, really turned on, in the presence of a man for the first time in what must be over a year. I mean, tingles, rainbows and angel song galore.
I thought that side of me was permanently dormant, yet standing on a quiet path just above a beach in the waning sun in front of Washington’s most coveted men, I suddenly remember the pleasure of submission I felt with my first boyfriend.
And I don’t want the feeling to stop.
“Wider,” he orders and dear God, if the percussion section of a symphony orchestra didn’t just throw away their instruments and use my clit instead.
I stare at him moodily just out of respect for my own self-worth as a woman, wondering if he wants to humiliate me, or whether, as his face would indicate, he’s motivated by the same mixture of curiosity and arousal as I am.
As I give in to the latter, my lips part further as Grey inspects the hole, his chest rising and falling a little faster than before.
His lustful eyes lift from my parted lips as he reaches into one of the bags and pulls out a chickpea fry—one thing I’ll always be grateful to him for introducing me to, if nothing else.
