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I've never seen anything that looks this sinful.
“Look at me,” he orders and my gaze staggers up the mirror to find his expression a mix of lust and pure dark male satisfaction over his victory and his reward—my impalement.
“I want you to be able to see exactly what’s happening to your little body when I fuck you,” he utters. I glance down as his cock forces itself in deep, my flesh pink and swollen by the repeated invasion. “I want to be inside you. This is exactly what I want to do to you, Indigo.” His lips caress my temple. “To your body. To your mind. To your soul. To your heart.”
I refrain from quipping about whether he wants to fuck all these things royally up and instead, close my eyes when he says the last word, reminding myself to block out words like that and focus on his supernatural dick and what it can do for me, so that I don’t end up in some ungodly emotional quagmire a month from now.
As the very thought hits me and my eyes dart down to the cock sliding into my pussy, stretching me open, leaving me dangling on his dick like a doll, my body seizes once again, the sight of his invasion pulling me backwards, reminding me of a day that my scream was muffled by the constriction of my throat and the weight of a man on my back.
I close my eyes, barely realizing I’m doing it, aware of the internal tremor gripping me.
By the time I open them, his hands have pulled back and my legs are extended until I’m tilted onto the floor, his cock sliding out of me. Despite my closed eyes, my feet find the thick carpet beneath them and little by little, I open my eyes, trailing them up the mirror until I find his face.
Only the dark deviance drawn into it has disappeared, and instead, I find some tenebrous portrait of unease and concern.
He watches me, unspeaking as I try to stay the trembling in my body.
“I think that’s enough for today,” he says.
“No,” I reply, aware of my unexpected descent into basket-case territory. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be haunted nor to have him think I’m too fragile to fuck properly. I'm not. Or rather, I never used to be. And I don’t want these vestiges of that shitty relationship to redirect whatever course Grey and I are on, no matter how short. “I want you to come.”
“I don’t need to come each time,” he replies. “In fact, it’s good to practise for me to learn self-control around you. Resisting you is not an easy feat for me.”
I spin around swiftly, coming to face him. “I froze. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry for that. Ever.”
“Okay, but… I don’t want to stop because of it. That won’t feel good to me. It’ll make me feel like… a freak. Please.”
He peers down at my face for what feels like forever before he finally speaks. “Do you remember how I wanted my poem delivered?”
“With me riding your cock?”
He nods. “Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
Several suspended heartbeats later, he walks over to the desk, taking the book of poems from it, and leading me to a black armchair in the corner of the room. He places a gray throw on the seat before sitting down and pulling me onto him so that my legs are bent and straddling his thighs. Despite me being on top of his legs, he’s so tall that he looks down at me.
He doesn’t move and instead, it’s me who reaches down for his cock, angling the head of it to stand against my wet slit. Our eyes lock as I slide down onto him, already soothed by his very special and cleansing brand of dick therapy. I exhale in relief as he fills me up, lifting and lowering myself onto him as he takes in my face.
“Read for me.”
I swear to God, sometimes this man feels like an alien species.
He cups my ass, raising it so that all I have to do is clench my leg muscles and lower myself back down into the hard dick impaling my insides.
“Do you think Frost would have approved?” I ask.
“Oh, I'm sure he would,” he groans thickly. “Now read for me. A poem that means something to you.”
My body does its little dance almost unconsciously, my hips rolling, my thighs contracting so that I can pleasure him with my insides as I place the book in the gap between my bouncing breasts and his hard chest.
As I flick through the pages, the poem I saw earlier jumps out, the one Marilla read to me that day, the day I felt like I belonged somewhere for the first time.
Wind and Window Flower
I don’t want to read it, but I suddenly can’t resist the words of love unfulfilled, wanting to speak these fears about the fleetingness of… whatever it is we’re sharing right now.
