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She’s nothing like I expect. She’s nothing like anyone else I’ve ever met. She’s not afraid of me. She’s not running in fear for her life after getting a glimpse into my darkness. She challenges me and pushes me. She’s making me do things I just DON’T DO.
And yet, here I am.
I think back to the elevator when I allowed her to suck my dick and I groan at how good it felt sliding into her mouth. Her hands never roamed, they stayed on my dick, no doubt she was playing it safe and taking what she could get without pushing me too hard, but Iwantedher hands to roam. Because if they felt that good on my dick, how good would they feel on the rest of my body? And then just minutes ago when I fucking bathed herandI gave her an orgasm without once hurting her and it fucking turned me on.
I didn’t need to hear her cry out in pain to get me hard. My dick has been saluting me since I walked into her apartment and set eyes on her. Hell, just the thought of her gets me fucking hard. It doesn’t even matter that I came two more times after the elevator incident. I’m insatiable for her. Icraveher. Just her. Just her coming undone from my touch, my dick. And I haven’t even tasted her yet.
“Fuck,” I run my hands through my hair as I walk to the shower and turn on the cold water.
I stride underneath the cascading waterfall, but not even the frigid water can ease the burning of my skin, or dull the ache in my throbbing cock. I don’t even want to address the ache in my chest. Instead, I reach for the soap and lather it in my hands before I begin to stroke myself. I imagine the feel of her soft skin as my hands glided smoothly over her soaped up breasts. Her nipples peeked at my touchimmediately,and I wanted so badly to wrap my lips around one and suck it into my mouth.
I squeeze harder, stroking faster.
My fingers found her opening like they’ve been sinking inside of her tight, little pussy for years. And even underneath the water, she was so fucking wet.
I lean over and drop a generous amount of spit on my cock, spreading it over the length of me as I try to imagine I’m sliding into her wet pussy instead of fucking my own damn hand. I’ve never been this fucking horny or desperate for someone. I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t have her again. I push the thought away as I replay the image of her face as she came on my fingers.
I want to steal all of her moans and cries with my mouth. I want to drink them down and keep them with me forever. I want to memorize her face and her bright green eyes as she looks at me while her entire world comes crashing down around us. Because in those seconds she lets go of everything and I get to see her without any masks. I get to seeher.
“Wendee,” I whisper her name like a goddamned prayer, as the orgasm rips through me, and my seed spills out and washes down the drain.
“Fuck,” I grunt.
I am so motherfucking fucked.
Dee
Nothing Is As It Seems by Hidden Citizens, Ruelle
Another night, another outfit, and I’m quicky running out of things to wear. I grew up extremely poor. With no father around and a mother that sold our food stamps for cash so she could buy drugs, I hardly had decent food to eat, much less clothes and frivolous shit. That trauma, the mindset of constantly being in survival mode, has followed me into adulthood. I have a hard time spending money on things I don’t absolutely need. There’s also the small fact that I’m still poor when it comes to the money situation, so I don’t really have a choice, trauma or not.
I sigh in defeat as I choose a pair of dark blue, waist-high, jeans and a lacey white crop top to wear instead of cycling through my dresses again. There’s one dress in my closet that I haven’t worn yet. It’s a beautiful gold and black spaghetti strap dress that hugs my curves and flows to the ground elegantly, with two slits, one up each thigh. It’s stunning and one of the prettiest dresses I own but for some reason, every time I even look at it, I get the worst feeling in my gut. Just looking at the dress makes me nauseous, and I have no fucking clue why. And since I’m not really planning on throwing up on Sinn to impress him, I choose the jeans even though they make me uneasy in an entirely different way. I feel like dressing in jeans is so far beneath what Sinn finds attractive. I mean, the man is always dressed to impress and seems to hold himself, and others, to a higher standard. But he’s seen me at my absolute best, if he can’t handle me in jeans then I guess it’s best to find out sooner rather than later.
Since I can’t wear black underwear with the white top, I opt for a white lace set, grateful that Ihavespent money on some nice underwear. And, if my underwear keeps disappearing, I’m going to have to invest in more. I’ve never had to worry about it as much as I worry about it now with Sinn. In the past, I really could care less what a man thought of my underwear. No, these purchases were for me and me alone. Every woman enjoys feeling sexy and items such as lingerie, underwear, and a great outfit all contribute to that in their own way. Looking and feeling sexy and confident makes me feel powerful. Power is armor and in a man’s world, in the world I grew up in, power is a necessity.
I tug the jeans over the white lace thong and they hug my body like a second layer of skin. The spaghetti-strap top shows off both my cleavage and a line of my stomach just above my bellybutton. The top is dainty and beautiful. I add a pair of red heels to match my red lips and it gives the jeans an entirely new, dressed-up look. I decide to pull my hair into a high ponytail. I’ve always worn it down, and honestly, I prefer how I look with my hair down. It also adds as a shield of sorts. I can hide behind it if I need too. But pulling it up and out of my way, I’m completely exposed.
There’s no hiding me.
There’s no hiding the bite mark.
Sinn’s perfectly straight teeth are imprinted on the top of my left shoulder where he bit down as he was pounding inside of me from behind, breaking my body with both the force of his thrusts and the orgasm ripping through me.
I rub at my sensitive wrists, still feeling the sensation of his large hand clamping both of my wrists together easily. He’s so big and so strong, I can feel his incredible strength every time he restrains me, or lifts me up as if I weigh no more than a feather instead of my one hundred and sixty pounds.
Just the memory of him, how he feels, how he dominates, how he utterly consumes me, has me clenching my thighs. My body has been strung out since I woke up. I’ve never been the type of girl to need pleasure or a release every day, but that’s all changed since the day I met Sinn. It’s like my body isn’t mine anymore and I’m living with, and exploring, someone else’s. This new bodyneedsa release. My hand was sliding south when I woke up, prepared to reenact last night’s bathtub scene, when I remembered the deal that I made with Sinn.
That look is for me and me only, Wendee. You are no longer allowed to touch yourself unless I tell you to. Your orgasms are mine to give or mine to deny. Do you understand?
It’s not like I made a damn pinky promise, and he’d never know if Ididgive myself an orgasm, but I still couldn’t bring myself to follow through.Iwould know that I lied, that I went back on my word. And I don’t know why but I don’t want to lie to him. Besides, I can never give myself the mind-blowing, body breaking, type of orgasm Sinn gives me. It will be worth the wait.
I make myself wait until 11:00 p.m. to leave my apartment. I don’t want to literally be the first one to show up at the bar and put all of my eagerness and desperation on full display. I need to act like I have some damn self-control and a shred of dignity left. I mean,fake
it ‘till you make it, has worked me so far.
I walk into the familiar atmosphere of Sinful Delights and it’s as if all my bravado and self-control is checked like a coat at the door. I can’t stop my eyes from immediately finding the reason why I’m here. Once again, he’s not alone in the booth and I fucking hate what that fact does to my body. It’s like an incinerator switch gets flipped on and I’m instantly filled with a raging, scorching fire of jealousy.
And I don’t know why.
