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Along with my writhing, his moans get louder and coarser. He’s close.
And he knows it. So he removes himself.
“Clayton…” I’m in pain, not because the spreader bar is at its full length, but because I want him in me. I can’t wait any longer.
But instead of putting me out of my misery, he raises my legs higher, sending me to whimper and contort to no avail.
This man doesn’t hold back, indeed.
My pelvis must be moving obscenely because he shoots an indulging stare at it. When he positions himself in front of me, it becomes clear that heisabout to put me out of my misery. He’s raised me so my opening is at the height of his cock.
He doesn’t hold back, but he knows my limits. While my ankles and wrists are in agony, he holds my butt cheeks firmly, giving me that comfortable support just in time for him to enter me.
Despite his size, his entry is smooth, leaving pleasing trails on every inch of me. And when he increases the tempo—like now—it’s heaven, hell, and earth all in one. My moans echo all around the room. That’s the sound of a woman in immense arousal, and she’s me.
He groans while shaking his pelvis to reposition himself inside me as if trying to find new spots. Then he carries on pushing.
“Jesus, Baby Belle… I’ve never been this turned on before.” He eases his pumping, only to bend down and look at me. “I want you, Isabelle.”
Hearing those words, with my body coated in wet heat thanks to his proximity, it becomes clear that this is more than just my fantasy come true. This is making love to a man as I crave it.
Even though his cock is raging, the man himself is pleasing me like he was born to be in me. Actually, because his cock is raging, Ineedto see his eyes—to affirm that it’s not just sex. It’s our bodies as much as our longing. He’s real, and he reads me, and he understands.
“I want you too, Clayton.”
He grips the base of his sheathed cock. Looking at me, he fiddles with the rolled end of the condom. He begs, “Can we not?”
“You want to do it without?”
“Only if you want it too.”
“Yes. Clayton. Yes.”
He showers me with kisses along my face, my lips, and my whole body. Only after he’s satisfied that I’m well taken care of down there, that he enters me—his flesh against mine, bare, man to woman, like we’re meant to be. Nothing comes between us.
Is there anything more liberating?
He glides his length inside me again and again.
Until something rolls over me. My four limbs pull at the restraints, my hands fist, and my feet contract.
Responding to my struggle, he releases with a loud growl.
In the throes of my climax, I let out a long moan. It’s more air than vocal, as my throat is proven incapable of dealing with such force.
My hopeless state seems to spur him to do more. He pushes into me a couple of times, releasing again, groaning like he’s given it everything he’s got.
Palpitating, he lets himself fall on me without relinquishing his support of my body. I’m about to pass out, falling into a euphoric kind of unconsciousness. In the haze, I feel him lowering my legs. They touch the floor, but they might as well be still in the air, since I can’t for the life of me stand on my own two feet.
“I got you.” He frees my waist from the girdle and my wrists off the cuffs.
I surrender into the security of his arms.
With all the aches and pains wracking my body, like a child, I curl into his bounteous chest. The oil lathering my skin, mixed with his sweat, causes my body to slide down. But as he said, he got me.
Clayton always gets me.
We arrive upstairs in his bedroom, panting, huffing. He lowers me to the bed, and then he hurls himself next to me.
