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Whatever comes first.
But I want him to be proud of me, to praise me for following his instructions without question. Most of all, I don’t want him to stop. I want him to make me come apart at the seams.
Reaching my hands out on the carpet above my head, the soft fluffy fabric tickles the skin on my arms. My body curves like an archer’s bow as I interlock my fingers, anchoring them onto the floor, fighting the constant temptation to defy him.
Wiggling my hips against his face doesn’t do much to convince him to change his speed. Impatience claws at my body, that faint tingle of orgasm bubbling just a little too far for me to reach.
Every few moments he pushes me hard, driving me toward my O such that I know he’s controlling me, my body, my reactions, even controlling my breath. It’s not that he’s clueless and doesn’t know how to get me there, he’s enjoying the journey, taking time to sink into the process, and play with my clit like it belongs to him.
If I had questioned the fact he was a pleasure dom, I don’t anymore. But it’s hard to find patience when my whole body is stretched out, taut, ready to crack like a neon snap bracelet from the nineties.
I’ve never been one to endure orgasm control, or denial, I’m an instant gratification kind of girl. When I rub one out it’s to feel good, a means to an end. Input creates output. I know if I touch myself one way, it draws out a consequence I desire.
Right now, it’s like a storm is brewing deep within my body. He pushes me forward, then eases off, like he’s revving the engine of a car, or taking part in an intimate kind of dance I don’t know the steps to.
My frustration quickly turns to greed, desperation, and sheer delight as the level of pleasure thrumming through my veins rises with each swell. He’s eating me out like he has nowhere else to be, like it’s his favorite thing to do, like all he’s planned for and looked forward to all day is splaying me out right here on the landing, and tongue fucking me as though he’s been training for it his whole life.
His finger presses into my tight hole again, and I roll my hips. I’m so wet there’s going to be a puddle on the stairs under my ass. The additional pressure of his finger drives me wild, and I moan so loudly I need to smash my clasped hands against my face, biting at the fleshy part of my thumbs so I don’t scream.
The tip of his thumb replaces his tongue as he comes up for air. “Don’t come, kitten.”
“B-b-but...” Clenching my muscles, I pray the tsunami heading straight for me somehow stays away until he’s ready for me to come.
Sliding the tip of his finger into my ass, he wiggles it just enough to make me whimper. “Not yet. I need you to be a good girl for me and hold off.”
Good girl.
I’d always thought women who responded to that were somehow weak. That a simple two words could drive someone over an invisible line and make them blow their load just because their Dominant said something nice to them was beyond me.
Until I met Thor. And until I heard those words fall from his mouth dripping in my arousal, and his lust, until he growled them at me with such reverent demand that I will do everything in my power to give him what he wants, and to drive him to say it again.
Good girl.
I focus any energy I have into my breathing, slowing my sharp, panting fast breaths and working on a deeper flow of oxygen through my body. I don’t know if it’s going to help, but if I don’t try something, I’m going to fall apart on Thor and the idea of making him in any way disappointed renews my determination to at least try.
Any trace of my brat has been replaced by a needy, fraught woman who just wants the beautiful man between her legs to tell her she’s amazing, and he’s so proud of her.
Can brats have praise kinks?
When his tongue meets my clit again, I’m swollen, tingling from activity, and the coolness against my burning pussy makes me hum.
The prickles vibrating all over my skin and all the way down to my bones grow in urgency. It’s as though he’s testing me. Pushing me, almost daring me to come without his say so. The finger in my ass sinks in a little deeper, swirling and twisting like a slow stretch.
The way he lazily works my asshole relaxes the coiled anxiety in my shoulders about butt stuff. He doesn’t seem in any rush to add more fingers, or even to add the rest of the one he’s got sitting in there. He seems happy enough to take it slowly, just giving me a little to see how it’s landing.
This whole experience feels like a science experiment. He’s watching me, feeling me, examining my responses to the combination of things he’s doing to me. Swishing his tongue versus flicking, lapping versus sucking. He’s taking painstaking effort to learn just how my body reacts to every change in his tactics.
“Not yet.” He grumbles against me.
Wiggling my hips, I can’t help whining. “Thor, please.” The hollowness inside me is consuming. The finger in my ass not enough to sate me.
“Not yet.”
My orgasm smacks against the flimsy dam holding it back, demanding I let it draw me into the undertow, as he drags it out, drags me out, sending me higher and higher with each lick and flick against my now super-charged clit.
The fingers on his free hand tease at my labia, gliding along my soaked slit, spreading them with a torturously delicate touch. The second his fingers sink into my body, my muscles tense. When they arch toward my g-spot, my body buckles, twisting, rocking, convulsing with a frantic need to come.
He hums, then blows air against me like he’s giving my clit a raspberry, and lifts his head. “What’s the matter, kitten?”
