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It’s a moment of post bliss that hangs, where anything erotically charged can happen.
And the glug of liquid hitting a glass breaks the moment. Then comes the hiss of a zipper. I blink the tears from his mouth-fucking away, and he’s standing, facing me, cock now away, holding a whiskey.
Watching me.
Like I’m his property.
His.
To do with whatever he wants.
A small spasm of pleasure hits me, and he comes over, taking a drink. “Did you just come?”
“No.”
“I think you’re lying.” He comes in close, tips the glass then dribbles whiskey on my mouth and licks it off, kissing me long and slow, taking his time, nibbling and sucking my lips, seducing my tongue.
Then he pours a little more on my throat, and he licks and sucks that up.
Next are my breasts, and he really takes his time, sucking and kissing and nibbling at my breast’s flesh, paying attention to the hard nipples.
I’m burning. On fire. Everything is a giant throb of desperate need. I try to move as he pours more on my belly to lick and suck.
“Move and I’ll tie your legs to the table and go watch TV.”
I spasm, and he shakes his head. “You like that idea, don’t you, sweet Cat? Like being mine? To do with what I want?” Then he leans in, licks from above my clit up to my belly button, and I need him lower. “Is that what you wanted earlier when you came? Me to tie you up?”
I want it. All of it. And I came a little, he’s right. So why am I fighting what I want? It makes it better, but it’s more than that. All those answers are somewhere I can’t reach them.
Then I can’t think as he pours his expensive Japanese Hibiki whiskey on my pussy. The heated sting of the cool alcohol is divine, welcome. I shriek as his mouth laps it up, sucking on my pussy lips, licking up along my slit, and then closing around my clit.
I come. I can’t help it.
Hendrick doesn’t stop. He takes it slow and agonizingly gentle. This isn’t one of the men I sleep with who think I want nice vanilla sex. This is the kind of man who intrinsically understands me. A man who’s the calm before the storm, one showing that he’s in control. That he is master of the storm and every stroke of his tongue, each graze of his teeth, is a study in that mastery.
He slowly touches me now, pushing me on, and I’m past being too sensitive. I’m riding those twitchy little sensations like a bitch. I want what he’s going to give me.
Hendrick’s fingers move inside me now, hooking forward to rub my G spot on each slow, long thrust in and out. Then he sucks and licks my clit, long and slow, constant pressure that unfurls things in me, things that grow into deeper desire. They morph into a wilder need and then burst bright in a cascade of pleasure only to burn out of existence.
Over and over again.
That’s how he leads me up to my orgasm. Each bright pleasure burst lasts longer, grows more intense until suddenly, it lights up everything and my being rolls in waves of delight, of intense glory as I come apart in deep, bone shaking throbs of release.
I don’t remember getting to the bedroom. I don’t remember him parting my thighs, all I know is he’s in me, mouth on mine, fucking me like it’s his life’s work. Somehow, he brings another orgasm, or the one I had is still going, but this time, when he comes, he rolls us so I’m on top.
And, hands still cuffed, satiated, with him inside me, I sigh and fall asleep.
* * *
It’s late when we shower. He feeds me mezcal cocktails and cheese. We’re in my bedroom, and Hendrick, in nothing but pants, goes through the closet. If he notes the clothes aren’t really day to day wear, he doesn’t comment. I don’t know, maybe a beautiful, murderous, billionaire bastard like him has no idea about what women wear day to day.
He seems to think three-piece suits are the norm for men. His black outfit is one of his rare moments.
“Here.” He tosses me a white slip that goes with a sheer pale green dress. It’s very short, but I put it on. “Naked is hot, Magdalena, but very distracting.”
“Are we playing house?”
He looks at me. “I’ve got no idea. It’s all complicated.”
