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“Okay,” I whisper, unable to hide my enthusiasm and longing.
He chuckles, plucking a wand from the box, turning it on, and dragging it all over—from my breasts to my thighs—everywhere but where I want it most.
“Please,” I squeak, breathless already.
“I love your pleas, Little Storm. You’re so gorgeous here. Bound and begging. Mouthwatering cunt glistening for me. A jewel decorating that luscious ass. Thighs glazed with your desire. Greedy. My pretty slut to use how I want.”
I moan at his words, yanking on my restraints because I’m desperate to be touched.
“What’s your safe word?” he asks, his tenor firm and serious.
“Meatloaf.”
“Good girl. I’m going to make you come over and over. If you need to stop, use your safe word. Understand?”
“I understand.”
With my confirmation, he presses a small remote, and suddenly, the plug in my ass is vibrating, elevating my intense need. Next, heinserts the wand, and my pussy is crammed with an expansive fullness, leaving me heady. He retrieves my suction vibrator and parks it right on my clit. The preparation buildup lit an inferno inside me that fans to a blaze, igniting low in my belly and rocketing through me so vehemently that I’m caught off guard, screaming through the burning release. My body melts into the mattress, heavy and light, all at once, the room spinning as my limbs twitch.
He waits a few minutes, his fingers ghosting over my swollen clit, and begins again. This orgasm blasts through me like a detonated bomb—even more lethal than the last. As the next one rolls through me, all I can think is,It’s a good thing I’m bound because my thrashing body would probably be in a heap on the floor. I’ve lost all control, and I love it.
“I want you, Wells,” I trill, delirious from the euphoria. “Please. I want to feel you.”
“You’re doing fine with the toys, Little Storm. It’s what you wanted. No need for my cock.” His words are taunting, teaching for sure, but his tented slacks and thirsty, hooded eyes drinking me in tell me he wants to partake.
“Come on me,” I beg, trying any angle to bring him some of the ecstasy I’m hogging. “Mark me as yours.”
His ravenous emeralds squint in contemplation, but then a rosebud vibrator is swirling over me, and I’m quaking and bucking and hollering until my larynx is raw.
During the next break, I close my eyes, attempting to center myself and catch my breath, when I’m startled by the warm drips of his cum painting my face and chest and stomach. He grunts and smears it over my lips as my tongue flicks out for more.
“Jesus, baby,” he croons, roughly stroking his steel dick. “So beautiful. My filthy little cumslut. So hungry and perfect.” He dusts my unkempt hair off my damp forehead. “Still okay, Ives?”
Being slathered in his cum revives some untapped carnal cravings within me. “More,” I purr.
He smiles, assaulting my clit with a rhythm that shoves meover the edge in about two seconds flat, barreling to another realm of weightless glory. And another after that. But something changes. The taste of him on my lips, the remembrance of how lonely I felt without him in the few quiet minutes of morning, the foreboding in my gut that I could lose him. The sensitivity throbbing.
Oh shit.I’m so overwhelmed. So scared. So shaken and sad. It hurts. Everywhere hurts.
“Meatloaf.Fuck.Meatloaf.” Tears trickle over my cheeks.
In seconds, my restraints are off, and he’s scooping me into his arms, petting my head, and peppering me with kisses. “I’ve got you, Ivy. I’m here. Talk to me.”
I glue myself to him, clinging like a life jacket—only I’m the one who needs rescued from drowning. My sobs rack through my body as he gingerly removes the plug and clamps, the absence of both aching with a sting far worse than when they were introduced.
He nestles me snuggly against him, fingers raking through my hair and tickling warmth over my skin. “That’s my good girl. You did so good. You’re okay now, baby.”
“I’m sorry,” I whine into his neck, wetting his heather-gray collar with my weeping. “I didn’t want to say it, but I got so scared and sad. I’m not usually a crier, and I know it doesn’t make sense—”
“It makes absolute sense. Your emotions were heightened, making it difficult to ignore the ones you’ve been pushing aside. You did perfect using your word. I’m so proud of you, Ives. So proud. Tell me why you’re scared and sad.”
His praise increases my sobs because I realize I’m in love with this man, in love with my husband, which should be a wonderful thing. Except that something feels flimsy, like it could all slip through my fingers at any moment. My lungs burn. I’ve never been so terrified to lose anything.
He rises with me still cloaking him like a spent sloth and carries me to the bathroom, where he draws a bath. Sitting on the side of the tub with me, he continues to whisper tranquil affirmations while his fingers twirl my hair. It’s all a blur.
Next thing I know, we’re both in the tub, Wells behind me, clutching me against his chest while he washes me. No recollection of him disrobing or either of us gliding into the bubbles.
Dandelion dreams.
