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I consume him greedily with my eyes. Those broad shoulders, that six-pack carved into his flesh, the narrow hips, the dusting of dark hair on his chest, the treasure trail leading from his navel down to a thick cock that’s rock-hard for me, only for me.
His ocean-blue eyes meet mine and capture me. “Do you want me to bathe you, Tamara?”
“Yes. Please. Sir.”
And oh, the joy of settling back into warm, fragrant water. The restfulness of letting him cuff me, of surrendering all decisions to him. The ecstasy of his strong hands moving over my body.
With every caress of the soapy washcloth, he’s washing Micah’s filthiness off me, that faint film of horror that I could never quite slough off no matter how hard I scrubbed.
I close my eyes and drift away into a place of warmth and pure sensation.
Finally, he sets down the washcloth and pulls the plug, letting the water drain. Then he straddles me, legs on either side of my waist, his cock and balls resting on my stomach. He trails his fingers along my neck, then down. When he touches the scars on my chest, I flinch.
“We’ll get those taken care of with skin grafts,” he says to me. “I’d like to wait, though. I want to bring your self-defense skills up to par, and if we do any surgery, you’re going to have to wait for a few weeks. Unless you want them off immediately. That’s fine too.”
He looks at me, searchingly, and there’s no denying the worry and compassion shining from his eyes. He probably doesn’t even know it’s there, but I do.
“It’s okay. If…if it doesn’t bother you to look at them.”
“Every inch of your body is beautiful to me.”
He cups my breasts and strokes them with his thumbs until the tension melts from my body. Then he moves, sliding back, and bends down to gently tease my left nipple with his teeth. His warm mouth engulfs the swollen pink peak, sucking it until it aches with pleasure.
“Mine,” he says.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes, Sir.”
Then he uncuffs me and helps me climb out of the bath. He lays me down on my back on an enormous fluffy white bath rug, and kneels between my legs. We’re still slippery-wet from the bath, and everything smells like honeysuckle. He places his big, strong hands on my thighs and spreads them open wide. My knees are bent, and even though I’m completely exposed to him, I feel safe and strong and in control of what will happen to my body.
“Ask me,” he says.
I’m floating in a dream. “I want you to kiss my pussy, Sir.”
“That’s not good enough. Beg me.”
“Please, Sir. Please. Kiss me. Lick me. Fuck me, Sir,” I moan.
He kisses his way down my stomach, pausing to swirl his tongue in circles. I beg shamelessly. “Please, Sir. Please don’t stop.”
He spreads my wet lips open with his fingers and draws his tongue across the seam of my pussy.
“Remember this?” His hot breath on my exposed sex makes me want to cry and scream my need for him.
“Yes,” I whimper. “I loved it. I missed it. I missed your mouth on me, Sir. Please don’t stop. Sir.”
He keeps my lips spread open and slowly, reverently, he traces the line from front to back, from my pussy to my puckered hole again and again, as if he’s lapping up the most delicious cream. I surrender myself to the sensation. He can do anything that he wants to me. I am powerless to stop him, and I love it.
When he thrusts his tongue into me, fucking me with short, wet thrusts, I can’t take it anymore.
“Please, Sir!” I wail. “Please let me come, please, please…”
“You’re a greedy little slut, aren’t you?” He blows on me, the warm air fanning my heated sex.
“Yes. I’m a greedy little slut. I’m your little slut. Only yours. Sir! Please!” I’d say anything to make him give me what I need.
He reaches over to a shelf next to the tub and grabs a condom from a round ceramic bowl. I watch as he peels it open and slowly rolls it onto his thick cock. It has little nubs all up and down it.
“Studded, for her pleasure.”
