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“Nothing too intense tonight,” he said, as if he’d read my thoughts.
My hands froze on my body. He looked up, his expression soft and sympathetic. “Darling, you’re not having the best week. We can still play, but I’d rather we keep it light, for your sake. There’s no reason to risk sub drop.”
He had a point. I’d had sub drop twice before; once, because he’d moved too fast at the beginning of our relationship, and the second when we’d played again for the first time after he’d come home from the hospital for good. Both times, I’d been experiencing emotional upheaval in other parts of my life, and submission had opened the floodgates and poured all my stress out
, washing me away on a days-long depressive episode. He was totally right, two days after a huge fight with my best friend was not the time to let someone slap me and call me a whore, no matter how turned on it made me to think of it now.
“You’re right, Sir. Should I keep doing this?” I brushed the backs of my fingers over one tight nipple and put a little catch in my breath so he could hear it.
He smirked and turned to the stove to reach for one of the copper saucepans hanging against the backsplash. “Did I tell you to stop?”
By the time Neil had braised the kale and garlic in vegetable stock, retrieved the casserole from the oven, and opened a bottle of white wine, I was a shivering, aroused mess. He’d made me come like this before, just stroking my breasts and rolling his fingers over my nipples. I’d been tied down and blindfolded, wondering when he’d hurry up and just get to my clit already, when a slow, shuddering orgasm had left me whimpering and writhing against the sheets.
“I think we’ll eat in the dining room tonight,” he said cheerfully, as though he hadn’t been hearing my heavy breathing, my mewls and moans of frustration. “Why don’t you go out and wait. You’ll have time to edge at least once before I have the table set.”
“Yes, Sir.” I hopped down from my seat. My cunt was slick and hot, my clit aching to be touched. Though I knew I would only be more frustrated when I denied myself at the very limit of my pleasure, I needed the contact badly. I pulled my top back up, and though he hadn’t asked me to, he didn’t object. This was different from our usual routine. Any other night, I would have likely found myself on my knees, getting roughly throat-fucked as a punishment, or spanked so hard I cried.
Not that I would have minded. It was a good thing Neil paid more attention to my limits than I did.
I sat at the table, in my usual place to the right of Neil’s chair, and spread my legs. Even though we were alone, I couldn’t help but worry that someone might walk in. That was probably why he was making me do this. The thrill of the fear of discovery—when it was highly unlikely we would be interrupted—would create greater intensity without needlessly endangering my mental health.
Slowly, because I knew my Sir wouldn’t like it if I rushed, I slid my hand between my legs. The first touch of my fingertips skimming my labia was like an electric shock. I dipped my fingers between my folds and coated them with my wetness, so they glided effortlessly over my swollen clit. Already aroused to desperation, it took two swirls over my sensitive hood before I felt my orgasm tightening my cunt. I had to keep going, right up to the very edge, fighting back the urge to come. I tried to think of anything and everything possible to keep my mind off my inevitable orgasm, but it was all I could concentrate on. I had to hand it to guys; holding out was harder than I’d ever imagined it could be.
When Neil came in with two plates balanced on his arm and silverware in his hands, I was panting, rocking in my chair, afraid to move my hand off my body, I was so close.
“Don’t come,” he warned, sliding a plate in front of me and across from me. “You’re so close to your reward.”
He hadn’t set his usual place. Something was up.
It took him an unusually long time to return. When he did, he poured the wine into our glasses and set them out with more care than totally necessary. I breathed slowly, trying to ignore the throbbing between my legs. He didn’t take the seat across from me, but his usual place at the head of the table.
“Come here.” He patted the tabletop.
Oh, fuck yes. The fact that I could stand up and take the two steps to his side without climaxing was a testament to my self-control.
His hands bracketed my waist, and he lifted me onto the perfectly smooth, lacquered wood. My skirt was still plastered around my hips, and I gasped when my bare vulva touched the cool surface.
Neil gripped the top of my dress with one hand between my breasts. He used the red silk to pull me down and slanted my mouth across his. Now, smearing my makeup was the furthest thing from my mind, and I matched him for every passionate slide of lips and tongue. He kissed me until I whimpered in distress, desperate for air, then let me come up for oxygen.
His mouth a millimeter from mine, he whispered, “Would you like to come, Sophie?”
I almost did, just from his words.
“Y-yes. Please, Sir.” I rubbed my thighs together and wriggled on the table.
His big, warm hands fell on my bare thighs, coaxing them apart, and he laid me back gently on the wide table. With his hands beneath the small of my back, he lifted my hips and said, “Put your feet on me. Good girl. I want to devour this gorgeous cunt.”
I moaned and twisted in his grasp. There was always a moment for me, right before my body let go, a split second of fear in which I wanted to escape the inevitability of my climax. Neil held me like some ripe, exotic fruit, and bent his head to my mound as my high heels dug into the hard muscles of his thighs.
He caught my clitoris in his mouth and sucked as he flicked his tongue over me. That was all it took, and I was writhing, loudly groaning in blissful relief. I arched my back, raised my hips, and before I could realize my error, Neil slipped his arms beneath the bends of my knees and hauled my legs over his shoulders.
I had no leverage to get away from his mouth. He didn’t let up, pushing me on through torturous post-orgasm sensitivity, until it felt good again, until I began to want another orgasm, to need one. I thrashed on the table, but he held my hips firm. His tongue dipped into me, tasting me, fucking me, then he replaced it with his finger. He tapped and sucked my clit and roughly pumped his fingers against my g-spot, building pressure in me that was too much to fight. I came again, spilling over him, my thighs quaking on either side of his head.
He looked up and grabbed the napkin beside his plate to wipe his face. Then he shrugged my limp legs off his shoulders, stood, unzipped his fly, and pulled a condom from his pocket.
So that’s what had taken so long to get the wine. He’d been taking his pill and getting safe sex supplies. Very sneaky.
Not that I was complaining; I wanted him so badly, with such painful emptiness, that the thought of walking to our bedroom seemed like a journey of hundreds of unsatisfied miles. “Please, Sir,” I begged him, though his intentions were clear. “Please fuck me.”
