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Leaning over, she reached into her bag, which she’d left on one of the chairs. His jaw flexed as she brought forth a vibratorthat looked modeled after a fucking horse. She gave him a level stare and pointed to his eyes, then downward, between her legs. As he put his attention there, she gathered the shirt to her waist, showing him her soft thighs, trimmed pussy, and the dent of her navel.
His gaze was to stay on her cunt as she did whatever she was going to do with that thing. Probably putting it inside her, her fingers working her clit and labia around it as she pumped it in and out, the shaft getting slick with her juices.
He’d sit on his heels, hands flexing inside the straps, and stare at her taking care of herself. All while she had his cock and mouth at her disposal. Watching her fuck herself with that would get him hard as a rock again, only this time he knew there’d be no release forthcoming. Oh, and she’d do it all in his shirt, her lush body writhing, inanimate cotton getting all the joy out of that.
Yeah, full punishment, all the fixings. He ached, he wanted, he watched. When she played the head of the dildo against her cunt, getting it wet, he bit back an oath at how slick she was. His spent cock throbbed, reaching for blood, wanting to show he had the hardness to satisfy her. Even if she denied him the honor.
Looking at that beautiful pussy was a gift, but he wanted to see other things, too. The focus of her eyes, the set of her mouth. As she arched back, he knew her breasts would be straining against cotton. He imagined holding that shirt later, putting his mouth on it where those nipples had been, moistening the fabric with his breath as he thought about the chance to suckle the firm points again.
She was killing him.
Her thumb lightly caressed and rubbed her clit as the dildo slid in slow, out slow. It shone with her arousal.
Her pace picked up. As she fucked herself, her ass lifted and pressed back against the table. She’d moved one foot to thechair on her right, keeping the other on the stool. Spreading her legs wider. Thank God it was a sturdy table; otherwise it might have scraped the floor, moving out of his range as her rocking increased in strength and urgency.
He thought about the sound of her breath, her self-consciousness about climaxing, because she couldn’t moan or make cries like other women. Did she think a lover missed that with her? He didn’t, because she expressed herself in ways just as captivating. Her facial features tightening, body writhing like a tribal queen dancing by firelight. God, there’d be a whole symphony in her eyes as the climax took hold of her. He wanted to see it.
For that, he would beg.
Looking at someone’s face, particularly a lover’s, had become far more critical to him, a deeper need, when he couldn’t hear anything. She knew that, but with her reluctance about subs seeing her face during release, he wasn’t sure if denying him that now was punishment or preference. Or if one served the purpose of the other.
He saw the trembling and locking of her leg muscles. The smooth movements on her flesh had become jerkier, her fingers on her clit more random. Her foot was up on its toes on the stool, going rigid. He wanted to look, fuck, he needed to look, but he kept staring at her hand, her wet cunt, the flushed, swollen clit.
“Please let me look at you, Mistress.” He whispered it, because she was caught in the rush toward climax and he wouldn’t interrupt that, but he had to throw his wish into that void. “Please.”
Her hand, braced on the table, moved. She tapped her fingers against the wood. Not her usual graceful move, but she’d heard him. And had decided to give him what she never had before.
The permission flooded him with a surge of feeling almost as strong as an orgasm. It might be the first time in history a manhad wanted to see a woman’s face more than a close up of her climaxing cunt.
As his gaze rose, her eyes locked with his, her lips parting. Her breath would be rasping out as she rode that crest. “You are so beautiful,” he told her. “The most fucking beautiful thing in the world. Thank you, Mistress.”
Her eyes softened and her face tightened, her mouth stretching open wider, the arch of her neck more extreme. If he’d been free, he would have surged up, cradled her neck with his hand, held her so she had support as that powerful wave took her. As it was, his hands strained against the bonds. He could get free, he could do it, but this was how she’d left him, and he would honor that.
He relished every expression, every time her wild eyes met his and saw his pleasure and desire, his appreciation of the gift. When at last her climax ebbed away, it did so in that warm, poignant sunset kind of way. Something unforgettable, the punctuation at the end of a good day, a reminder that day might always end, but a nighttime of dreams lay ahead.
Her feet slipped off the stool as she straightened, then leaned forward, clasping his shoulder for balance. When she brushed her cheek against his, he nuzzled her face in return. He couldn’t keep the urgency out of it, because she had his cock fully erect again. It would take time for that to settle down. She touched his face, warm eyes telling him she didn’t mind the roughness. Or his aching hard state.
She left the table, bending over his shoulder to take off his bindings. He put his cheek to her hip and brushed his lips over a buttock. Yeah, he’d probably get hell for that, but he made it reverent. It felt good, just resting his mouth there. After she released the strap, she took a seat on the stool in front of him, spreading her knees. She guided him to sit on his ass on the cushion, his head to her thigh, his back against the other one.
Punishment was over and done. That was the end of it.
To distract himself from things he wasn’t going to be offered right now, he thought about the sounds she’d be hearing in his kitchen. Ticking clock. The refrigerator motor. The various languages a house spoke, the same way a body did. Shifts and rustles, like the hum of a note spoken under one’s breath, a murmur to oneself. The absence of it still rattled him, if he let it get under his skin.
She’d retrieved her phone and showed it to him. “I assume it’s a little late for testing your balance on the bike. I can come back tomorrow.”
He hadn’t noticed the time, but it was later in the day than he’d thought. “If you want to stay the night, you’re welcome to,” he offered. “We could get some dinner. There’s a good diner nearby that does takeout. I can give you the fifty-cent tour of my place if you want one, and we can find some stuff on TV. Watch a movie.”
You don’t have to let me fuck you like a damn animal, though if that gets put on the table, glory fucking hallelujah.
She arched a knowing brow, touched the curve of his lips with her fingertips. “You also have a shelf of board games in the guest room,” she typed. She sent him a haughty look. “I can totally whip your ass at Candyland.”
“No you can’t. I’ve had way more practice. Those games are Aubrey’s,” he informed her.
“How about the puzzle?”
“The one with a thousand freaking pieces? She gave me that for my birthday. Picked it out herself, according to…Nicole.” He pushed himself past the hitch over the name.
The picture was a black and silver Harley cruising bike, set against the background of an American flag. He’d planned to set it up one night on a card table in the living room so when hewas hanging out with Aubrey, they could work on it, an ongoing project. When done, he’d brush it with glue and have it framed.
