Chapter 25 #2
Timidly, maybe, and with plenty of terror still, but I am breathing in time with the pulse pounding between my thighs, restless and wondering if there’s more.
He opens his eyes to watch me, his pupils blown, the muscles in his arm and chest bunching as he uses my hand to masturbate, and then his free hand goes between my legs.
I wince at the sudden touch, but he doesn’t stop.
He pushes his fingers into my folds and drags them forward, checking to see if I’m slick with water or want.
“Filthy girl,” he exhales, satisfied with what he’s found. “Knew you were.”
The muscles in his abdomen ripple and tense, and then he’s abruptly pulling my hand off his body, stepping away from me with an unhappy grunt. His cock is so hard that it’s nearly pointing at the ceiling now.
He shuts off the water and then grabs one of the towels from the rack on the far end of the shower, wrapping me in it before getting another to wrap around his waist. He adjusts himself first, keeping his erection pinned against his stomach as he tucks the edge of the towel into itself, and the plump head is still visible above the terry cloth when he takes my elbow and guides me out of the shower.
I’m dried more attentively out by the sink, where he pats behind my knees and under the curves of my bottom, along the undersides of my breasts.
And then I’m wrapped in a larger towel and bid to wait while he dries himself.
I surreptitiously smell the inside of my wrist as he bends down to towel off his legs, but I’m not surreptitious enough because he catches me as he straightens up again.
“I can get you your own bodywash for next time,” he says. “If you’d like.”
“No,” I say, too quickly for the sake of my pride, but what place does my pride have here anyway? “I like…I like having your smell on me.”
His jaw pops once to the side, and then his eyes shut, squeeze shut almost, like someone trying to concentrate very hard. It’s a long time before he looks at me again.
“Hold still.” His voice is calm, but I’m beginning to recognize the times when that calm is a lie.
He pulls some jars and sprays I don’t recognize from the drawer under the sink, along with a microfiber towel and brush. The hair on my arms lifts as he faces me again, all easy charm but with eyes burning like the corona of a star.
“I can brush my own hair,” I tell him, attempting a smile.
He smiles back, but it’s anything but reassuring when paired with those eyes. “I want to do it, Birdie. I promise to be gentle.”
There’s not a question in there, not really. He’s not asking permission, and yet I find myself nodding anyway, like my permission materially changes things. It doesn’t.
After working something creamy and nice smelling through the strands and with the utmost care, he brushes my hair and then uses the microfiber towel to dry it with careful squishes and scrunches.
When it’s no longer dripping, he rubs a light-looking oil between his hands and runs it through my curls.
Another apple scent but crisp and layered, not the brash fragrance of my cheap shampoo.
Then he repeats the process on his own hair, the longish dark gold gradually turning into swirls and flourishes of scrolled platinum.
When he steps away to wash his hands, I glance at the mirror and I’m shocked. My hair looks…different. No flyaways, no frizz. Even still slightly damp, it looks more put-together than it ever has.
“I like it,” I say shyly, aware that he’s watching me look at myself in the mirror, and duck my head, embarrassed to be caught in a moment of such raw vanity.
He comes up to me and nuzzles behind my ear, taking my chin in his hands and making me look up at the mirror. “You’re always beautiful,” he whispers, kissing my temple, my jaw, my neck. “You should always like what you see.”
I’m not looking at myself right now but at him in the reflection. “Yes, Ry.”
His fingers tighten on my chin, and then he’s letting go, grabbing my wrist instead and pulling me to his bedroom. He takes hold of my waist and I’m lifted up, and before I can fully process what’s happening, why my feet have left the floor, I’m tossed onto his bed.
I land on my back, and he’s on me before I can brace myself up on my elbows, tearing off my towel and shoving my thighs apart. I think he’s going to penetrate me again, but instead he scoots back, lowers himself to his belly, and—
“Oh, God.” It’s a cry, not a prayer, as his tongue makes a hot stripe up the seam of my body.
He settles closer, hooking his arms around my thighs, and licks again, this time lingering over my clitoris and giving it several velvet laps.
Pleasure whips through me, and my hips arch to meet his mouth at the same time as my hand goes reflexively to his hair, as if to make him stay, even though I have the distant idea that I should be worried right now, anxious about having his tongue there.
But it’s hard to hold on to the worry when it feels so good and when he’s making the noises he’s making right now. When his lashes rest so prettily on his cheeks while he gives my pussy a deep and lingering inspection, like he’s trying to commit the taste to memory.
It hits me then, that this is all wrong—that my job is to make him happy for the year and that this can’t possibly be what he had in mind when he told me what he wanted out of our free-use deal.
“Ry,” I say, trying to squirm and push his head away at the same time. “Ry, you don’t—we don’t have to do this—”
He tears his mouth away and gives me a fierce glare, easily resisting my attempts to push his head away from my body. “We don’t have to?” he asks. His expression is quizzical, polite even, for someone whose mouth is that wet. Whose chin is that wet.
“You have me here so you can use me,” I explain, miserable under that polite stare and with all the freshly cool air against my inflamed cunt. “Not…the other way around.”
An eyebrow lifts. “Do you think I’m not using you right now?”
This feels like a trick. I don’t know how to answer.
“I’ll spare you the suspense,” he says without waiting long.
“I like licking cunt, and I’ve thought about licking yours since the first day I saw you.
I’m eating you out because it gets me hard and also because I want to see my devout little virgin unravel at the slightest attention. And you know what I think?”
I shake my head. I never have.
“I think all I have to do is suck on that neglected clit and you’ll be screaming within two or three minutes.
Clenching around nothing and wishing my fingers or my dick were in your pussy to clench around instead.
” He traces a line up my thigh; I quiver.
“Sweet, lonely Birdie, with such a pretty cunt and no one to take care of it, just walking around with this absolute beauty between her legs and letting it go to waste. And now I’m the only one who gets to make it wet and flushed and greedy, aren’t I?
It’s going to belong to me, and not because I’ve paid for it but because I’m taking it.
I’m training it. I’m making it mine because I’m going to enjoy it whenever I want, all the time and as rough as I like.
So if you think that’s not using, then I regret to tell you that you’ll know better before long. ”
I stare down my stomach at him, stunned, and he gives me a hard, mean smile, the smile I’m certain no one else has ever seen but me.
And instead of saying anything else, he does exactly what he described and wraps his lips around my clit, sucking and fluttering his tongue against the sensitive bead.
I make an unearthly moan, too frozen with euphoria to try to fight him off anymore, and my hand fists in his curls.
“My sweet slut,” he breathes against my skin, his exhales hot. “One time on my dick and you’re desperate to ride any part of me, even my tongue.”
“Ry,” I say pathetically, ashamed and angry to be called that word—and so close to climaxing anyway.
“Don’t be upset, darling,” he croons and then gives my clit several long, hot licks until I’m rubbing myself against his tongue.
“I want you to be a slut. My shy little slut, who blushes when I wink at her and then moans while being bent over like a whore. Turning you into an eager toy has been my jerk-off fantasy for years, and here you are, fresh off giving it up for the first time, having been bought and paid for, and it’s still going to be less than two minutes of tonguing that lonely, little clit until you go off.
That’s something a slut would do, Birdie, you understand.
Only a slut would come with a sore pussy.
Only a slut would come for the man who bullied her into being his whore, and only a slut would do it after two minutes. ”
The shame is like another tongue in a way, a tongue licking deep into my chest and deep into my belly, making me miserable, making me thrash, making my hips buck and my thoughts wild.
And Bell doesn’t need but another second, and suddenly the bliss is shredding up from my pussy to my chest, snatching everything into a single, shuddering fist of pleasure and exploding outward, flinging pleasure everywhere in rolling, quaking waves.
I’m making noises, humiliating ones, little uh uh uhs as I try frantically to rub myself against his tongue, trying to mate with his mouth the same way he mated with me when he had me bent over in the studio.
He laughs darkly at my pitiful state, but he lets me fuck his mouth, keeps his tongue flat and firm as I chase the choking pleasure with my hips.
When it finally subsides, he gets to his knees, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and then untucks the towel from his waist. If his erection looked needy before, now it looks dire, so swollen that every vein stands out in sharp relief, the head engorged and so stretched that the skin has a dull gleam to it. The slit at the tip is leaking.
“I need it again,” he says.