Chapter 12
My pussy clenches at his words.
I can feel my juices sliding down. I can feel them smearing my thighs, making their way on to the coarse carpet where I was going to keep kneeling till the end of time.
Waiting for his call.
And it has come, hasn’t it?
So I should go.
Only I have never crawled for anyone before. So yes, I’m nervous. But I asked for this. I asked him to let me make him feel better and if me crawling across the room to him, all naked no less, is what he wants, then I’ll do it.
Slowly I come down on all fours and begin.
My long hair forms a curtain around my face, my tits are dangling with every step I take and my knees rub against the rough carpet, my skin getting chafed. The closer I get to him, the more heated I feel.
And I think it’s because of the fiery heat that he’s emanating.
From his naked chest, from his dark eyes.
The way he’s watching me like he wants to eat me alive. That’s the only way to describe it. Intense and blazing hunger.
I also think some of this heat may be my own doing as well. It’s coming from my slippery pussy. From the lust that’s flowing thick in my veins and sitting heavy in my tummy. From the fire that he stokes in me.
Which makes me think that it takes me an eternity to get to him.
An eternity to reach his spread thighs. To enter the cloud of his smoke and scent and come to kneel before him. He’s so tall and broad that when he leans over me it feels like the room has gotten darker.
It feels like I’m really in a shadowed, moonless alley and in the clutches of danger.
Keeping the burning cigarette in his mouth, he reaches forward and goes for my hair. He hefts the majority of my long tresses in his belted fist and brings it to the front, over my shoulder. Then he goes for more and keeps doing it until all my hair’s in the front, hanging down my chest, fluttering over my painfully swollen tit and a turgid nipple and tickling my belly.
And then he proceeds to sift the strands through his long fingers, a frown of concentration between his brows.
I lick my dried lips. “W-what are you doing?”
“Braiding your hair,” he says, his eyes on his task, his cigarette still clenched between his teeth.
Before I can confirm that he said what he said, he begins to do just that. Very carefully and tenderly, he parts my hair in three thick ropes and starts looping one through the other. First under, then over.
Until a lattice forms.
Goose bumps break out on my skin as I watch his dusky fingers working expertly as he makes his way down my long, thick hair, braiding it in loose pleats.
“Where did you learn to do that?” I ask even though I think I know the answer.
“For my sister.”
“So you’d braid her hair?”
“None of the others could. Ledger was too young to learn; Shep was too impatient; Con had other responsibilities. So I volunteered.”
My heart squeezes for the boy he was.
I wonder what he was like back then. Probably just as serious and controlled as he is as a man. And it makes me so sad for him. For the childhood he probably never had. For all the smiles he never smiled and all the laughs he never laughed.
For all the carefree memories he probably didn’t get to make.
Fisting my hands at my sides, I ask, “Why are you doing it to me?”
He’s almost at the end of it. “Because I want it out of the way.”
“Out of the way for what?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he finishes his task, takes another drag of his cigarette, and lets the smoke out as he plays with the tail of my newly formed braid. “Sometimes, in a crowded room, I can recognize you from your hair. From the color of it. How it’s got a polished sheen to it. How it’s wavy but not too wavy. How it’s so thick and yet”—he tugs at my braid—“so soft.”
“I…” I swallow, watching his thumb flick the ends of my braid. “It’s because of my mom. She’s from India and you know, they have really thick hair over there. And mostly jet-black and?—”
He tugs my hair again. “She at least did one thing right.”
“You—”
“And sometimes I see the honeyed flush of your skin and know it’s you. Just a flash of it is enough. Maybe your bare shoulder or the nape of your neck,” he says, his eyes still focused on the hair. “One time, I recognized you from just your fingers. You were reaching for a glass at the bar, at a crowded party, and I saw your small hand peeking through the bodies between us and I knew. I knew it was you.”
I swallow again, gulp really, something occurring to me. “Is that why… back then. You asked for photos of all those things? Of me.”
“I asked for all those photos of you for… after.”
“After the one night you wanted?” I ask even though I think I know.
He throws a short nod.
“What did you do with them?”
He looks me in the eyes. “There’s still going to be an after, isn’t it?”
Right.
Because he thinks I’m marrying his twin brother. And even if I wasn’t, he can’t give me what I want. He can’t give me my dream of being loved. So this, whatever we have, is doomed either way. And I have to say I’ve never hated my desire to be loved as much as I do right now.
“It’s my mom again,” I say, not knowing what else to say right now. “My skin, it?—”
“It’s you,” he says, looking up, his eyes dark, his cigarette between his teeth. “All of it is you. You make my heart race a certain way. You make it beat in a way I thought was the same but…”
“But what… What does it mean? What?—”
Taking another drag, he jerks his chin at me. “Hands behind your back.”
“I-I’m sorry?”
The cigarette goes back in his mouth, and he begins to unloop the belt from around his fist. He comes closer, oh so closer, leaning over me. I watch the burning end of the cigarette almost, almost touching my skin, the side of my face, but he stops and looks me in the eyes. “You wanted this.”
For a second, I think he’s talking about burning me.
That he wants to use his cigarette to brand my skin.
A love bite. A love burn.
Made out of one controlled addiction on another.
Something that will hurt me in the beginning but will stay with me for the rest of my life. Something bigger than a tattoo. Like a blood oath, only our oath is going to be done with fire.
Me, Agni. Him, the wildfire.
But then I realize what he’s saying. What he’s asking me to do.
And he’s right.
I did want this.
So staring back at the darkness that’s his eyes, I bring my arms back, my chest thrusting forward, the braid that he’s made out of my hair swishing against my tits, my nipples, making my breaths hitch.
I thread my fingers together as he loops the belt around my wrists, the leather grazing my skin. It’s soft but scary. It’s loose but binding. And the whole time he’s working back there, I watch the sharp angle of his jaw.
I watch the muscle of his cheek standing taut because of that cigarette clenched between his lips.
“Why are you tying my hands?” I whisper to his side profile.
“Because they’ll be in the way.”
“I won’t…” I begin and then trail off because my breath gets caught up in the jangle of nerves that’s my body right now. “I won’t try to push you away or anything when I, you know, do that.”
He’s finally done, and he swings his eyes over to me. “Do what?”
“S-suck your dick.”
That’s why he’s doing all this, isn’t he?
Braiding my hair. Binding my hands behind my back. Preparing me for sucking his dick. Preparing if I try to balk if he goes too deep.
He moves away from me then and settles back in his armchair. Smoking, he rasps, “You think you’re going to suck my dick?”
He looks so relaxed right now and someone who didn’t know him better might think he really is that way. But he isn’t.
I know. I can see.
He’s strung taut like a tightrope.
His muscles are pulled tight. As if lying in wait. Like a trap. One wrong move on my part and he’ll snap me up.
“Aren’t I?” I ask, twisting my wrists, testing the tightness of the belt.
“No.”
“But—”
“You are not going to suck my dick, Dora, because I’m going to fuck your throat.”
I clench my thighs together, my pussy spasming. “What’s… What’s the difference?”
He circles his eyes over my face, my parted lips, my heated cheeks. He studies his own handiwork: the braid that’s slung over my shoulder. He takes in my heaving chest, my fat nipples. He even studies the trembles that shake my belly. The shiny evidence of my arousal painting my inner thighs.
Then, coming back up to my face, “For someone who claims to know so much about men, you don’t know the important things, do you?”
“Maybe”—I lick my lips, twisting my wrists again—“you could teach me.”
He chuckles lowly, smoke wafting from his lips. “Oh, I’m going to teach you.” Then, “Because I’m sure your daddy didn’t take the time to do that, did he?”
I clench my thighs again. “No.”
“I bet your daddy never taught you,” he begins, pinching the cigarette between his fingers, leaning over a bit to tap the end on the ashtray sitting on the side table, “not to sneak into a man’s room in the middle of the night, did he?”
I swallow. “No.”
“And not just any man but the man who’s had his last nut”—with his free hand, he grabs his thick arousal over his sweatpants and squeezes—“in a fucking condom instead of your pretty pink pussy.”
“Y-you could come in my pussy anytime you like,” I whisper, clenching my core.
“Yeah?”
“Yes,” I say eagerly. “I told you I didn’t like the condom.”
I hated how it separated us from each other.
After being apart from him for ages, I didn’t want anything between us.
He cocks his head to the side. “Tell me your daddy at least taught you what happens when a man nuts inside a warm, cozy, fucking fertile pussy like yours.”
I fist my fingers, struggling against the grip of the belt again and lie, “I’m on the pill.”
He watches me through the smoke for a few beats. Then putting the stick away on the ashtray, he leans forward and in a flash, he’s got his fingers wrapped around the back of my neck. He’s pulling me toward him, making me lose my balance but catching me at the last second before I go crashing against him.
Then, flexing his grip on me, “I see he didn’t teach you then. That’s because he’s an asshole, your daddy. That’s lesson number one. Here’s your lesson number two: Don’t be a dick-thirsty whore and lie to your new daddy. Because he’s a bigger asshole than your first, yeah?”
“I—”
“Which is why I won’t just teach you with words,” he goes on. “We’ll use actions tonight. Examples so the lesson sinks in. And tonight’s lesson is: what happens when a reckless girl like you offers up her cock-sucking lips to a man like me. How that innocent little offer can turn into a vicious throat fucking where she leaves with a sore jaw and her tight tummy swollen with a big load of daddy cum, okay? I’ll teach you what happens when you walk into a room, all excited and eager, eyes full of hearts and rainbows, thinking that you’ll get to suck your first cock, but you leave it all wrecked and ruined and used like a perfect little cum dumpster.” His jaw tics. “My perfect little cum dumpster.”
I press my thighs so hard that I have to whimper. “I want to.”
“Is that so.”
“As long as I get to taste you, I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll be whatever you need me to be.”
I go to kiss him then.
Seal my words with a kiss, but he stops me. Then with features rippling with heavy, intense things, he growls, “Open your fucking mouth and stick your tongue out.”
I look at him for a few seconds, my breaths heavy and my heart racing.
Then I do as he says.
I open my mouth and stick my tongue out.
But he isn’t happy with that, so he commands, “Wider.”
I obey and open my mouth more.
Again, it doesn’t seem to satisfy him. “Fucking wider. You’re trying to fit my dick, not a fucking lollipop that they teach girls like you in the movies and romance novels. You know the kind of heat I’m packing. So open your fucking mouth until your jaw pops and stick your tongue out far enough so I can see the back of your throat. That’s going to fucking swell up like the shape of my cock. Is that clear?”
I think my nerves are malfunctioning. They’re firing off and buzzing at random times. They’re electrocuting me and making my pussy flutter haphazardly.
Or maybe it’s all the things he’s saying to me.
All the filthy things that both shock me and make me go crazy.
So crazy that I do what he’s asking me to do before he’s even finished his command. I open my mouth wide enough and stick my tongue out far enough that I can fit him in.
Something akin to arousal and amusement, both dark and possessive, flash through his features and he shifts in his seat. Clutching that sexy cigarette back in his mouth, he lowers the waistband of his pants and takes his cock out. He leaves the waistband just under his heavy sac, making everything, his dick and his balls so tight and swollen and so fucking sexy like that.
But then the sight of his erect rod itself distracts me, hard and flush, ruddy and gosh, just as slippery as it was last night.
Pre-cum oozing out of the head.
Before I even know what I’m doing, I lean forward and I do it with such force that I almost topple, but his hand on the back of my neck saves me at the last minute.
Which is when I realize its true purpose.
The hand that’s gripping me.
It’s there to give me balance. Because my own hands are tied and I can’t do it for myself. And I see that. I see it when concern breaks through his anger and flares into his eyes. Then, “You don’t learn, do you? You don’t fucking learn.” He digs his fingers around my neck. “You don’t suck me off, I fuck your mouth. Stop acting like a greedy whore who’s obsessed with my dick and be fucking careful before you hurt yourself.”
“I-I’m sorry.”
“Now, one more time,” he states patiently, “open your mouth and stick your tongue out like my good little bitch in heat. So I can put you on my cock. And no, not to lick. If you think I’m going to let you use your tongue to do something as tame as lick me, then you have another think coming.
“You’re going to use your tempting little tongue to slobber over me, do you understand? You’re going to drool over my fat cock that you’ve been making hard since the year I met you. You’re going to make a puddle in my lap with your drool like the one you’ve made at my feet with your pussy. You have, haven’t you?”
I nod, unable to speak with my mouth open.
“Yeah, you have. So you’re going to grease my cock, lube it up, make it all shiny and slippery, like it would be if I stuck it into your whore of a pussy right now. And when I’m all drenched from your mouth and ready, I’m going to push into that mouth of yours. I’m going to push past those pouty lips and get into your throat and do what I’ve been dreaming about doing again since the year I met you.”
I blink and ask him what with my eyes.
And it’s a testament of us being so in sync that he understands and answers, “To take your breath away.”
My chest heaves.
He leans even closer. “To make you breathe for me. To make you breathe when I want to, how I want to. To make you live for me. Because that’s what I’ve been doing ever since I met you, haven’t I? I’ve been living for you. I’ve been breathing for you. Either to stay away from you or to stay close. Either to forget about you or in the process remember every single thing about you twice. Either to hurt you or save you. Either to fuck you out of my system or fuck you into my bloodstream. I’ve been a slave to you since the second I met you, Dora, so you’re going to be a slave to me. To my dick. You’re going to gag on my dick. You’re going to fucking choke on it and if you do it hard enough, if you do it where you see stars behind your closed eyes, I may just give you what you’ve been begging for ever since I met you too: my life-giving cum.”
I break his rule then.
The rule where he said to stay silent and moan out his name. To plead, “God, Stellan I?—”
But he doesn’t let me.
Because he puts me on his dick.
And I think he’s angry because he doesn’t give me a chance to lube him up at all. He doesn’t give me a chance to slobber all over his cock like he just said, to get him ready to push into my throat. To drool over him, make a puddle in his lap.
He simply pushes in.
His big, fat dick simply invades my mouth like it invaded my pussy last night and I have no choice but to let him. I have no choice but to open my mouth even wider than what he was first satisfied with. Even though I did pop my jaw doing it.
Taking the real thing is much harder.
It not only pops my jaw but causes me to clench my eyes shut and stop breathing for a second. Like he wanted me to.
And I feel so proud.
God, I’ve never felt such pride in anything I’ve done.
Including my stage debut.
I feel so accomplished that I gave him what he wanted. That I gave him my breaths that I can’t help but get even hornier, even more desperate about this whole thing.
Not to mention, I get to learn his taste. Finally. He feels heavy on my tongue, hot, so much hotter down here than anywhere else. His marshmallow taste is also thicker down here, muskier.
More potent.
Like a drug uncut and crystal clean.
One hit of it and I’m addicted. I’m hooked.
I am a slave.
Again, like he wanted me to be.
I’m a slave to his taste. To his length, his thickness. I’m a slave to his velvet skin stretched over the strongest steel. I’m a slave to that pulsing vein running along the base of his dick. I’m a slave to his rough hands that are now framing my face, his fingers buried in my hair to keep my head in place so he can push in and out, set a pace without my interference.
My permission even.
Although that’s not true.
He has my consent. He always did and he always will.
Consent to make me gag and choke and steal the rest of my breaths away.
Because I realize I’m doing the same to him.
I’m stealing his breaths too. I’m taking them away with my moans and giving them back with my gags. I’m making them faster when I move my tongue against that vein of his. And slowing them down when I open my throat more and more to have him inch down.
And it’s making me buzz. It’s making go lax and loose. So much so that he switches his technique. So far, he was keeping me still and bent over him, my mouth choking with his cock as he moved up and down.
But now he goes still and uses my mouth to jack himself off.
I don’t know what’s better.
Being still or being used as a blow-up doll.
I think I’m leaning toward the blow-up doll option because this way, he’s able to go deeper. This way, he’s finally conquering my throat like he wanted to. Not to mention this way I’m making a puddle in his lap. I’m making a puddle on my chest, drooling and slobbering all over his cock and myself.
So with this, I’ve given him my mouth, my drool, my breaths, my complete surrender.
I think I’ve become his perfect cum dumpster.
So now I can die happy.
Maybe that’s what I’m doing. Maybe that’s why my body is so loose. I’m so dizzy. My throat is so sore, along with my jaw and I’m seeing stars behind my closed eyelids… hey, another thing that he wanted from me.
He wanted me to see stars.
He said he’d give me his cum if I did that. So does that mean I…
Suddenly, air slams back into my lungs and I lose him.