11. Anna #3
When he said he wanted to appreciate every inch of me, I didn’t think he meant literally, but he takes his time working his mouth down past my navel and from hip bone to hip bone.
Maybe I’m not the only one starved of human connection. The sounds escaping him are infinitely more masculine but just as wanton. If he was simply interested in getting his rocks off, he’d be done by now.
That acknowledgment, feeling his erection pressing into my leg, finally has my body reconnecting with my brain, because common sense tells me where this is going.
No matter how much affection he may be paying me right now, in a minute he’ll be doing far worse, invading my body with a hunger he no doubt possesses.
I attempt to keep my legs shut, but it proves fruitless the moment his hands grip my thighs, pulling them apart and exposing me entirely to him.
“Fucking perfection.”
I still anticipate the moment when he decides this cruel trick has played out long enough.
I can only imagine he’s waiting for me to relax, waiting for that moment when I least expect him to go through with it.
And that’s when the knife will pierce into my flesh.
Why else would he insist on blindfolding me?
You can fuck someone while wearing a mask.
I jerk again, however, when he makes it clear that’s not what he’s after. His dick may be as hard as steel, yet getting himself off doesn’t seem to be his objective.
Because that’s not his cock probing my entrance. It’s his mouth. He licks and kisses along my folds, teasing my clit with nothing more than the heat of his breath.
I’m only vaguely aware that I hiss something at him, likely a curse, inviting his lips to pull into a smile against me as his laugh vibrates over my skin.
“Impatient, are we?” His tongue pushes between my folds, and when he runs it over my clit, a gasp escapes me despite my best efforts.
Jesus, does this man know what he’s doing.
He pulls my clit into his mouth and begins sucking hard on it before I feel a finger push inside of me.
Then two. His pace begins slow and steady, but my response is all the invitation he needs to proceed.
Some rationality in me tries to fend off the pleasure, tries to lock up and suppress the confusing wave of sensations he wrings from me, but he’s unrelenting, pumping into me faster and faster until he finally curls those digits, hitting my g-spot.
I can’t resist it anymore. I can’t resist him .
I grind against his mouth, needing pressure on my clit, and he’s all too willing, gripping my thigh with his free hand and thrusting me down on his mouth.
It’s so sudden I can’t prepare for the orgasm that overtakes me.
My pussy clamps around his fingers as I explode, riding the sensation to its conclusion.
But it doesn’t dissipate. The orgasm spreads from my core up into my chest, into my limbs, into my very marrow.
It hits so hard that I don’t have a voice.
I can’t do anything but collapse into the bed, into him, as I’m reduced to a trembling collection of limp, sated limbs.
Aftershocks roll through me as he continues to work my sex, lapping up my release with a sound I can only describe as male satisfaction.
It’s a groan, but there’s something almost smug about it, as if to say, “Yeah, baby, that was brought to you by me and nobody fucking else.”
And he would be right. Because I’ve never come that hard in my entire life.
This is too good. The other shoe has to fall. It always does.
This is where he’s going to rape me. This is where he grabs the knife…
But he just slides his hands up under my ass, giving it a kneading squeeze as he nips my clit with his teeth one last time. “Keep this in the memory bank for the next time you can’t get off.”
Yeah, he’s definitely smug.
But…what did he say?
He can’t possibly know about my problems masturbating.
Can he?
The weight on the mattress shifts, and from the vague shapes I can see, it looks like he’s pulling his shirt back on. He reaches over to where the knife is lying, not two feet from my hip, and every inch of me goes taut, only for me to hear a soft click.
Did he just retract the blade?
I don’t dare to hope as he stands and rounds the bed, coming over to the front of the nightstand near my head.
This close to the lamp, it’s impossible not to see the full outline of his silhouette before he leans down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“Consider this your warning, my little canary. Go poking around for information on me again, and I’ll be coming back to do much more.
” The timbre of his voice is enough to elicit chills down my spine, but the dark laugh accompanying it has my thighs clenching at the promise. “Let’s hope you keep being bad.”
His teeth scrape my earlobe, and with one last laugh from him, I feel hands on my wrists, followed by the definitive click and release of my handcuffs unlocking.
With the music he turned on still playing, I can’t hear his footsteps after a certain point, and by the time I’m able to untie the scarf and pull it off, I find myself alone.
The heat of his threat still lingers quite literally in my ear, yet I can’t help adding a few more things to my description for the police.
He may have blinded me, but touch goes a very long way, especially when you’re that intimately close with the other person.
You may even pick up on some things, like the feeling of his hair against your thighs.
Not short, not long. Not straight, but not necessarily curly.
There felt to be the slightest wave to it.
And that was a clean-shaven mouth on me, no discernible trace of facial hair.
There was also the small but rough texture of skin on the inside of his left forearm.
A scar, perhaps? Maybe a fresh but healing scratch?
The itch to write these things down is nearly palpable, but I don’t dare to grab my legal pad. I don’t dare to do anything but shut off the music.
Because the unsettling feeling that he’s still watching me doesn’t dissipate.