Chapter 4 #3
No. No one had ever done anything like this. Despite all the dreams I’d had, I had never sucked a cock before.
Both hands locked on the sides of my head as he drove in harder, his cock jerking in my mouth with every thrust. I whimpered, and more tears streamed down my face.
I wanted to taste him so badly I thought I’d die if he stopped.
Then a shudder tore through his body. His fingers squeezed my face.
I felt his cock start to pulse before he slammed into my mouth so deep his pubic hair tickled my nostrils.
And then he came. Like a torrent. The thick, salty cum shot down my throat as my body rebelled, and I gurgled and choked and drowned in it until I forced myself to swallow.
It was everywhere—the roof of my mouth, under my tongue, settling into the grooves of my molars—the rest spilling out around his shaft to slide down my chin.
He dropped my face and took a step back as I slumped forward, cock throbbing so hard one touch would set me off. Just one…
My hands were immediately yanked away. I let out a cry of frustration as my arms were hauled behind my back and the cuffs snapped shut again.
I knelt there, chest heaving, face a dripping mess, as the lion king crouched in front of me on the balls of his feet. His massive dick was hidden away in his pants, as if the last few minutes hadn’t even happened. He barely looked winded.
Meanwhile, I was definitely going to die. My cock hurt like a bitch, and my balls were on fire. I stared at the floor, mouth slack, feeling somehow less than human.
His fingers gripped my chin in a deceptively gentle touch, and he drew my face up to meet his eyes. “Still think I can’t handle you?”
I let out a rough laugh. Or it might have been a groan. I made some sort of noise. His lips parted, and his gaze darted down to my still-hard dick before returning to my eyes.
“Don’t you dare come.”
He stood. The door opened. A burst of sunlight shone through. The door shut. And then I was alone again, wet with spit and another man’s cum.
For a long time after, I didn’t move. I wasn’t sure I could. My throat was on fire, and I tasted nothing but salty, musky cum. There wasn’t any water to wash it down—nothing but my own spit. I ran my tongue over my lips, the roof of my mouth, the back of my teeth. I could taste him everywhere.
Denying me an orgasm should have sent me into orbit. The Devlin from a year ago would have been out of his mind. But as I knelt there on that dirty floor, cock still tenting my jeans, all I could hear was his command.
Don’t you dare come.
Maybe I could have ground one out on the floor. Maybe I could have humped myself into an unsatisfying orgasm on my cot, like some horny teenager. But I didn’t want to. Not really. I wanted the roar of blood in my ears, the ache of denial in my balls.
Once my cock had finally softened enough that it didn’t feel like a third leg, I struggled to my feet.
The chain rattled across the floor as I stumbled over to the cot and collapsed.
I rolled to my side, head on the meager pillow, eyes growing heavy, and I replayed images from earlier.
His thick, tattooed knuckles around the base of his cock.
That piercing. His full balls. His penetrating stare while he made me take it.
I heard the echo of my choked breathing in the small space as my cock grew hard again. And I let it.
I was thirty-fucking-three years old, and I’d never had a sexual experience like that. I’d imagined it so many times. I’d watched porn and jacked off until my eyes crossed and my dick was raw. I’d tried to fuck myself with dildos and plugged my ass with vibrators. Nothing had worked.
My earliest crush had been on Conrad Stafford, my best friend and protector when I was a kid.
I’d clung to that crush until it had turned into a full-blown obsession in my late teens.
I’d jerked it to dreams of him fucking my face.
To fantasies of him tying me to a bed and reaming my ass with his big dick.
To the thought of wearing his collar and handprints.
I’d saved myself for him. Made sure I was good, so he’d want to keep me. In my naive, teenage mind, that had been the right thing to do. And when I’d finally confessed my feelings, he’d been visibly horrified by the thought of touching me.
That feeling of rejection had been all-consuming, and my sexual appetite plummeted as rage replaced the need for affection.
During my reign as the Detroit Devil, I’d only allowed myself a few blow jobs—usually from one of the sex workers in my employ—and they didn’t want to be there any more than I did.
In my more lucid moments over the years, I’d entertained a few fantasies. And in them, my former crush had shifted into a faceless man. The man who’d finally force me to my knees. The man I’d been convinced I’d never meet, because he didn’t exist.
But that man wasn’t faceless anymore. He had blue eyes, cruel lips, big hands, and a broad chest.
And he roared like a lion.