Chapter 12 - Marisol #2
The orgasm rips through me, violent and sudden. My thighs clamp around his head, my pussy clenching around his fingers as I come on his tongue, against his mouth, my juices coating his face.
He doesn't stop. Not even a breath of mercy, not even when the aftershocks roll through me and my thighs tremble from the strain. His mouth is locked on me, a starving thing, and his fingers keep moving inside, deeper, rougher, like he’s determined to hollow me out until there’s nothing left but this.
I can’t process the pleasure, can’t ride it, can barely survive it.
My hands scrabble for purchase—the doorframe, his hair, nothing holds me.
Every nerve is lit up, raw and hyper-reactive, and the contrast of his stubble scraping my inner thigh is almost too much.
I squirm, try to push his head away, but he just clamps my hips down harder, pinning me in place.
I'm sobbing, animal noises breaking from my throat, the kind of sounds I never make, the kind of sounds I didn't know I could make.
The room tilts, my vision blurs, and there is only the relentless swirl of his tongue on my clit, the obscene wetness of his mouth, the relentless in and out of his fingers.
He looks up at me through his lashes, pupils gone pitch-black, and the sight is enough to punch another quake through my gut. He smirks—he actually fucking smirks—and says, hoarse, "Again. Come again for me."
My body obeys him before my brain even understands.
My muscles clench down, hard, and something inside me bursts.
I scream—my voice, his name, a string of expletives, I don’t know, don’t care.
He never lets up, not even as I convulse around his hand, not even as I try to twist away, not even as I claw his scalp, desperate for escape.
He keeps me there, grounded, even as I float out of myself. He’s speaking, low and guttural, praise and filth snarled together: "So good, Marisol. So fucking good."
I can feel it soaking my thighs, the shameful, shocking wetness of my own wreckage. He doesn't flinch. He licks it up, groaning, addicted, tasting everything I've got.
He finally relents, only so he can stand and yank me up, hoisting me into his arms like I weigh nothing at all.
My legs are useless, boneless, dangling over his forearm.
His hand is under my ass, warm and steady, holding me like I’m precious cargo.
He carries me to the bed and drops me onto the sheets, and I sink in, gasping, neurons still sparking wild in my skull.
I'm limp, destroyed, but he's just getting started.
He sets me on the mattress and stands over me. Finally, finally, he strips off those sweatpants.
His cock springs free and my mouth waters. He's huge: thick, veined, the head already wet with precum. I reach for him but he catches my wrist.
"No."
"I want to taste you."
"No."
He climbs over me, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand. His cock brushes against my inner thigh, leaving a wet trail, and I buck my hips trying to get him inside me.
"Desperate little thing," he mutters, but there's affection in it.
He reaches for the nightstand, pulls out a condom. I watch him roll it on, mesmerized by his hands on his own cock, the way he grips himself.
Then he's positioned at my entrance, the thick head pressing against my pussy, and I'm so wet he could slide in easily but he doesn't. He holds there, making me feel how big he is, how much he's going to stretch me.
"Nico, please…"
He pushes in with one brutal thrust.
I scream. He's so thick, stretching me beyond what I thought I could take. The burn of it, the fullness, it's perfect and too much and not enough.
His jaw clenches, tendons standing out in his neck. "Christ, the way you feel around me." The words sound like they're being torn from his throat.
He withdraws until just the tip remains, then drives back into me with enough force to make the bed frame protest against the wall. Each thrust is calculated, relentless, finding depths I didn't know existed. I feel myself building toward something impossible so soon after the last.
"Perfect," he murmurs against my ear, voice like gravel. "Take me, just like that."
His thumb finds my clit, circling in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation is devastating. I'm babbling now: his name, please, God, fuck, yes, a stream of consciousness as he fucks me with absolute precision.
But that's the problem. Even as he pounds into me, even as his cock hits that perfect spot over and over, even as his thumb works my clit perfectly, his face is controlled. Focused. Like he's performing a task.
The third orgasm builds anyway. My pussy clenches around him, my whole body going taut as a bow.
"Come," he orders. "Come on my cock."
I do. I shatter completely, my pussy pulsing around him, milking his cock, my whole body convulsing. Tears stream down my face from the intensity, and I'm sobbing his name, begging for something I can't even name.
Through it all, he watches me with those hazel eyes. Studying. But never losing control.
He pulls out.
I'm lying there destroyed, cum-drunk and trembling, when reality hits: he didn't come.
His cock is still rock hard, the condom still on but empty. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping, his whole body rigid with unspent need.
"You didn't…"
"Rest."
"But you're still hard. Let me suck you, let me…"
"No."
He climbs off the bed, removes the condom efficiently, pulls on his sweatpants over his still-hard cock. The outline of it through the fabric is obscene.
"Where are you going?"
"Shower."
The bathroom door closes. The lock clicks.
Then I hear it: the shower starting, and almost immediately, a groan that sounds like it's being ripped from his soul. The wet sound of his fist on his cock, fast and desperate. He's jerking himself off, finally letting go when I can't see him, can't touch him, can't share in his pleasure.
He had to lock a door between us to let himself come.
My chest aches worse than the soreness between my legs. He fucked me for an hour, made me come three times, had my pussy clenching around his cock, and he couldn't let himself finish with me there.
What kind of trauma makes a man need privacy from his own pleasure?
I gather my clothes with shaking hands, slip out of his room. Back in my own bed, I can still feel him: the phantom stretch of his cock, the bruises from his fingers, the beard burn on my inner thighs. My pussy throbs with satisfied soreness.
But I'm emptier than before.
Through the wall, silence.
But I know he's awake. Men who lock themselves in bathrooms to come don't sleep easy.
Good.
Let him lie there thinking about how my pussy felt around his cock. Let him remember how I screamed his name. Because this isn't over.
Nico Rosetti might be able to control his body, but I saw the truth when he was inside me: the way his hands shook when he first touched me, the way his breath caught when I clenched around him, that split second when his eyes went wild before he locked it down.
He wants to let go. He just doesn't know how.
Lucky for him, I'm very good at making men lose control.
I've spent eight years perfecting the art of destruction, usually my own, but tonight changed things.
Tonight I discovered something better than self-destruction: breaking down the walls of a man who thinks discipline can protect him from feeling.
Even soldiers who count their orgasms like pull-ups.
Tomorrow, I'm going to make him come while he's still inside me. Make him lose that perfect control. Make him give me everything: not just his cock, not just his tactical precision, but the messy, desperate, human parts he keeps locked away.
And when he does, when he finally does, I'll be the one who makes him break.