Chapter 7 Action And Reaction
ACTION AND REACTION
JAKOB
Her hand is tiny.
I am, I admit, rather improbably well-endowed; more than one previous sexual partner has stated that I ride the cusp of too big for comfort, and one woman, memorably, took one look at my erection and left without a word.
I have assumed she did so out of fear, and since she offered no explanation, that's the answer I'm going with.
Which means that Brys’s small, soft, delicate, elegant hands make my already-large organ seem even more disproportionately enormous in comparison.
My ego most assuredly needs no inflation, but it is a nice feeling, looking down and seeing her little hand wrapped around my cock, the size of my dick making her hand look even smaller and my dick even bigger.
The urge to take over is all-consuming. I deny myself that relief with vicious self-control. It means not moving at all. It means barely breathing. It means every muscle is tensed, every fiber of my being straining against the confines of my control.
I need control over something at all times. If not her, then at least myself. Control is an integral part of who I am. My urge is to control her; use her; take her.
She's got her hand wrapped around my cock, yet she's barely touching me. I want to knot my fists in her honey-colored hair and feed her my cock, inch by inch. Watch her lips stretch around me, struggle to take all of me. Watch her eyes widen as I fuck her throat, watch her try to swallow around me.
Fuck, it's been a long time.
"Do dead men fuck, Jakob?" she asks, apropos of nothing.
"Yes."
She smirks. "Interesting."
"You probably don't want to know."
"I do, though."
I cast a pointed glance at her hand, wrapped around me. "Is that really what you wish to discuss at this particular moment?"
"No," she murmurs. "Not really. But I will want to, later."
"Perhaps."
Her thumb roves lazily over my tip, the pad sliding delicately over the slit; her eyes flick from me to my cock and back, assessing me, scrutinizing my reaction. She wants my expression, I realize. She wants my reactions. She wants to get something out of me.
I don't want to allow it. I can't. I can't let anyone see the truth of me, can't let anyone see who I am—who I was.
I don't know that I know who I am—not anymore.
Maybe I never have. I can't give this woman any part of me, not even an honest reaction.
It's dangerous—for her. I am not a safe man, and not just because of this current situation.
Who I am is dangerous. My need for control, my need to dominate, to own, to master… it is obsessive and all-consuming.
I died to set Isabel free of my need for total control.
I spent a decade in near total isolation, hiding from the world and my own destructive nature.
This woman threatens to undo all of that with a single touch.
Yet here I am, offering myself to her like a lamb to the slaughter. Albeit, I am a wolf in lamb's clothing, to be sure, and I have to believe she's smart enough to know that.
I can't hold back another hiss of pleasure as her hot, small hand glides down my shaft, where she squeezes, pulses her hand up and down a few times, and squeezes again at the thick root of my cock.
She bites back a little smirk of victory at the hiss. Her tongue slips over her lower lip, vanishes. Her gaze fixes on my cock as she slides her touch upward, pulses another series of short, soft pulsing strokes at the top, twists a few times, and then gives me another plunging caress.
I have to close my eyes and breathe carefully to restrain my reaction, which is in itself a reaction, I suppose.
Another slow stroke, and then another, and now my stomach hollows out, my heartbeat slams in my chest, and my hips want to move, to push into her touch. My fists tighten as every impulse I have is screaming at me to flip her beneath me and make her scream my name until she’s hoarse.
Instead, I hold absolutely still, barely breathing as she caresses my length slowly and steadily, the liquid-smooth caresses of a woman who knows what she's doing and enjoys doing it.
"You're toying with me, Brys," I say. "You play a dangerous game."
She inches my underwear down past my hips with her free hand, one side and then the other in turn, back and forth, until I can wiggle them lower and kick them off.
"Considering how we met, I'd say courting danger is rather appropriate," she says.
I grit my teeth, catching a groan before it can escape, but my hips betray me, lifting on their own, pushing me into her hand.
"It's okay to like it." Brys shifts upright, sitting beside me with her legs crossed; I catch a glimpse of black panties between her thighs, and my gaze catches there. "I want you to like it."
I say nothing, molars grinding around a growl as she feathers several swift, shallow, loose-gripped strokes around the head of my cock, and my eyes close of their own volition.
Instantly, my mind's eye is awash with images of Brys standing in front of me in her bedroom, nude and sensual and startled.
Enormous breasts sway with her shocked gasp, mini-quakes shivering fat and flesh.
Thick pink nipples stand on end, turgid and plump and begging for my mouth, surrounded by wide areolae a few shades of pink darker than her nipples.
I knot my fists into the blanket at my sides in an increasingly vain attempt to stop myself from tearing her shirt open so I can bury my face between those monster tits of hers.
"Tell me exactly what you're thinking right now, Jakob," Brys smirks at me, licking her lips, glancing at my cock, and then back at me. "I may just decide to have mercy on you if I believe you to be genuine and honest in your answer."
"I was thinking that I'm approximately twelve seconds away from ripping that fucking shirt right off you so I can sink my face between your breasts."
"It's the only shirt I have at the moment," she says. "So maybe don't literally rip it."
"I was thinking that I've never seen tits as incredible as yours."
"You saw them for two seconds. And I have a hard time believing that, Jakob. A man like you surely must have a Rolodex full of women with silicone G-cups on speed dial."
"I do not have a Rolodex at all, and I certainly do not have any such list." I swallow hard and pause to catch my breath as Brys slides her fist down my length, her touch skating down further to cradle my balls in her palm.
"And while I do not discriminate against women who choose to augment their bodies as they see fit, if I did have a list, women with silicone G-cups would not be on it. "
"What about natural G-cups?" She licks her lips again. "Mine aren't that big, so don’t get too excited. I'm just asking."
"I couldn't care less what letters or numbers one uses," I say, "it's about aesthetics. I personally prefer to look at natural breasts, no matter the size or shape, rather than obviously fake ones. Vaguely gelatinous basketballs do not do it for me, I’m afraid—though I am not judging anyone who possesses or appreciates them.”
"Typical man," she mutters. "Nothing on the brain but tits."
"You're jerking me off, Brys." I arch an eyebrow at her. "I'm supposed to be thinking about loss indices?"
"If you're thinking about loss indices while I'm jerking you off, Jakob, then I’d take it as a compliment."
She cradles my balls in one hand, massaging them gently, rolling them in her palm, scratching delicately with her fingertips, tracing veins, and making my cock pulsate with tight heat; her other hand glides in slow rhythm on my shaft, thumb smearing over leaking precum.
Fuck.
I can't control myself much longer.
"I'm not following," I say through clenched teeth. "How is that a compliment?"
"It means you're trying not to come, which means I'm doing a good job jerking you off."
"Hard thing to do wrong."
"Want me to show you what a bad handjob feels like? I can try."
“No, that’s alright, I'll pass."
Brys brings her hand to her mouth, and then the next time she jacks my length, it's smooth and slick and hot and wet with her saliva, and the intensity of the pleasure rockets through the stratosphere. I hiss, the sound a ragged sigh from the back of my throat. "Fuck."
My curse elicits a wide, pleased grin. "Is that so?" She gnaws on her lower lip. "You like it nice and wet, do you?"
"Brys." It's a warning. "My control is fading quickly."
Her grin only spreads, eyes lighting up with eager glee. "Is that so?" She speeds the slick strokes of her hand down my shaft, pausing to pulse at the root, twisting short jerking strokes around the tip. "I'm utterly terrified, Jakob. Just petrified. Whatever shall I do?"
The heat in my belly and the pressure in my balls are unbearable. The desperation to reach release is crushing and chaotic and maddening. I've never had much self-control, sexually. In business, yes. In bed? No.
As Brys is about to find out.
I reach up and cup her cheek—her skin is softer than silk, delicate and warm, clear-complexioned and blemish-free.
She's perfect. Her hair is loose, hanging in honey-blonde waves to her mid-back, kinked from the braid of yesterday.
"Brys, I warn you again. I'm going to come in a moment.
" I brush my thumb over her lips. And it will not be your hand that receives my release. "
“Is that so?" She smirks yet again.
Perhaps she thinks I’m playing a game. More the fool, her.
I don't bother to hide my feelings, now. I let her see my need. I buck into her fist, let myself groan as she slowly caresses the aching length of my cock.
I shut my eyes again, focusing on holding back as the heat and pressure become intolerable, building to a frenzy inside me, eradicating the last vestiges of my control.
I see her again, the way she was in her bedroom.
I see her pussy, a shadow of a V between her thighs, glazed with closely-trimmed pubic hair in a narrow triangle. I see those tits again.
Stroke after stroke, Brys's delicate, gentle touch brings me closer and closer to release, and now I’m tensed and flexing as I actively clamp down on the release threatening to explode out of me.
"Brys," I snarl. "I'm going to come."
"So come. That's the whole point."
"Give me your mouth."
“What if I say no?"
"Are you?"
"No, but what if I did?"
"I am in no mood for hypotheticals, Brys. Put your mouth on my cock.” I fill my gaze with the hard glitter of authority. “Now.”
She just grins at me, slowing her strokes to the point of teasing, torturing. "I dunno. Maybe, maybe not."
I cup the back of her neck, sitting upright and forward, and put my lips to her ear. "In ten seconds, I'm going to put my cock down your throat, Brys."
She inhales sharply, a shocked gasp. "Jakob!"
"Ten."
She wraps both hands around my cock and plunges a slow slide down my length. "You're really going to count?"
"Nine."
She nips at my earlobe. "Let me help—eight-seven-six-five-four-three-two-one." She says it all in a rush. “Now what?"