Chapter 9 Beyond The Edge
BEYOND THE EDGE
JAKOB
My god, what delight she is. I want to reward her until she can't see, hear, breathe, or move. I want to fuck her into the next millennium. I want to watch her tits shake as she takes my cock in that plump, pretty pussy.
Yes, plump.
She's not a slender woman. She's curvy. Soft. Thick thighs, bell-curve hips. Huge, teardrop breasts. Silky, pillowy, tender belly. A big, juicy, round ass. And a pretty pussy with plump, pink lips.
Fuckable.
Kissable.
Mine.
I feel my predilection for obsession taking hold—I try to wrestle it back into its prison and lock it up and bury it down deep.
I nearly destroyed one woman with my obsession; I will not do so to another.
Not this woman.
She's brave, she's smart, she's successful. She wields authority like a whip, and that is utterly intoxicating. She's the master of her world, in control, arrogant, cold, and powerful. It's fucking addictive.
The fact that she very obviously craves submission is a fantasy come true.
Isabel had to be taught. I had to wrest control from her, and she fought me at every turn.
Victory, then, was all the sweeter because it was so hard-earned, it is true, and I do not deny it.
But in retrospect, that was not consensual, and I like to think I have grown as a human since then.
Brys wants to give me what I want to take. She wouldn't admit it—she can't, I would guess. But it was clear she was willingly giving me her submission at every turn.
And I am lost to her. She doesn't know it—can't. She may never know, as I am incapable of that kind of vulnerability. But it's true. And if she continues to crave the power play that just occurred, she will own my very soul.
She stands at the window, naked and lush and goddamned breathtaking.
Bold and fearless and unashamed and proud.
Submitting to me does not dim her energy, does not crush her spirit, does not deflate her pride.
It energizes her.
The light in her eyes as she looked up at me with my cock down her throat was brilliant and full of glee and arousal.
I didn't know such a woman could exist, that anyone could want to give the very thing my fucked-up psyche demands I take.
I hold all this within myself and keep my face composed into the mask of indifference I have worn every moment of every day of my life for so long that I no longer know how to remove it.
I am the Man in the Iron Mask.
God, I need to fuck her. I need to own her pussy. I need to own her asshole. Her mouth. Her words. Her gaze. Her hands.
I want to paint her face and tits with my cum.
I want to put a vibrator in her ass while I fuck her sweet, tight, plump pussy.
I want to hold her all night long and whisper words of adoration as she tumbles into sleep.
I want to protect her.
Shelter her.
Keep her locked up in a tower because she's MINE.
I savagely shove that line of thinking away; I am no longer that man.
"Jakob. Please." Her whisper jolts me back to the present, and I realize I’ve been lost in my thoughts for who knows how long, while she stands, waiting, needing, and watched by a stranger.
"What do you want, Brys?"
"Let me come, Jakob. I need to come." She leans back against me, turns her face to mine, whispering. "Please."
I wrap my hand around her throat—cupping, holding, not squeezing. Her breath catches on a shudder at my touch, making her tits jiggle. God, she's going to be so fucking gloriously beautiful when I let her come.
I shuffle backward a touch, keeping my hold on her throat, forcing her off-balance so she has no choice but to lean against me, to trust me to support her weight. I'm ravenous for her, but I keep a savage grip on my need.
"Jakob? Please. Touch me. Please." Her voice is a ragged hiss. Desperate. Her hips buck forward, seeking touch.
One hand cupping her throat, my thumb on her pulse-point, I at last gather the satin weight of her breast in my other, and I cannot hold back a groan at the glory of it. Hot and heavy and so soft, the tender globe fills my palm and spills over it. I tweak her nipple, and she gasps sharply.
The smoker has lit another cigarette, watching shamelessly.
I release her breast to fall heavily, bouncing and swaying. Cup the other, tweak her nipple, getting another sharp gasp.
"Sensitive, aren't you, Brys?"
"Yes, Jakob. Very sensitive."
I flick her nipples, scrape my thumbnail over the turgid tips until she whimpers. "You like that?"
"Yes, Jakob."
I slap her breast—sharp, with a loud smack. She screams, a shrill, wordless cry, more out of shock than pain. "Jakob!"
"How about that? You like that?"
"I…I don't…"
I smack her other tit the same way, and she dips at the knees. I caress them, then, tenderly, gently, until the tension in her body eases…and then I smack her breasts again, right then left, hard. Her knees almost give out, and she whimpers, biting her lip.
"Jakob!"
"Do you like that, Brys?"
"No!"
"Liar." I do it again, right then left. Caress, smack. Caress, smack. And each time, she gasps louder, sharper, more shrill, more breathless. "You do like it. Don't you?" I nip her earlobe. "You don't want to like it, but you do."
"Yes. I like it."
"Just like you secretly like letting that man down there watch."
"Yes, Jakob. I do. It's hot."
"You know you'll never see him again. It turns you on knowing he's watching this.
Knowing it's not for him. It's for us. Yet there he is, watching.
" I slide my hand down her belly and drive my middle finger inside her pussy.
“He's watching me finger your tight…hot…wet…little…cunt." I emphasize the ‘c’ and ’t’ sounds, just to shock her.
She gasps at the word, at the intensity of my pronunciation.
“Yes!” she gasps. "I like it."
"You want him to watch. You want him to see your naked body and wish it were him up here. Don't you?"
“Yes, Jakob." It sounds like her words are being dragged out of her by a team of horses. "I want him to watch you make me come. I want him to go home and fantasize about us. About me. Knowing he'll never have me, not like you do."
I slick my finger in and out of her pussy. "Hear that?" I add a second finger, my ring finger, and my thrusting fingers make a loud, wet squelching sound. “Hear how wet you are for me?"
"I hear it."
"What are you going to do when I make you come, Brys?" I demand.
"Scream as loud as I can."
"Scream what?"
"Your name."
I drive my fingers inside her, gather her dripping essence, and smear it over her clit, making her jump, buck, and quiver. "Scream for me, Brys."
She whimpers instead. "Jakob—oh…god."
I drive my fingers inside her, curl them, and scrape the pads against her inner walls, and she gasps, mouth dropping open and shuddering; a soft, breathless cry escapes her throat when I drag her juices over her clit again, and this time, I keep touching.
Circling. swiping. Flicking. Bring her to shuddering and bucking, and then plunge my fingers inside her and fuck her with them until she's shuddering all over again.
Then her clit again. Back and forth, never letting her find a rhythm until she's grinding and gyrating and snarling like a wildcat, desperate and feral.
"Jakob!" she cries, "Please! Fuck, please, just make me come."
“Not yet. I don't believe you want it."
She lets out a soft sob. "I need it so fucking bad, Jakob. Please. How can I convince you I need it?"
I grin at the way she begs. "Fuck yourself on my fingers."
Her arms sling up around my neck, and she tangles her fingers together around the back of my neck and hangs on to me as she sinks onto my fingers.
I bring my other hand down and press a delicate touch to her clit while she rides my fingers.
Her movements are slow and hesitant at first, but as she finds the rhythm and balance, she gains confidence and speed.
Soon, she's grinding on my fingers with everything she's got, whimpering and gasping.
Within seconds, I feel her shudder, trembling all over with a building climax.
"Jakob!" She pants. "Oh—oh god. Oh god. Yes. Please, please, don't stop."
"I'm not doing anything, Brys. You are."
She loses the rhythm, then, when her legs buckle, and her balance gives out. "Please, Jakob. I—I can't. I need you to—" even her voice gives out, then. "Please." It's soft, breathy, and desperate.
"Ask." I drive my fingers inside her, plunge them deep, fuck her with them. "Ask for it, Brys."
"Make me come. Please, Jakob."
"Be specific."
"Anything, goddammit. Fuck me. eat me out. Finger me until I come. Anything, Jakob, just please fuck, let me come."
"You have to ask for what you want, Brys."
"Eat me—fuck, please, Jakob. Please. Eat me out. Fucking…devour my pussy. Let me ride your face. Please. I'm begging, Jakob. I'll suck your cock again. I'll do anything you want, please, just—just please fucking god eat my pussy."
I drop to my knees with my back to the window—this is a Best Western, tragically, so the windows are waist-high.
The effect is far more dramatic when she's pressed up against floor-to-ceiling windows with all of Manhattan spread below her.
But this…it's almost hotter for the fact that we're three floors up and a hotel patron is watching us from the parking lot.
I put everything but Brys out of my mind, then; she is a goddess, and she deserves worship.
I wonder if she is cognizant of her own majesty, her intoxicating beauty, her seductive eroticism.
I extend my tongue and drag it along her seam, making her shudder deliciously. "Ahhhh god, Brys. You taste like fucking honey."
She groans. "Jakob. Oh god."
I taste her slit again, dragging my tongue over her plump, delicate lips, which glisten with her dripping desire. Again and again, until she's quaking and panting.
"Have you ever tasted yourself, Brys?"
"No, Jakob."