Eight #2
I draw in a sharp breath, my hips rising.
He teases my entrance, circles my clit, and brushes a fingertip across it.
His touch is too damn effective. It’s like he knows exactly what I like, exactly how I would be doing it if I was pleasuring myself.
Only when it’s him, and not me, it’s even more arousing.
No. Don’t get turned on by this.
But it’s impossible not to. My body is responding to him, and I’m not even trying to resist. I don’t want it, I don’t want him, but I can’t deny how good it feels.
There’s nothing I can do to prevent him, and the position gives him all the access he needs. I can only imagine how I look to him, even when he’s not spreading me open. A whimper slips out, but it’s shame, nothing more. I bite my lip until I taste blood, trying to fight my responses with pain.
He doesn’t stop. Minutes pass, and I’ve no idea how many.
I’m trying to resist him, I really am, but he’s relentless.
I’m suddenly aware I’m making noises into the sofa cushion.
The pleasure is building, and I can’t stave it off.
He’s not even rubbing my clit like he’s forcing it on me, but instead he’s teasing me with repeated, gentle touches.
It’s so much worse. So much harder to withstand.
I try to squirm away, but my legs are pinned. My hips won’t move enough, and he follows me easily. I’m only giving him a view with all my squirming, and achieving nothing.
Then he slides a finger inside me, stroking my g-spot, and focuses on my clit too. It’s too much, and I crash through into my release, wailing my shame into the cushion of my couch.
“I told you this is what you wanted,” he says, as he brushes a fingertip across my clit, sending an aftershock through me.
“Fuck you.” The words come out through gritted teeth, my face pressed into the cushions, my bottom lifting of its own accord. I can’t fight what he’s inflicted upon me, and I can’t fight him. I hate him with every fiber of my being.
“I didn’t catch that,” the bastard says. “One more time?”
I turn my head to the side, so there’s nothing muffling my voice. “Fuck. You.”
“You sound a little bitter,” he observes. “Have I not been gentle? Have I not been considerate? Are you professing that you don’t like this?”
Is he serious right now?
Gentle? When he gripped my throat? All but tore my robe off me? When my ass is throbbing with his spanks?
Considerate, when he’s bound my wrists and forced me face-down across his lap, despite my protests?
And he thinks I like this?
“You’re fucking delusional.”
“And you’re stubborn. We both know you’ve been thinking of me since the terrace. We both know this is your fantasy.” His finger toys with my entrance, spreading my wetness around, as if to illustrate his point. “I’m giving you what you want, what you need.”
How can he know that? He can’t, he’s guessing. It’s to my shame that he’s absolutely one hundred percent correct.
But that changes nothing, I tell myself. I decide, not him, not my body, not the way my hips twitch involuntarily at his touch.
“And I have been gentle,” he adds, and pushes his finger back inside me. “Would you prefer I wasn’t?”
How am I supposed to think when he’s penetrating me? When he’s just made me come? I can’t shut him out of my head or my body.
Maybe he has been gentle—by his standards. He spanked me a hell of a lot harder on the terrace, and he didn’t twist my arm up behind my back or crush my throat. He hasn’t hurt me, not really, and I know he could’ve. He’s stroked my ass and kissed the back of my neck like it means something to him.
But the question of whether I like it is simple. I hate it, and I hate him.
“Since when have you cared what I want or don’t want?” I say bitterly. And that’s the point, right there.
He chuckles, like my response genuinely amuses him. “Everything I’ve done is what you want. So in denial, my Little Stray.”
I’m so lost in my anger that it takes a moment for his words to land.
“Stray?” I echo, bewildered.
“Yes, stray. You wandered somewhere you shouldn’t and got claimed.”
Claimed? Fuck.
“You can’t claim me.” I struggle on his lap, but his finger doesn’t stop moving inside me, back and forth, teasing and slow and so distracting.
“I can, I have. You can’t escape me, Little Stray.”
“You don’t understand no,” I hiss, “do you understand never?” I writhe my hips in an attempt to pull away. It’s not very effective and doesn’t seem to bother him.
“Do you want more punishments? I could be persuaded.” His finger slides from within me and his hand comes down on my ass, harder than before.
I freeze, the breath knocked from me. That hurt. He’s not playing, this time.
Shit. Was he playing before?
“No…” I gasp out.
“Are you going to behave, my Little Stray? Last chance.”
I close my eyes, resistance crumbling. What’s the point, when all he’ll do is punish me harder, then keep asking? “…Yes…”
“Good girl.” His grip on me loosens. “You may sit up.”
I’m not his good girl. I’ll never be his good girl. This isn’t submission, it’s practicality.
And I realize I’ve had that very thought before, on the terrace.
He lifts my shoulders like I weigh nothing to him, drawing me back until I’m kneeling beside him, face flushed in embarrassment at how I must look.
“So fucking gorgeous,” he murmurs, running his gaze over me. “I can’t wait any longer. I need to be inside you.”