Chapter Twenty-Two #2
It's barely audible, but he hears it. He turns off the vibrator, tossing it to the side, and slowly, gently pulls the dildo out of me. Every inch of me feels hypersensitized and overstimulated; not just my pussy, but my entire body. I can’t seem to stop whimpering or crying tears of pleasure-pain, and even though I haven’t uttered either of my safe words, Dorian begins to release my bindings, all the while quietly praising me for being such a good girl, taking what he wanted to give so well, following his instructions perfectly and coming so beautifully.
He wraps my body in his arms, not seeming to care about my sweat-coated skin, or the way I can’t stop trembling in the aftermath of twelve fucking orgasms. He spoons me, holding me close, and while I feel his erection pressing against my ass, he doesn’t do anything about it.
Doesn’t make any moves to take care of it.
He just holds me tight, fluttering kisses along my neck and shoulder.
“Easy,” he murmurs as I sob softly. I don’t know why I’m crying or why I’m emotional—I’m free, he’s no longer playing with my body as if it’s a toy, yet I can’t seem to get control of myself. My hormones are completely out of whack, and I’m uncharacteristically needy and clingy.
I turn around so we’re chest to chest, cuddling up to him and crying into his shirt. He murmurs soothing words of praise, telling me how well I did, how proud of me he is while stroking my hair with one hand and spine with the other.
“I… I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I whimper as the tears start to slow.
“Sub-drop,” he says calmly. “After the scene, when reality sets in, things start to feel weird and sometimes unpleasant. Overwhelming. Emotions get a bit twisted up, and most submissives are left with an intense feeling of vulnerability. Tears are pretty common. This is perfectly normal.”
He sounds so confident, so in control, so experienced that I trust him. I trust him to hold me, take care of me, and give me what I need. I lay the side of my cheek on his chest, not caring that I’m getting his shirt wet, and let him console me and murmur to me.
“I can see why you called that a punishment,” I say once my tears have slowed. “I feel thoroughly punished and sore.”
He kisses the top of my head. “Good. In the future, you will not sneakily try to get away from me. If you have a problem, you will come to me. Or that bit of edging and dozen orgasms you just got will seem like child’s play. Got it?”
I nod with a whimper, cuddling closer to him. “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” he soothes. “I’m not angry anymore.”
He’s… not? I know he liked what he just did to me, but was his form of punishing me really enough to negate any anger he might’ve been feeling?
“You’re not still mad?” I ask, dubious.
“No,” he replies simply. “We settled it physically. We talked, I delivered a pretty clear message. I’m over it. As long as you don’t do it again, we won’t have a problem, Mira.”
I frown, trying to concentrate on him, on his energy.
I don’t get any negative vibes, don’t feel any residual anger—merely contentment and satisfaction.
I sense that he likes holding me like this, and he likes the way we got past our conflict.
It helped him channel his anger and upset through a physical punishment, and I think he feels it sort of…
put me in my place. Not in a demeaning way, but in a way that forces me to understand where we are.
“What now?” I ask after several long moments.
“Now, I clean you up,” he replies. “A quick shower, and then a nice long soak in a warm bath.”
“I don’t think I can walk,” I admit.
I feel his smile more than see it. “I know. That’s why I’m here.
” He slowly removes his arms and scoots to the edge of the bed.
Cold overwhelms me, and the intense vulnerability comes crashing back; tears well in my eyes.
I don’t like this sub-drop thing very much.
It’s making me clingy, and I’m not a clingy person.
Dorian stands from the bed and leans over to gently scoop me up in his muscular arms. He carries me in a princess-hold as he walks to the bathroom, flicking on the lights with his elbow.
After setting me on the counter, right between the sinks, he turns on the shower.
He waits a few seconds and tests the temperature of the water, then begins to strip.
I watch as inch after inch of smooth, tan skin is revealed.
His body is something sonnets should be written about; each of his muscles are perfectly-honed.
His biceps bulge and his six-pack almost hints at an eight pack.
A dusting of dark hair trails down his naval, leading to a gorgeous cock that peeks out of his boxers.
When he catches me looking at him, he smirks.
I avert my gaze; he chuckles. “Stare all you want, baby. It’s all yours.”
I like the sound of that. I remind myself that I shouldn’t get attached.
Just because we had a scarily intimate scene and I enjoyed a day-date with him doesn’t mean that what we have is long term.
At some point soon, I’m going to need to sit him down and have a serious conversation about what this thing between us is, and what it can amount to.
As much as I’m finding I like him and we could fit together, I don’t see him as part of my life moving forward.
I’m going to vet school, and he’s going to stay embroiled in gang wars and criminal activities. Those two things can’t possibly click.
I don’t want to talk about it now, though.
Right now, I just want to be close to him.
As if sensing my train of thought, Dorian plants a kiss on my lips before moving to the marble bathtub and turning on the faucets.
He selects a vial of blue liquid that stands on the edge of the tub, drizzles in a bit of it, then scoops me up and takes me into the shower.
Patiently and with something bordering reverence, he holds me up with one hand while using the other to wash my hair.
He lathers it with a shampoo that smells of cedar and sandalwood, massaging it into my scalp, and rinses it out.
The same process is repeated with conditioner, before he takes his time washing my body with a body wash that smells like an enticing mix of fresh mint and sage.
I like the way he washes me with the utmost care and attention.
When he gets to my pussy, I whimper, and he kisses my shoulder.
“I know it’s sore,” he murmurs. “I’ll put some cream on it before we head to bed for the night, it should soothe the worst of the aches.
” He’s even gentler with my pussy than he is with the rest of my body, though no less thorough.
He kneels as he rubs my legs, even my feet, planting kisses on my skin as he goes along.
He washes himself as a quick, succinct afterthought and carries me to the tub, which is about two-thirds full and brimming with bubbles from the serum he poured into it. He turns off the faucet and helps me in, climbing in behind me.
I don’t think a man has ever given me this much attention. I know that no one’s ever cared for me enough to wash me like I’m a delicate doll made of glass. I feel worshipped and valued, sensations that could easily become addictive if I’m not careful.
When Dorian climbs in behind me, settling me between his legs, I feel the press of his erection against my back. He’s still hard—so hard it must be painful.
“Let me take care of you,” I murmur, turning around and wrapping my fist around his length, trying to keep my eyes from widening when my fingers can’t touch. His thickness is… a lot.
“No,” he shakes his head. “Not tonight. I’ll get myself off later, or in the morning. Tonight’s about you, not me.”
I blink slowly.
I know this isn’t entirely selfless on his part; he got a fuck-ton of pleasure from what just happened, but he didn’t get what most men chase—release.
He’s hard as a steel pipe and I know he wants me, but he’s making no move to get his own orgasm.
He won’t even let me jerk him off. In a way, that scene was about both of us; him showing me what he likes and what turns him on, me getting thoroughly punished for what he sees as an indiscretion.
My eyes start to droop after a few minutes in the bath, and I go lax against Dorian’s chest. It doesn’t take long for me to fall asleep, right here in the bathtub, lulled into darkness by my own exhaustion and the feel of his heart beating against my back.