Chapter 34 #2
He grabs my wrists, crossing them behind my back, and I feel something soft, another scarf, perhaps, or a tie from my drawer, binding them securely, the material biting into my skin just enough to remind me of my restraint.
I can't move them, can't steady myself, my body arched forward slightly, breasts heavy and exposed, nipples tight from the cool air and anticipation.
"Open wide." He says, and thrusts back into my mouth from his standing position. His hand in my hair pulls me closer, deeper, forcing me to take him fully.
I gag harder this time, my throat convulsing around his thickness, but he doesn't stop, holding me there for a beat before easing back. The rhythm builds, slow and deep pushes that make my eyes water under the scarf, my muffled sounds vibrating around him.
"You're such a filthy whore, aren't you? Taking it all because you crave it." His words slice through me, each one a lash that stings and soothes, my arousal dripping down my thighs now, the humiliation amplifying every sensation.
He maintains control, his grip on my hair like reins, guiding me as I bob helplessly, my knees digging into the mattress for stability.
The bind on my wrists pulls my shoulders back, thrusting my chest out, and I feel his free hand occasionally brush my nipple, pinching hard enough to make me whimper around him.
Time stretches, the act becoming a haze of suction, pressure, and the wet sounds filling the room. My jaw burns, my throat raw, but the power he wields over me ignites something primal, making me wetter with each degrading praise.
After what feels like an eternity of this torment, he pulls away completely, leaving me gasping, lips swollen and slick. I hear him move, the bed creaking as he retrieves something from nearby.
He comes back and lays me down onto the bed. Then, something soft, a feather, light and teasing, brushes against my skin. Where did he even get that?
He starts at my neck, trailing it down in lazy circles, the tickle sending shivers racing across my flesh.
It dips to my collarbone, then lower, circling my breasts, avoiding my nipples at first, building frustration. When it finally flicks over one hardened peak, I arch, a moan escaping me. He repeats on the other, the sensation maddeningly light, contrasting the earlier roughness.
"Feel that, Iris? Every inch of you is mine right now."
The feather continues its path, down my stomach, teasing the sensitive skin there, making my muscles clench. It skims my inner thighs, parting them slightly with his hand, and then… Oh God…
It brushes my clit, the barest touch that makes me buck. He circles it slowly, the feather's softness tormenting, building pressure without any real friction, my hips chasing it desperately. I'm panting now, the blindfold heightening the tease, every whisper of the feather like electricity.
"You're dripping for me, aren't you? Filthy girl, getting off on this." He keeps it up, alternating between my clit and thighs, edging me closer but never enough, my body trembling on the precipice.
He sets the feather aside with deliberate slowness, letting the sudden absence of touch feel like its own kind of cruelty. My body is already trembling, thighs slick, clit throbbing with denied need.
The blindfold keeps me locked in darkness, every sound and shift of air magnified. I hear the faint creak of the mattress as he moves, the rustle of his body settling fully onto the bed between my spread knees. He doesn’t enter me right away.
Instead, his fingers return, two of them sliding along my soaked folds without warning, parting me, tracing the swollen entrance but never pushing inside.
He circles my clit with feather-light pressure, mirroring what the plume had done moments earlier, but now it’s warmer, firmer, more precise. My hips jerk upward instinctively, seeking more, and he immediately withdraws his hand completely.
A frustrated whimper escapes me before I can stop it.
"Patience." He murmurs, voice low and amused. "You don’t get to decide when you come."
He waits until my breathing steadies, until the frantic pulsing between my legs begins to dull just slightly. Only then do his fingers return, this time sliding inside me, two thick digits curling upward, pressing against that sensitive spot that makes my spine arch off the mattress.
He pumps slowly, deliberately, letting the wet sounds fill the room while his thumb rests motionless against my clit. The combination is maddening, deep internal pressure without the external spark I’m dying for.
I rock against his hand, trying to grind my clit against his thumb. He pulls out instantly. The sudden emptiness makes me cry out. A sharp, needy sound I barely recognize as my own.
"Greedy little thing." He says, almost fondly. "You’ll take what I give you. Nothing more."
He lets me hang there, empty and aching, for what feels like minutes. My body twitches with aftershocks, every muscle clenched, begging silently.
When he finally touches me again, it’s with the flat of his tongue, broad, deliberate strokes that start low, dragging from my entrance all the way up to my clit in one unhurried sweep.
The warmth of his mouth contrasts sharply with the cool air that’s been teasing my exposed skin, and the first contact alone makes my thighs tremble violently.
He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t suck, doesn’t flick, doesn’t give me anything sharp or fast. He just laps, slow, lazy, almost casual, like he has all night to taste exactly how wrecked I already am.
Each long pass covers me completely, his tongue flat and heavy, collecting every drop of arousal that’s been building for what feels like hours.
The texture is overwhelming. Soft, wet heat gliding over swollen, oversensitive flesh. My hips jerk upward on the second lick, trying to press harder against him, but he simply follows the movement, never letting me control the pressure.
He keeps the same maddening rhythm. Up, linger for half a second at my clit without any real focus, then back down. Over and over.
By the fifth pass my moans have turned ragged, broken little sounds that catch in my throat. My body is betraying me completely now. Every muscle in my core is clenching, desperate for something, anything, to push me over.
I lift my hips higher, shameless, offering myself like I have no pride left. He lets me chase for a few more strokes, tongue pressing just a fraction firmer, enough that the coil inside me starts to wind impossibly tight.
I can feel it happening. The flutter deep inside, the way my clit throbs harder with every heartbeat, the heat spreading outward until my whole pelvis feels like it’s glowing.
My breathing turns shallow and frantic. I’m right there, teetering, every nerve screaming for release. And then he stops. Completely.
He pulls back so suddenly the absence feels like a physical slap. I hear the faint wet sound as his mouth leaves me, feel the rush of cool air against slick, heated skin.
The mattress shifts as he sits back on his heels, putting deliberate distance between us. My hips keep rolling in tiny, helpless circles for several long seconds, searching blindly for the mouth that was just there.
Nothing. Only empty air and the humiliating drip of my own arousal sliding down my inner thighs.
I’m panting so hard my chest hurts. The blindfold is soaked at the edges from tears, but fresh ones prick behind my eyelids now, frustration, need, humiliation all twisting together until I can barely think.
"Please…" The word slips out, cracked and raw, barely more than a whisper.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t acknowledge the plea.
Instead I feel him shift forward again. This time it’s not his tongue. The blunt, hot head of his cock nudges against my folds, slow, torturously slow glides that part me without entering.
He drags himself upward through the wetness he’s created, coating every inch of himself, then presses the underside right against my clit. Just enough pressure to make me gasp, to make my hips snap upward again, chasing that brief spark of friction. Then he slides back down.
He teases the entrance, dipping in the shallowest inch, letting me feel the stretch, the promise of fullness, before retreating entirely. The withdrawal is agonizing. My walls clench around nothing, fluttering uselessly.
He repeats the motion.
Up to my clit again, a firmer press this time, circling once, twice, letting the ridge catch just right before pulling away.
Down again, another shallow dip, another retreat. Up. Circle. Down. Dip.
Each cycle is identical in cruelty, but the intervals between feel longer every time, as though he’s watching, counting my breaths, waiting until my body starts to climb before snatching it away.
By the second full pass I’m whimpering continuously, small, pitiful sounds I can’t stop. By the third my thighs are shaking so badly I can barely hold the position on my knees. By the fourth I’m outright sobbing, quiet, hiccuping sobs that make my whole body jolt.
Tears stream freely under the blindfold now, soaking into the scarf.
My wrists chafe painfully against the binding, shoulders screaming from being held back so long, but none of it registers over the relentless, throbbing ache between my legs.
Every nerve feels raw, over-sensitized, screaming for something to end the torture.
He pauses after the fourth withdrawal, long enough that I think maybe, maybe this time he’ll take pity. My hips keep twitching, small aborted thrusts into empty space.
I can feel how swollen I am, how obscenely wet, how every tiny movement sends fresh sparks of frustrated pleasure-pain through me. Still he waits.
My sobs quiet into shaky, uneven breaths. I’m trembling all over, sweat cooling on my skin, muscles burning from strain and denial. Only when the frantic edge of my arousal has dulled just slightly, just enough that I’m no longer right on the brink, does he move again.