Chapter 25 #4
But it’s definitely hard to stay focused on it as he continues to lick and suck at my folds, his tongue darting inside me to touch the part of me that makes me buck desperately, his hands keeping a firm hold on my nipple and butt.
He’s squeezing them hard enough that it already hurts every time I writhe and arch at his touch.
But when I invariably turn away from the screen from my nerves exploding at what he’s doing to me, he punishes me by pinching me even harder.
It doesn’t take long for me to feel the orgasm build up in me, but just when I reach the peak, he draws away sadistically.
“Quill!” I blubber, squirming in frustration and trying to reach down to give myself the single touch that would be enough to get me hurtling over the edge.
But he practically crushes my nipple and butt cheek in response, and it takes every ounce of determination I have to keep my arms at my sides.
“You moved outside when I told you not to, and you eavesdropped,” he breathes into my folds. “You’re a very naughty cricket and I’m going to punish you all night long.”
“Not like this!” I protest. “Give me a spanking or something! Don’t punish me like this!”
But Quill is already back at my folds, turning my core into liquid heat as he resumes his torture. And once more, leaving me hanging just when I feel myself explode.
“Qui-i-ill,” I whine, as he instead directs his attention to my thighs, nipping at me painfully, then takes each of my stiff nipples in his mouth, rolling them around over his tongue, before biting down on them just hard enough that I yelp.
He keeps tormenting me until I’m sweating, my whole body tense at the continued denial.
He’s still going when the movie finishes, and I wonder how the hell he’s got the stamina to continue his relentless torture.
His jaw must be aching, but clearly, the boy I’ve fallen in love with thrives on driving me frantic.
I’m lying back on the pillow, panting heavily, my body aching with the need to orgasm, when he at last says, “Do you want to come, little cricket?”
I’m closer to swearing than I’ve ever been in my life. “F-f-freaking yes.”
“The punishment’s not over,” he warns, and I just have time to wonder how the hell he can possibly punish me by making me come, when with just a few swipes of his tongue, he’s sending me crashing over the peak of the wave.
“Yes, Quill, God, yes, keep going!” I’m not even thinking straight, keeping his head pushed down against my folds. His hand has let go of my nipple and he thrusts three fingers into me, prolonging and deepening the orgasm until I wonder if I’m actually going to pass out.
But at last, what feels like the most intense orgasm he’s ever given me dies down, and I’m breathing even more heavily than I was when he was edging me.
“I came, Quill,” I gasp, trying to get his head off me. “You can stop now. I just came.”
I’m wondering how he hasn’t noticed it when he’s usually so in tune with me.
So in tune that I’ve come to believe him when he said my first time was also his first time.
He always seems to know exactly what I need and when, not because he’s experienced, but because it’s like he knows me better than I do myself.
But instead of listening to me, he keeps going, and for the first time, I feel a weird sensation in my folds. A mix of numbness and achiness, and I’ve actually gone dry.
“Quill,” I groan, “it hurts. I need a break.”
“You get a break,” he grunts between licks, “when I say you get a break.”
With that, he grabs my legs and pulls them over his shoulders, gripping my ass as he keeps going down on me.
I’m starting to understand what he means about the punishment not being over. Especially when he adds, “Let’s see how many times I can make you come tonight.”
__
Thirty-seven. Thirty-seven is apparently how many orgasms my body can push out despite being completely dry and overstimulated.
But it feels like just the thought that Quill is doing this to punish me is enough to make some deep, emotional part of me aroused, so aroused that one orgasm after another courses through me, no matter how much it feels like my body is going to literally break with each one.
I want you to punish me, Quill. I want you to force me. I want you to take away my choice. I want you to own me.
Seriously, why is my brain so messed up?
Something about the way Quill is punishing me, in this prolonged, far more frantic way than ever before, makes me wonder if it’s really a reaction to what happened with his dad.
Some sort of cathartic response. Like he needs to feel how much he owns me, how much he controls every part of me, after his dad has reminded him, with his fists and his words, just how helpless he is to control the rest of his life.
That thought makes me more determined than ever to submit to the punishment, even though I would much rather he spanked me.
But if Quill wants this, then so do I.
Still, I sigh with relief when he at last draws away. He must have come to the conclusion that I’m all orgasmed out, or maybe he just takes pity on me—no, definitely not that. I don’t think it’s possible for him to feel pity.
Whatever the case, he pulls back, freeing my thighs, which I at once press together, though this time, it’s not to relieve my frustration, but to relieve the stinging numbness of his continued assault.
Thousands of words are crowding at the tip of my tongue, from wanting to protest at this new form of sadistic punishment, to wanting to tell him I secretly want more of it, but as he presses his cheek to my sad excuse of a bosom, I settle on, “I’m hungry.”
My words are followed by a short silence, as he circles my nipples softly with his finger, and I hope he’ll ignore them, because I would much rather he touch me, even though I am starving.
But he suddenly startles out of his thoughts and jumps up.
“That’s right.” HIs face shows the same contrition as before, when he saw I was cold. “You didn’t have dinner tonight. What do you want to eat?”
“Uh…” I stare at him, taken once more by surprise at how he never thinks twice about putting me through all sorts of intense, painful punishments, but seems to feel bad when I’m cold or hungry. “Anything. Cereal, crackers, whatever you’ve got lying around.”
He frowns. “That’s not very nutritious.”
“Huh?”
“You’ve been eating far too much cereal for dinner lately. You need to get more food groups in.”
I blink at him, wondering if he’s serious right now. Also, wondering how the hell he knows what I eat for dinner.
Does he stalk me? That thought should unsettle me, though it kind of secretly thrills me.
But it also seriously embarrasses me, because he must have seen some things.
Reading naked while eating bowls of cereal and talking to myself.
Oh yeah, and all the masturbation whenever I think of what he’s done to me, and wonder what he’s got in store.
Not to mention the gas that I definitely have let rip on more than one occasion.
Basically all the things people do when they think they’re alone and that no one is watching them.
But if Quill has seen any of it, he doesn’t let on. Instead, he says, “I’d better see you eating a lot healthier from now on.”
Before I can think of a retort, he leaves the room, closing the door softly behind him. He’s gone for a while, and I lean back, yawning, idly watching TV, before suddenly noticing the time: it’s after two.
Holy crap. Has Quill really been torturing me all this time? No wonder my pussy feels just as sore as my butt usually does after I’ve spent time with him.
Oh my God. I’m supposed to get up for school in less than four hours. How am I supposed to manage a full day of school on four hours of sleep?
Quill strikes me as the kind of guy who is used to functioning on low sleep, but I definitely need my full seven hours.
I stifle a yawn as Quill walks back in, then my eyes widen when I take in the full plate of food he must have just prepared, judging from the steam emanating from it.
“Did you cook all of that?” I gasp, looking at the thick cut of steak, the rice and the broccoli.
He shrugs, putting the plate on my lap. “Eat.”
“What about you?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“So you make me a whole plate of food and you don’t eat a thing yourself?” I huff out. “That’s not very nutritious of you, is it?”
He folds his arms and surveys me, the darkness in his eyes making me shiver with want, despite the space between my legs throbbing painfully.
“I’ll make it hurt even more if you don’t hurry up,” he says, nodding at that very space, his voice thick with danger.
“I’m not hungry either,” I snap, because I secretly want him to carry through on his threat. Even though it literally feels like my folds will implode if they’re touched again.
But a loud rumble escapes from my stomach, and I flush painfully as he smirks.
Then he sits down beside me, pushes the plate aside, and lifts me onto his lap.
I snuggle contentedly in his arms, not caring about anything right now but the feel of him around me.
And he seems just as determined to keep me there, though it’s hampering him as he reaches for the plate and… cuts up the meat.
Okay, then.
Before I have time to ask why he’s doing that, he places the plate back on my knees, then lifts a loaded fork to my mouth.
“Open up,” he orders.
I giggle, letting him spoonfeed me. Or forkfeed me, rather.
Though after I’ve eaten more than half, I’m feeling pretty full, so I blurt out, “I’d rather open up for something else.”
At that, he digs his fingers into my sides, and I nearly upset the plate as my body spasms uncontrollably.
I’m so ticklish. His mind seems to grow filthy again when he feels me squirm over him, because he whips the plate down on the floor then pins me down so my back is flush against the mattress, and clambers on top of me.
“Quill!” I squeak out as he relentlessly attacks my armpits and sides.
By the time he lets up, smirking sadistically, I’m wheezing, and I feel his bulge press against my stomach.
“Where am I going to fuck you now?” he says out loud, but he’s clearly not asking me to weigh in.
“I can’t, Quill!” I protest, even though I’m twisting beneath him with want. “It’s already almost three, and I need to sleep!”
My words earn me another round of tickling that leaves me panting, and then he pins my arms above my head. “No sleep tonight,” he growls.
“But we have school tomorrow,” I manage.
He presses his lips to mine. “You’re staying with me. In bed. Tomorrow and every day after. I’m never letting you get up again. I’m never letting you leave my side.”
I shiver at the uncontrollable hunger in his voice, echoed in his eyes. It’s what I want. It’s everything I want. But I used to want something else nearly as bad. And it’s that thought that makes me stammer weakly, “It’s my senior year, Quill, and I’m trying for a scholarship…”
He draws back, scowling. “I already told you, cricket. You don’t need to worry about that ever again. I’m going to take care of you.”
I close my eyes, wishing I could just give in. I want to, so bad. But something in me rebels at the idea of being taken care of in the way he seems to have in mind, and it’s not just the thought of the Devil contracts.
I want him to own me just as much as I want to feel independent. Two needs that should feel contradictory, yet that mesh together perfectly in my heart.
“I have ambition,” I whisper at last.
His hand closes once more around my wrists, keeping me pinned down. Then I hear the sound of a zipper as he says, “Fine. We’ll go to school tomorrow. Sleep if you want to, cricket, but it’ll be with my cock inside you.”