11. Naz
ELEVEN
NAZ
I think I created a monster. Or some kind of madman.
It’s on me for not believing him. It’s not as if Scott has ever told me he was going to do something and then didn’t follow through.
I really didn’t think he was capable of this kind of marathon sex, though.
I mean… I didn’t think anyone was. I can cum maybe twice in an hour, and then I’m pretty well done.
I don’t know that I’ve ever attempted to do more than that.
Usually, when the sex part is over, he cleans me up and does his aftercare bullshit, and the night is over.
I’m not really sure how many times he woke me up through the night.
At least two… maybe three? He had me so fucked up, I dreamt about him fucking me, and it all kind of runs together in my memory so who knows?
It could have been twice, it could have been ten times for all I’m capable of remembering.
He fucked me awake this morning, too. Then he fucked me bent over in the bathroom with my hands braced on the shower wall, so my head and back were under the spray of the shower.
Afterwards, he made a show of keeping me plugged with his cock while washing the butt plug before putting it right back in.
I spent a good bit of the morning on the phone working on details for my grandfather’s care.
None of it was too bad. Emmy’s help has everything moving so much smoother than I anticipated.
I’d be lying if being forced to reconnect to the real world wasn’t a little disappointing, but I didn’t have to think about it long because the moment I put the phone down, I was bent over the kitchen counter and fucked until I couldn’t think about it anymore.
That was sometime between breakfast and lunch.
A little while later, I got snarky, which got me dragged into the bedroom and basically folded in half like a lawn chair.
He didn’t let me come until I begged, and then he had the audacity to record it.
Afterwards, he lay there and teased me with a vibrator while making me listen to myself beg until we were both hard again.
I’ve never been so humiliated, turned on, and fucked out in my life.
A couple of hours after that, I was enjoying a new audiobook about a human office worker who lusts after his boss, who just happens to be a minotaur who delivers bucket-sized loads.
I found myself pushed to my hands and knees right around the same time the employee was getting frosted in his office bathroom.
I wonder if he’d be offended if I asked if he took anything to get it up so many times. I also wonder what kind of consequences I’d incur if I did ask. It’s a fair question, but he might see it as a challenge.
Then again, it’s been a few hours. It’s by far the longest time I’ve gone without a dick in my ass since last night.
I’m currently bent over a kitchen stool on my back deck. Outside. Bare ass naked. Just waiting.
He played with me a little when he led me out here, but to my utter confusion, he told me to stay and then walked away.
Left me alone. Ass, dick, and balls hanging out for the world to see.
Outside. With a construction crew on the other side of the property.
It’s unlikely they could see me from here, but it’s not impossible. I’m pretty fucking exposed.
I’ve lost track of time, but by the angle that the sun is hitting the lake, I’d say it’s probably late afternoon. Given the smells coming from the open back door, I’m pretty sure Scott is cooking, but it can’t be dinner time yet. Can it?
My stomach growls. I’ve been eating pretty light today, but even my hunger is overshadowed by the anticipation of waiting for him, of not knowing when he’s going to come out here and fuck me into oblivion again.
He was right about that, too. It’s the only thing I can think about.
And yes, for the record, I’m really fucking sore. My ass hurts. It hurts every time I shift with the plug inside me, and it hurts every time Scott shoves his fat cock inside me. I’m pretty sure my asshole is wrecked. I am truly not going to be able to sit for a week.
But I fucking love it.
It’s embarrassing just how much.
The dynamic between Scott and I was hard for me to come to terms with at first. Whether because of my grandparents’ expectations of me, or the pressures of being a public figure, or just my own backwards pride and ideals, I’ve always been the dominant one in any situation.
Not in the way Scott is during our sessions, just overall.
I was in charge. I was the one giving. It’s probably some kind of internalized misogyny, but I normally only slept with people who were smaller than me.
And once we hit true fame, people would throw themselves at me because they wanted to get fucked by a rockstar, and they had expectations on how that would go.
No one’s ever just wanted to fuck Naz the guy. Except Scott.
Scott is the exception to it all. He’s nothing like what people expect. He’s nothing like who I would typically gravitate to.
He sees me for who I am, and he understands what I need. I have a feeling that he’s probably the opposite of how he is with me with other people. But for whatever reason, he chose to be this person, to fulfill this role, for me.
Maybe I’m delusional. Maybe he does all of this just to get in my pants, or maybe he gets off on dominating a rockstar. I really don’t think so, though. He prides himself on the care he gives in all aspects of our relationship, sexual and professional.
I’ll never admit it out loud, but it’s not just the fucking and being used that I like.
It’s the moments after, in between, and before.
It’s the balance he takes so much care to maintain.
Even when we’re in the thick of it, no matter how intense it gets, there is a give and take between degrading me and treating me like an inanimate object and taking care of me.
Today he’s using me just as ruthlessly as he said he would—with zero mercy. Still, he asks me if I’m ready every time and gives me a clear opening to say no, while trying not to be too obvious that he’s checking in.
He tells me when I can or cannot come but makes obvious adjustments to the way he’s fucking me to make sure I get there. And then after, he gives my ass a little pat or kiss, like he’s telling me I did a good job. It’s kind of sweet.
When he’s not fucking me, he’s pretending to ignore me, like I’m truly a piece of furniture meant for humping to death.
But he’s also making me meals, passing me glasses of water to make sure I’m hydrated, and hinting that I can take a bathroom break whenever I need to even though he technically expressly told me not to remove the plug and let any of his cum escape.
I’m not sure who Scott Riley is for other people, or what kind of relationships he’s had in the past, but he does this for me, and it’s everything.
I trust him.
Which is why I’ve been bent over this stool for so long I’ve lost track of how long it’s been.
Long enough that the pillow he put under my chest has become obsolete, the edges of the chair digging into my rib cage.
My legs are sore, and every time I relax my neck and let my head droop, all the blood rushes to my head. I kind of have to pee.
But I keep waiting.
I’ve been waiting for so long that I keep going soft, but every time I hear movement behind me, I chub up again.
I stay this way until the sounds of the construction stop and the rumble of engines and tires over gravel get louder, then dwindle away. It must be the end of the workday.
Scott finally comes to retrieve me, but that’s all he does. It’s not until he is looming over me that he speaks, “Follow me.” He turns and leads me back into the house. After asking me if I need the bathroom, he kicks over a pair of slides for me to wear and opens the door.
All I’m wearing is the leash and collar he put on me last night, a pair of slides, and whatever remnants of cum, saliva, and lube he’s left on me. Still, he opens the front door and gestures for me to go ahead.
“Scott.”
“Yes, pet?”
“I’m naked.”
“I’m aware,” he says, tracing his eyes down my body appreciatively.
I trust him. Enough to believe he wouldn’t actually allow me to walk out of here leashed and naked if there was any chance someone might see me this way. Not just because he knows that’s the last thing I would want, but because he’s a possessive motherfucker for someone so nice.
Slowly, I walk through the door. He follows me out, then takes hold of my leash and leads me, like a dog, across the gravel drive and down to the backyard of the big house. The pressure of the plug moves with every step, making me walk slightly bow-legged.
“What are we doing?”
“I thought we’d have a little picnic. The grass is nicer here.”
He pulls off a backpack I hadn’t noticed before, unrolls a blanket and spreads it out on the grass before telling me to sit.
I do as I’m told, if not a little gingerly, choosing to rest on my side while I watch him unpack the meal.
There are two large containers of pasta with grilled chicken, peas, carrots, and some kind of white sauce.
Plus a few smaller containers with cut fruit and mixed berries.
“That’s a lot of food.”
“You’ve barely eaten all day.”
“Yeah, well…” I shrug, vaguely gesturing to myself as if the reason would be obvious.