7. The Invitation #4
I still couldn't see. Still couldn't touch him.
Could only feel him. His dick filling me.
His hands gripping my thighs. His breath harsh above me.
And without my sight, every other sense was amplified the way he'd said it would be.
I could feel the texture of his dick inside me.
Every ridge. Every vein. The curve of the head catching my g-spot on the upstroke because the dildo had already sensitized that spot and now his dick was hitting it and I was climbing again, already, impossibly.
"I'm gonna come again," I said. Disbelieving. "How am I gonna come again?"
"Because I layered you," he said. His hips relentless. "Vibration sensitized the nerves. Impact brought blood to the surface. The glass opened your g-spot. Your body is primed to come over and over. That's the point. That's what overload does."
His thumb found my clit. Circled. His dick deep inside me and his thumb on my clit and I was still blindfolded and tied and overwhelmed and I came again.
Clenching around him so hard he cursed. My body seizing, my thighs shaking, the orgasm ripping through me in a wave that started at my clit and rolled all the way up to my scalp.
He fucked me through it. Harder. Faster.
His hand leaving my clit to grip my throat.
The pressure light but present. His palm against my pulse.
The restriction of air mixing with the restriction of my arms mixing with the fullness of his dick and the blindfold darkness and I was somewhere else.
Floating. Subspace, maybe. That quiet place he'd described where the body goes when the mind gives up trying to control the input.
"I'm gonna come inside this pussy," he said. His voice ragged. Close. "I want you to feel it."
“Okay daddy, fill me up.”
He buried himself. Held. I felt him swell inside me.
Felt the first pulse. Hot. Deep. The groan that left him vibrating against my throat.
His hand tightening for one second, just one, just enough to make my head swim and my pussy clench around him while he came, milking every pulse from him, my body taking everything he gave.
He collapsed onto me. His forehead in my neck, breathing broken. His weight on my body heavy and warm and grounding me back to earth.
He removed the blindfold first.
Light. Blurry. His face above me, close, watching my eyes adjust. Checking.
"Hey," he said. Soft.
"Hey." My voice was gone. Hoarse.
He untied my wrists. One at a time. Rubbing the skin. Kissing each one. Checking for numbness, for tingling, for anything wrong. His thumbs pressing into my palms, restoring sensation.
"Aftercare," he said. "This part is sacred. Whatever happened before this moment, this is what someone carries away. You hold them. You bring them back. You make sure they know they're safe."
He left and came back. Water. A warm washcloth. He cleaned me up between my thighs, gentle where I was swollen and sensitive, wiping away the mess of both of us. Helped me drink. Set the glass on my nightstand.
Then he pulled my covers back. Helped me under them. Climbed in behind me. Pulled me against his chest. My back to his front. His arms around me. His legs tangling with mine. His lips pressed against the back of my neck.
"How do you feel?" he murmured.
"Destroyed," I said. "In the best way. In the best possible way."
"Anything hurt?"
"Everything is warm. Alive. I can still feel." I pressed back into him. "I can still feel you inside me."
His arms tightened. His mouth pressed warm against my spine.
"That's the point," he said. "The body holds the memory.
Hours from now you'll shift in your sleep and feel the rope.
Tomorrow you'll cross your legs at work and feel the flogger.
That residual sensation is what keeps someone thinking about you between sessions.
You're not just giving them a moment. You're giving them a haunting. "
“Oh, I’m haunted," I confirmed.
He laughed against my neck. Low. The vibration spreading through my back.
We stayed tangled for a long time. His hand drawing patterns on my hip. My body settling deeper into the mattress, into him, into the quiet aftermath of being taken apart and put back together with more knowledge than I'd had an hour ago.
Eventually we untangled. He propped up against my headboard. I tucked into his side. TV on. Volume low. His fingers in my hair, scratching my scalp.
We talked about nothing important.
I made tea. Brought him a mug. Black with honey.
At midnight he stood. Stretched. His body in my bedroom, lamplight catching the scratch marks on his shoulders from where my nails had dug.
"I gotta go."
"I know."
He dressed slow. Shirt. Jeans. I followed him to the door wrapped in my sheets.
He pulled me against him. Kissed me. Long. The kind that closes an evening.
"Lock up behind me."
"I will.”
"I know." He kissed my forehead. Then my mouth. Quick. "Goodnight, Orchid."
"Goodnight."
The building door closed. I locked up. Stood in my hallway at full height. Shoulders back. My body still vibrating. My wrists warm. My thighs tender. My pussy swollen and satisfied and haunted the way he'd promised.
Next session, I'd know exactly what I was giving him. The rope. The flogger. The wand on his thighs while I rode him. The blindfold taking his sight while I took everything else. The layering. The overload. The compound pleasure until his brain surrendered.
Because I'd felt every bit of it first.
And I was going to wreck him.