8. Session Two | Instruction
EIGHT
SESSION TWO | INSTRUCTION
NAILAH
I had a plan.
That was the difference. Last time I walked in curious.
This time I drove to Castleberry Hill with Jill Scott on the speakers and a list in my head and my hands steady on the wheel.
Not because I wasn't nervous. My pulse was a drum line from the moment I turned off the highway.
But the nerves sat underneath something else now. Something with teeth.
Purpose.
I parked. Checked myself in the rearview. Black dress, simple, sleeveless, mid-thigh. No bra. No underwear. I wanted to feel the air against my skin, the vulnerability of nothing between me and whatever happened in that room. I wanted to arrive already honest.
The glass door was unlocked. Same amber trail. Same black steel door, cracked open.
I walked through it the way someone walks into their own house.
Jarvis was standing by the rack. He turned when he heard me, and the way his eyes moved down my body and back up wasn't a casual assessment.
He could sense the confidence.
"Hey," he said.
"Sit down."
The words came out before I'd fully registered the room.
His eyebrows lifted a fraction. Then his mouth did something that wasn't quite a smile but lived in the same neighborhood.
He sat on the wooden chair. The one with the metal rings. He lowered himself into it with that same controlled grace, hands on the armrests, spine straight, eyes on me.
Waiting.
Good.
I walked to the rack. Took my time. Let him watch me move through his space. Running my fingers along the implements. I chose three things: the cobalt silk, a longer thinner piece, and the blindfold.
I turned back to him.
"Take off your shirt."
No hesitation. He reached back, grabbed the collar, pulled it over his head in one motion. Dropped it on the floor. His chest bare. Broad. Dark skin over defined muscle. The scar on his left ribs. The trail of hair below his navel disappearing into his waistband.
"Arms behind the chair."
He shifted forward slightly, threading his arms between the slats of the backrest. Wrists crossing behind him. Offering. The position opened his chest, pulled his shoulders back, made him look both powerful and exposed at the same time.
I moved behind him. Stood close enough that my dress brushed his back. He inhaled. I felt his ribs expand.
I bound his left wrist. Slow. Deliberate. Through the slat. Around. Tie. His right wrist. Same pace. I let my nails drag across the inside of his forearm as I worked. He made a sound. Low. Barely there.
I tied the knot. Stepped back. Circled to face him.
Then I picked up the blindfold.
"Close your eyes."
He did. I stepped forward and pressed the cobalt silk against his eyelids. Wrapped it around the back of his head. Tied it. The fabric sat smooth against his face, blocking everything. His world reduced to sound. To scent. To whatever I decided to give him.
His breathing changed immediately. Deeper. Slower. His fingers flexed behind his back, testing the boundaries of the silk at his wrists.
"Can you see anything?"
"No." His voice was already different. Lower. Rougher at the edges.
"Good."
I stepped out of my heels. Bare feet on the mat. Silent. He couldn't hear me move now. Couldn't track me in the room. I circled him in silence. Let two full minutes pass without a single sound except his breathing, getting shallower by the second.
He was trembling before I touched him.
First touch: both hands on his shoulders. Pressing down. Firm.
He flinched. Not from pain. From the shock of contact after silence. His whole body went rigid and then melted forward into my hands like he'd been waiting for it his entire life.
I mapped him. Palms flat down his chest. Over his pecs. My thumbs found his nipples and I pressed. Slow. Circling. He gasped. A sharp inhale he couldn't swallow fast enough.
I did it again. Harder. Pinching now. Rolling them between my thumbs and forefingers until they were stiff points and his jaw was clenched and a sound was leaking from his throat that he couldn't contain.
"That feel good?" I asked. Calm. Like I was asking about the weather.
"Yes." Tight. Controlled. "Yes, Nailah."
I dragged my hands lower. Over his ribs. His stomach. The V-cut above his waistband. My fingers traced the edge of his pants without dipping below. Teasing the boundary.
He was hard. I could see it. His dick straining against the fabric of his pants, thick and obvious. A dark patch forming at the tip where he was already leaking through the material.
I didn't touch it.
Instead I moved my hands to his thighs. Pressed my palms flat. Squeezed. He groaned. Deep. The sound starting in his chest and vibrating through his whole body.
"Nailah."
"I didn't say you could speak."
His mouth closed. His jaw clenched so hard I could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. But he didn't speak.
I pushed his thighs apart. Stood between his knees. Ran my hands back up his torso slow. Over his stomach. Up his chest. My nails this time, dragging, leaving faint white lines on his dark skin. Around the back of his neck where the skin was hot and damp.
I leaned in. My lips to his ear. My breath on his skin. The dress I was wearing brushing against his bare chest. My nipples hard against the thin fabric, pressing into him.
"Now you can speak," I whispered. "Tell me what you want."
"Touch me."
"I am touching you."
"Lower." His voice stripped raw. "Please. Lower."
"Where?"
"Nailah, you know where."
I pulled back. "Specific. I want to hear you say it. In detail. Exactly where you want my hands. What you want them to do. How you want it. Or I stop, and you sit here in the dark with your dick hard and nobody touching it. Your choice."
Silence. His chest heaving. His wrists pulling against the silk.
Then: "I want your hand on my dick." His voice was rough.
"I want you to wrap your fingers around me. Tight. And stroke me slow from the base all the way to the tip. I want your thumb on the head. I want to feel you spread my pre cum around until your hand moves easy. I want,” He swallowed.
His throat worked. "I want you to watch my face while you do it. I want you to see what you do to me."
Heat flooded my body. My pussy clenched at his words. My nipples ached against the fabric of my dress. Hearing this man, this composed, controlled man, describing exactly what he wanted from my hands with that much raw need in his voice...
"Good," I said. "That's what I wanted to hear."
I hooked my fingers in his waistband. He lifted his hips immediately, automatic, obedient. I pulled his pants down just enough. His dick sprang free, hard, thick, the head slick and glistening under the overhead spots. I pulled the pants to his ankles and he stepped out without being asked.
Naked. Bound. Blindfolded. His dick standing heavy against his stomach.
I wrapped my hand around the base of him.
His entire body jerked. A sound tore out of his throat that didn't have a name. His head fell back, his back arched, his wrists strained against the silk so hard the chair creaked.
I stroked. Once. Base to tip. My grip firm. My thumb dragging through the slickness at the head, spreading it down the shaft until my hand moved smooth. Then I stopped. Removed my hand entirely.
His hips bucked into nothing. A whimper. From a man this size.
"Earn more," I said. "Tell me what you'd do with your mouth next time I let you use it."
He didn't hesitate this time. "I'd start at your thighs.
Kiss the inside of them until you pulled my hair to make me move.
Then I'd lick up through your pussy slow.
Flat tongue. Tasting everything. I'd circle your clit without touching it first, just close enough for you to feel my breath.
Then I'd suck it between my lips and hold it there while you grind against my face.
I'd tongue fuck you until you're dripping down my chin and your thick ass thighs are shaking around my ears and you're pulling my hair so hard it hurts, and I wouldn't stop. I wouldn't stop until you screamed."
My dress was sticking to my thighs. I was so wet it was sliding down my inner leg. Listening to him describe eating my pussy in that desperate voice while he sat there blind and bound and hard and begging...
"Good boy."
His whole body shuddered. Full. Top to bottom. His dick twitched and a bead of pre cum slid down the shaft. Those two words hit him like a defibrillator.
I filed that away. Permanently.
I gave him five strokes. Firm grip. Fast. Twisting at the top the way I'd imagined for days. He cried out. His hips drove upward. Then I stopped.
Removed my hand completely.
"Fuck.. fuck.. Nailah?—"
"We're not done. I'll tell you when we're done."
I let thirty seconds of silence pass. His breathing ragged. His dick hard and slick and ignored, with that beautiful curve.
This time, I wasn't going to use my hands.
I reached behind my back. Unzipped my dress. Let it fall to the floor and stepped out of it. Standing in front of him in nothing. My skin catching the overhead spots. My nipples hard. My body on full display for a man who couldn't see a thing.
But he could smell me.
I watched his nostrils flare. His head tilted forward, instinctive, like an animal catching a scent on the wind. His lips parted. His chest expanded with a deep, deliberate inhale.
"How do I smell?" I asked.
A sound left his throat. Low. Guttural. “Like you taste good as fuck.”
I climbed onto the chair. The arms were wide enough to hold my knees on either side of his hips. I straddled him without touching. Hovered above his lap with my thighs framing his, close enough that the heat between my legs radiated against his stomach.
Then I lowered. Slow. Pressing my pussy against the length of his dick.
His whole body locked. A groan ripped from him so raw it sounded painful. I ground against him. One slow, filthy roll of my hips. The slickness of my bare pussy sliding against his shaft, my clit dragging along the ridge of him, no fabric between us anymore. Just skin on skin. Wet on hard.