10. Session Three | Application
TEN
SESSION THREE | APPLICATION
NAILAH
Come over.
On my way.
Fifteen minutes, he was at my door. He knocked once and I opened.
He didn't say anything. Just stepped inside and pulled me into him.
One arm hooking around my waist, his lips on mine before the door closed behind him.
He kissed me deep, unhurried, his tongue sliding against mine while his hand found my ass.
A smack first. The sound sharp in my hallway.
Then his palm staying, gripping, pulling my hips flush against his. Firm. Possessive.
I melted into it. My hands on his chest. His body warm through his t-shirt. The smell of him, cedar and something clean, filling my nose.
When he set me down, his hands stayed on my hips.
His fingers pressing into the silk of my robe, pulling the fabric taut, and I watched his expression change.
The realization landing. His thumbs moved against the thin silk stretched across my hips.
No panty line. His eyes dropped to my chest where my nipples pressed hard against the fabric.
No bra line. Nothing between me and the silk except skin.
"You ain't got shit on under this," he said. Low. His hands sliding from my hips around to my ass, gripping through the silk, the robe riding up from the pressure of his palms until the hem rose above the bottom curve of my cheeks. The cool air hitting bare skin.
"I was waiting for you," I said.
He exhaled through his nose. His jaw clenching. His hands squeezing my ass one more time, pulling me flush against him so I could feel him already getting hard against my stomach. Then he released. Stepped back. Looked at me with an intensity that made my chest tight.
"What's tonight?" he asked. His voice lower than it had been thirty seconds ago.
"Tonight you run it." I locked the door. Turned to face him. "I want you in charge. Full. No switching. No sharing. I want to feel what it is to be completely inside your control."
He nodded with a smirk.
"Go to the bedroom," he said. "Take everything off. Lay face up in the center of the bed. Hands by your sides."
I turned. Walked down the hallway. Let the robe slip off my shoulders as I went. Let it fall to the floor behind me. Kept walking. Naked.
I heard him inhale behind me.
I climbed onto my bed. Lay in the center. Arms at my sides. Palms up. Waiting.
He made me wait.
Three minutes. Maybe four. I lay there with my body bare and my pussy already getting wet from the anticipation alone. I could hear him in my apartment: the sound of the faucet, water running. A drawer opening and closing. Then silence. Then his footsteps in the hallway. Slow. Deliberate.
He appeared in the doorway.
Shirtless. His pants low on his hips. He'd taken his time. Made himself comfortable in my space. Moved through my apartment the way someone moves through a place they belong.
He looked at me. The full length of me spread on my sheets with my arms at my sides and my legs already parting and the low light making my skin glow.
"Here's how this works," he said. "I'm taking your sight. Then I'm taking your hearing. Your hands stay free. You can touch whatever you reach. You can feel everything. But you can't see what's coming and you can't hear me move. The only thing that exists is what lands on your skin."
My pussy pulsed. A slow, heavy contraction.
"If it's too much, you grab my wrist and squeeze three times. Three squeezes and everything stops. Say it back."
"Three squeezes, everything stops."
"Good." He sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipping beneath his weight. His hand found my jaw. Tilted my face toward him. His eyes dark and steady and already somewhere else, already in the headspace of a man about to take a woman apart.
He kissed me. Once. Deep. His tongue in my mouth, his hand on my jaw, a claiming kiss that said the last decision you make tonight is to let me have you. Everything after this is mine.
Then he pulled back.
"Close your eyes."
I closed them. Felt silk press against my lids. His hands behind my head, tying it snug. Darkness. Complete.
"Sit up for a second."
I sat. His hands finding my ears. Something small sliding in.
One side. Then the other. He pressed something and sound flooded in: deep, steady brown noise.
A low hum that erased the world. No room.
No breathing. No voice. Just the depthless drone filling my skull, erasing everything outside my own skin.
He eased me back down.
And then: nothing.
I lay there.
The brown noise made the silence absolute. I couldn't hear him move. Couldn't hear the floor creak or the mattress shift or his breathing or his footsteps. My eyes saw nothing. My ears heard nothing. My hands were free but had nothing to reach for because I didn't know where he was.
The anticipation was its own torture. My body strung tight, every nerve ending on alert, my skin hyperaware of the air moving across it.
Goosebumps rising without being touched.
My nipples hardening from nothing but vulnerability.
My pussy getting wet from the sheer psychological weight of being this exposed, this open, this unable to predict what came next.
Ten seconds. Twenty. A minute. Maybe more. Time stopped meaning anything without external input. My body existed in a void where the only thing real was sensation, and no sensation was coming, and the waiting was making me vibrate.
Then.
Something warm dripped onto my collarbone.
I flinched. The heat spreading: liquid, smooth, fragrant. The massage oil candle. He was pouring it onto me. A thin stream that traveled down from my collarbone to the valley between my breasts. Warm, bordering on hot, the shea melting against my skin and spreading in a slow river.
I gasped. My hands finding the sheets. Gripping.
Another drip. My left breast. The oil pooling in the curve of it, running over the swell, catching my nipple in a ribbon of heat that made my back arch off the bed. The warmth settling against the sensitive skin and staying. Radiating.
I couldn't see him. Couldn't hear him. Couldn't predict where the next drop would land.
My body was a map and he was choosing the points.
I flinched at every new contact because every one was a surprise.
My nervous system in overdrive, unable to prepare, unable to brace, forced to react to each drop of heat in real time.
More oil. My stomach. Trickling down over my ribs. My hip. The crease where my thigh met my pelvis, the warmth pooling there in a spot so sensitive my hips lifted off the bed and my thighs fell open on their own.
His hands found me then. Both of them. Warm and slick.
Spreading the oil across my skin in long, firm strokes.
Down my sides. Over my belly. Kneading my breasts, his oiled palms sliding over my nipples, the friction creating heat that built and built.
My nipples slick between his fingers. He pinched.
Rolled. Twisted. The oil making his grip slippery so the pressure had to be harder to hold, and harder was what I wanted, what my arching body was screaming for.
I moaned. Couldn't hear myself moan. The brown noise swallowing the sound. I existed only in sensation.
His hands traveled lower. Oiled palms on my thighs. Pushing them apart. Spreading the warm shea across my inner thighs, his thumbs tracing the crease of my pelvis, close to my pussy, close, but not touching. The warmth radiating inward. My clit swelling. Pulsing. Aching from neglect.
Then his hands disappeared.
Nothing. The void again. No touch. No sound. No sight. Just my oiled body on the sheets, slick and hot and trembling, waiting for whatever came next.
Crack.
His hand on my thigh. A slap. Hard. The sound lost to the brown noise but the impact detonating through my body. The oil making it sting sharper, the slick skin amplifying the sensation, the heat of the strike blooming immediate and spreading.
I cried out. My hands flying to the sheets. My thighs trying to close.
Another slap. The other thigh. Harder. My oil slicked skin singing, the sting converting to warmth that pulsed toward my pussy. My body jerking. My mouth open on sounds I couldn't hear myself make.
He spanked my inner thighs. Alternating.
Building. Each strike landing on oiled, sensitized skin.
Each one harder than the last. The pain was bright, surface level, clarifying.
It pushed everything else out of my head.
No thoughts. No planning. No anticipating.
Just the immediate shock of impact, the bloom of heat after, the throb settling into my pussy with every strike.
Then his hand landed on my pussy.
Open palm. Flat. Firm. Directly on my clit.
My body convulsed. The strike and the pleasure colliding in one sensation that I couldn't categorize. Pain and pleasure in the same millisecond from the same contact. My hips bucked up. My mouth open on a scream I couldn't hear.
Again. His palm on my pussy. My clit taking the impact and converting it to electricity that shot up my spine. I was dripping. I could feel it. His hand landing in the wetness and spraying it with the force of the strike.
Three more. Each one making me wetter. Each one making my clit swell further. The line between pain and pleasure dissolving entirely. My body didn't know the difference anymore. It just wanted more. More contact. More impact. More him.
He stopped.
The void again. My body shaking on the sheets, oiled and struck and throbbing, my pussy pulsing with need, my skin burning in all the places his hand had been.
Then I felt his weight on the bed. The mattress shifting. His body between my legs. His breath on my inner thigh, warm through the oil, and I knew what was coming but couldn't prepare because I couldn't see or hear and then his mouth was on my pussy and the world ended.