15. Elyse
Elyse
“Leave it,” he orders me as he helps me to my feet.
My knees scream as I get up from the hard floor, but my pussy is screaming more: further evidence that Katrin knows my kinks better than I know them myself, because that was hot as hell.
It wasn’t just how insanely, unthinkably beautiful he is, standing before me in his bronzed, majestic glory, but the way he put me to work.
Being ordered to my knees, being ordered to suck his enormous dick, and then being commanded to stay still so he could brand me with his cum like some whore was so demeaning and so liberating that I want to float away.
I want him to order me about and treat me like his little fuck toy until an overdose of arousal poisons me from the inside out and I die of happiness.
Speaking of arousal, his is dripping down my breasts and off my nipples and dribbling down my stomach.
I want to wipe it off, because it tickles, but I also want to wallow in it like a pig in mud.
Most of all, I want him to look at me the way he’s looking at me now, with hooded, delirious eyes, as his entire body shakes with huge pants. I did that.
It takes about a second to ascertain why he wants me to “leave it.” He starts swirling his fingertips through his own cum, drawing patterns on my stomach before he rubs his arousal into my nipples, pinching and plucking at them, his fingertips slippery as he bends to kiss me hotly, which has me moaning into his mouth and my legs threatening to buckle.
“Chair,” he orders me against my mouth, gripping my biceps and frog-marching me backward until my thighs hit the chair.
I was low-key amused when I saw it earlier—guys are so predictable—but I can’t deny there was a twinge of apprehension.
It’s not like I’ve ever had a moment in a chair like that that wasn’t unpleasant, uncomfortable, and awkward as hell.
Now, though, there’s nothing but hunger for whatever games Sinclair wants to play.
I am greedy, greedy, greedy. Let’s be honest here: I don’t even need the stirrups.
I would keep my legs open so wide for this guy, give him all the access he could ever desire.
But that blowjob, and the way he used my body, really got my newly found kinky side going, and I put up zero resistance when he gently but firmly maneuvers me down.
I’m feeling too cavalier—and too turned on—to even care about the huge red flag that is the steel table standing next to the chair.
It’s just like the ones you get in the doctor’s office, only instead of speculums and whatever else they use, there’s an assortment of what look like sleek, all-black vibrators.
The chair itself is a regular ob-gyn one: a bit like a dentist chair, made from steel and black leather, except that the seat part is very shallow and doesn’t allow me to get much more than my butt on it.
I shuffle back as far as I can as Sinclair kneels before me, pulling out the stirrups so he can lay one leg and then another onto them.
Once I’m in, my heels and calves secured firmly, he wraps Velcro straps around my ankles.
Holy shit. I’m pretty sure those restraints do not come as standard for any doctor who adheres to his or her Hippocratic Oath. I consider it a win that he doesn’t do the same to my wrists.
When he’s satisfied I’m not getting out of this thing, he pushes the stirrups farther and farther apart until my legs are spread as wide as possible for him.
Even naked and kneeling before me, there is no doubt at all that Sinclair is the one pulling the strings.
He gets to his feet, looking awfully pleased with himself, and his eyes rake all over my body.
I must look quite a sight, with all my private parts fully on display and his cum growing sticky on my chest.
The pillory thing was mortifying, but this is just as intense—more so, possibly, because I’m so open and because I can see every bit of him: his body, his reactions to me, his apparently-hardening-again cock, and, worst of all, the wolfish smile with which he considers just how best to take advantage of his sex-prisoner.
He is, without a shadow of a doubt, the hottest guy I’ve ever been with. It seems unfair that he has not only billions of dollars and all the privilege that his social status affords but that he looks like this. For chrissakes, share the blessings around a little, dude.
I take him in: the dark hair now mussed up and falling over his forehead; the lean muscularity of his body that must be a combination of world-class genetics and a commitment to looking after himself very well; the face that I’ve googled to distraction and which is so freaking gorgeous up front.
All of this and he’s some kind of alpha sex king, to boot.
I’m no star fucker, but I realize just how many women would kill to trade places with me right now and put themselves in Sinclair Voss’s diabolical hands.
He pulls over a little stool on wheels and perches on it, seemingly unbothered by his nakedness but very interested in mine.
He scoots into the chasm between my legs and puts his hands on my inner thighs.
“You’re so beautiful. In every fucking position, you’re perfect.
But this may be my favorite one so far.”
The sincerity in his voice, the intensity on his face, takes me aback.
He looks as though he wants to devour me.
He drags his palms up my thighs, his splayed fingers skirting the very parts I need him to touch, and up my sticky stomach, over my equally sticky breasts.
“Wait here,” he says unnecessarily. Then he’s disappearing into the en suite—small, high-end, and incredibly porno with its dim lighting and large mirrors and black marble—and returning with a wet washcloth.
Back on his stool, he wipes me with it. Over my stomach it goes.
Around my breasts, the rough pile chafing my nipples.
Even cleanup feels like foreplay with this guy.
As a final touch, he drags it lower, lower, not taking his eyes off my face.
I watch him, entranced, as he brushes it over my clit for not even a full second and then throws it on the floor.
“Nooo,” I whimper, and he grins evilly.
“Just getting you nice and clean so I can dirty you up again.”
I like the sound of that.
“How,” he says, reaching up to fondle my nipples with those long, clever fingers, “am I supposed to decide where the hell to start?”
“I have some ideas,” I say, and he chuckles.
“I bet you do, you little beauty.”
His fingers linger there as he scoots even farther forward and, ducking his head, presses a kiss to my breastbone.
His hair tickles my skin in a tortuous way as he trails lower, peppering my stomach with kisses and playing with my breasts far too casually and teasingly for my liking.
I’m in such a state that I want him grabbing and pinching and chafing, not brushing and gliding, for fuck’s sake.
Presumably, he left my hands unbound for a reason.
I dig my fingers into his dark, messed-up hair, grabbing thick clumps, and he makes a pleased grunt against my navel.
Newfound courage has me sliding my hands lower, enjoying the huge bulk of his shoulders, the velvety softness of the skin at the back of his neck.
Still, he moves lower. Then lower. When his face is mere inches above my exposed pussy, he looks up at me. His eyes are all pupil, his face completely feral. “Watch,” he says.
Believe me, I’m watching. His dark head dips, he pushes his stool back slightly, and then he’s full-on sniffing me, turning his head this way and that as he does.
He takes in my scent with great, animalistic inhales, and I’m both mortified and aroused beyond measure.
Forget bending over for him last week, the business end of our arrangement hidden from view by that freaking pillory.
This is the most intense thing in the world.
He drops his hands from my breasts and palms my inner thighs again, just in case these stirrups aren’t pushing the boundaries of my range of motion down there. I’m practically doing the splits. The very tip of his nose brushes my clit, and I cry out, so sensitized am I.
“I would have paid ten grand just for this,” he mutters, glancing up at me again.
“Just for the indescribable pleasure of being able to smell you.” He sounds as tortured as he looks, and I’m kind of glad I’m not the only one suffering here.
The fingers of one hand drag absently over my thigh.
“I have spent a week trying to conjure up how you smell—like fucking crack. If I could transport you and this godforsaken chair to my office and sit you just like this all day long, then I would. Believe me.”
I thought Sinclair was done shocking me, but apparently not.
It’s the most outrageous thing I’ve ever heard.
Demeaning and objectifying… and worshipful and obsessive.
Oh, Jesus. In my current state, it hits almost as romantic.
All I can do is choke out a scandalized little laugh. It seems he’s broken my brain again.
“I’m serious,” he assures me with another dark, hazy look. “I guess all I can do is coat myself in you. At least I’ll be able to smell you for the rest of the night.”
He’s as good as his word, dipping his head again and proceeding to feast on me, fingers flexing on my inner thighs as he does, as if he’s terrified I’ll conquer the stirrups and deny him access.
He kisses and licks and sucks, rubbing his nose over my clit again, this time intentionally, and it feels as though he’s covering every square millimeter of where I need him.
It’s the most decadent, delicious sensation in the world, and I sit in my chair, using my voice and my hands to spur him on, urging him to give me more, more, more.