11. Luna #3
I open my mouth to say the words, but all that comes out is a loud, slow moan as my body shakes with a second orgasm. My feet shuffle to shake out the stimulation, but it just keeps coming. My body can’t come down from the high before it starts to build again.
“S-Sawyer.” I barely get his name out. The strap has tightened so much, I suck in tiny bits of air. My lungs feel empty—more air out with my moans than I take in.
I vaguely register the moisture rolling down my thigh as my eyelids droop. The whirring sounds as if it’s coming from inside my ear now, and my knees begin to wobble. If I fall, I’ll die. There’s no more slack in the strap to waste.
Please.
Stop.
Please.
Sawyer.
I say a million desperate pleas in my head, but they don’t come out. My throat constantly vibrates with my mewls while my body gets heavier. I slap the pole, dig my hands in, try to hold myself up.
When I blink, Sawyer is in front of me. I widen my hooded lids only for them to droop again.
“Do you like it, Luna?” he asks, his lust so thick, it penetrates my fogged mind.
“N-no.”
“Do you like it as much as you liked my mouth on your pussy?”
I open my mouth, but I don’t know the correct answer. I can hardly think. He leans in so close that when I moan, his lips catch it.
“Do you think you like it as much as you’d like my cock?”
“No.” I clench my eyes shut, putting all my energy into keeping my knees locked. I’ve never felt so weak in my life.
“What do you mean no?” Sawyer’s husky breath brushes my lips.
Knees locked.
Stand up.
Can’t fall.
Every few seconds, I forget to stay still and am jolted by the sharp pull of the belt. My entire body tenses with another orgasm, but this time, I scream out my agony, my lips stretching from how wide I open my mouth.
My wobbly knees finally give out as the tension loosens, but Sawyer mercifully catches me.
“Do you want it to stop?” he whispers in my ear.
“Yes!”
“Then tell me what I want to hear.”
Tell him what he wants to hear…
I can hardly think straight, so for seconds, I don’t understand. I don’t even remember him mentioning his cock until his bottom lip drags on my cheek. His breath shakes with desire, and finally, it becomes obvious what he wants me to do.
“Fuck me, Sawyer,” I gasp, my hand absently searching for his pants only to be held in place by the rope. There isn’t much space for me to tug him closer anyway. He’s already holding me up, my legs spread for him. “Please fuck me.”
He kisses my cheek. “Open your eyes.”
I do what he says and try to turn my head toward him, my worst mistake yet. The belt pulls until my throat pinches shut, air cut off. I struggle, only making the situation worse as I viciously jerk against the material. Sawyer watches.
“Do you want me to fuck you?” he asks like I’m not a minute away from death.
I nod as much as I’m able, but it gets me nothing. Sawyer just watches, waiting for me to understand something he’s never explained.
I clutch the pole while my heart leaps with panic, eyes filling to the brim. A hot tear leaks onto my cheek and makes a slow trail to the slant of my jaw—caught by the heat of Sawyer’s breath. It dries a cool path while I try to calm my instincts enough to think. Plan. Act.
Search for escape—pointless.
Beg for release—even more pointless.
There is no answer, only desperation until finally, finally, Sawyer reaches behind me to loosen the belt. He pulls it over my head as I gasp and cry more than I can remember. I fall into him as soon as he frees my arms.
I tremble violently as he inserts his hand between us and removes the device, bringing my body instant relief—only to be chased and swallowed by a deep ache.
He lays me down on the floor, gently; too gentle for what just occurred. His warm, scarred hand caresses my cheek, thumb following the bony arch beneath my eye.
“Shhhh, pretty girl. You’re okay.”
I didn’t even realize I was still crying.
I didn’t even know I was capable of crying like this.
Closing my eyes, I quiet my tearless sobs but allow myself to shake. I don’t know how my muscles still have the energy to do it. My legs feel limp, my arms heavy as bricks.
Sawyer doesn’t lay down with me like I expect.
I listen for a zipper, wait for my sweater to be pulled above my head—but he just combs his fingers through my hair, his other hand running up and down my arm.
It’s soothing in all the ways he knows I need, and I hate him for it.
Hate myself for liking it. For wanting it.
“You did so good, sweetheart. So good.”
He pets my head like the dog he’s praising, and the strangest part about it is he doesn’t sound condescending. He sounds like he’s genuinely trying to soothe me. Like he knows it’ll work.
It makes me not want it to.
I open my mouth, ready to snap, but his hand in my hair makes my eyes feel so heavy, my muscles so worn down.
“That’s my good girl,” he whispers as my mouth closes, as if he knows what I was about to say.
I let him soothe me until my body no longer shakes and my self-disgust pins me to the floor like an actual weight in my belly. It feels like minutes pass when Sawyer orders me to go to sleep.
I want to stay awake on principle, but my body—the traitor it’s become—obeys.