20. Ryan #3
He licks me again, this time letting his tongue dip lower, teasing at the part of me I’ve never had someone’s mouth before.
For a half-second my brain stutters, but the want is louder, and I push forward, just a millimeter, daring him to take it further.
He does. He traces me with the tip of his tongue, then circles, then presses in, and my knees almost buckle.
I steady myself with both of my hands on his head, holding him against me, my vision swimming at the edges.
I look down; the sight of him kneeling, wrists cinched, tongue pressed where I want it makes everything inside me clench tight. “More,” I gasp, voice shaking. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. He works me with a rhythm that is calculated and raw at once, alternating between shallow flicks and slower, deeper pushes, driving me crazy with the unpredictability.
Then he goes back to sucking the front, switching effortlessly, and the overstimulation is so much I almost pull away—but I don’t.
I ride it, digging my nails into his scalp and grinding against him, shameless and greedy and helpless at the same time.
When I feel myself falling apart, all the heat coiling and tightening, I yank his head back again, just for a second—just to prove I can. “Wait,” I warn, my own voice a stranger to me.
He nods, breathless, mouth swollen and wet, eyes glazed with lust.
“Okay,” I say as I back off from the edge. “Make me come this time.”
I let him go, and he dives back in. This time, I don’t stop him.
I use him however I want, taking what I need.
The humiliation in it is a live wire—raw, honest, nothing like what Paul used to do, because here, I am the one in control.
I stand over him, trembling, and rock against his face until every controlling thought short-circuits and I am just heat and need.
The first spasm hits so violently that I nearly lose my balance; I grab the back of his head and keep his mouth pressed to me as I come, gasping, not caring that it’s messy and rough, not caring that I’m grinding against his lips and nose and chin, not caring about anything except the pleasure so intense it feels like pain.
Camille takes it, all of it—on his tongue, against his face, dripping down his jaw—and when I finally let go, he’s breathing through his nose, eyes glazed and cheeks flushed, sweat beading at the hollow of his throat as he waits, still kneeling, for whatever comes next.
I step back, heartbeat pounding loud enough to drown out every other thought. His mouth is red, shiny-wet, covered in fluids he makes no move to wipe away. I want to see that forever. I want to fall apart every time I remember this.
I collapse onto the edge of his bed, thighs trembling, my sweat slicking my skin. Camille remains where I left him. The sash is still tight around his wrists, but he doesn’t shift, doesn’t look for escape—he just kneels, breathing hard, waiting for permission to move or speak.
I ought to tell him we’re finished. That I got what I needed and now he can go. That he can wipe his face and get dressed and process this in private. But I don’t. Why stop now when I want even more?
I roll over onto my front and push my hips up, then reach back and hold myself open.
My body is still shaking, legs barely supporting my weight, but I want to see just how far he’ll let me go. Just how much he’ll give me. I want to look at him, bound and ruined with want, while I make him do things for me.
I roll onto my side and raise myself on one elbow, legs spread, everything still slick and throbbing.
“You’re not done,” I tell him.
He lifts his head, and the look on his face is so fucking hungry it nearly undoes me. Camille rocks back, arms still wrenched behind him, and his cock is hard and leaking against his stomach, the head flushed deep mahogany. He’s breathing so fast now that I can see the tremor in his chest.
“Get over here.” I crook a finger at him, voice gone hoarse. “Or I’ll go get my vibrator and fuck myself in front of you.”
He groans, then shuffles forward on his knees, never once taking his eyes off me. I want him to look; I want him to see everything.
“Beg,” I whisper. “And stand up; you can’t fuck me from down there.”
He grits his teeth, lips slick with spit and me, stands, and says, “Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please let me fuck you, Ryan,” he grunts.
“Hm. Maybe.” I let the head of his cock slide against me, teasing, smearing the mess from earlier all over both of us. “You’re not allowed to finish inside. Thank me for letting you fuck me bare.”
He jerks, his cock twitching. “Thank you.”
“Good.” I lift my hips, guiding him with one hand, and push the head of his cock just barely inside, then hold him there.
He groans through clenched teeth. “Ryan—”
“Quiet.”
He drops his forehead to the mattress, shoulders shaking with the effort of holding back. I know what it’s doing to him; I can see it, feel it, the tension making every muscle in his body stand out, as if he’s been carved out of stone just to wait for me to decide what happens next.
I inch him deeper, then stop. “You’re going to fuck me like you hate me. Fuck me like I’m the one who was lying and using you. Do you understand?”
He growls, and for a second I think he’s going to rip free of the sash, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he braces his knees against the edge of the bed, leans over my back, and drives into me in one brutal, unhesitating stroke.
I gasp, body jerking forward. The air rushes from my lungs, and I don’t have time to recover before he pulls all the way out and slams back in, harder, faster, no rhythm or tenderness, just raw need.
I am not prepared for the force of it. There’s nothing gentle here, nothing careful, only the pure violence of him fucking me like I’m the answer to every question he’s ever had and he needs to break me open to find it.
My hands claw at the sheets, nails digging little crescents, but I don’t slow him down, don’t tell him to stop, just bury my face in the mattress and bite down on the duvet until the world goes white at the margins.
Every thrust shoves me up the bed, my hips slapping against his with a sound so obscene I can’t even be embarrassed by it.
I want this, I want it so badly I might die if he stops.
There’s a pressure building in my gut, a coil winding and winding until I’m certain something must snap.
I can feel my own slickness, the mess he’s making of us both, and I push back into him, matching his rhythm with my own greedy need.
He’s panting now, harsh and ragged in my ear. “Is this what you wanted?” he grits out, voice breaking around the edges. “Is this how you want me to fuck you?”
“Harder. M-meaner,” I gasp, barely a whisper, but it’s enough. He growls and fucks into me so hard my legs go numb, the world narrowing to the place where we’re joined.
I don’t even realize I’m crying. Not sadness, not pain, just something raw and bright and bigger than I can hold. The pleasure is so mind-boggling it bends into something like grief—loss of control, loss of every wall I put between us, loss of every excuse I’ve ever had not to want him this much.
“F-fuck, Camille, I—” I can’t finish the sentence, but it doesn’t matter. He knows. He fucks harder, deeper, every thrust a promise and an apology and a punishment all at once. I dig my fingers deeper into the sheets, holding on for dear life.
The first ripple of orgasm starts in my toes and rolls up through my spine like an electric shock. I clamp down on him and spasm, and then I’m coming so hard I nearly black out. I scream—actually scream—and my whole body clenches, heat pouring out of me in wave after wave.
He rides me through it, never slowing, his cock twitching inside me, hips stuttering just enough for me to know he’s close.
Every thrust ricochets up my spine and short-circuits the last of my thoughts, until I am just an animal, open and sobbing into the sheets, pleasure so huge it feels like a fever.
I can’t even move my own hips anymore; he just holds me in place with his weight and uses me, rutting in deep, staccato slams that have me gasping and shuddering and leaking all over the bed.
The tension in my gut spikes, then cracks like a whip, all the way down.
My legs cramp, toes curling, a new pulse of heat gathering where his cock pounds inside me.
I barely have time to brace myself before I convulse again—harder than before, so hard I think I sprain something in my thigh.
I hear myself cry out, not even a word, just a raw vowel sound as I squirt, actually fucking squirt, splattering the sheets.
Camille groans, low and guttural, and slams into me twice more before wrenched, sharp breaths tell me he’s losing the last of his control.
He pulls out quickly and blasts hot cum all over my back and shoulders, the first shot landing above my tailbone, the rest painting streaks up my spine and across my skin.
I collapse, panting, every nerve raw and alight.
He slumps forward, crushing me into the mattress, and for a moment, the room is all sound—our ragged breathing, the high whine in my ears, the distant tick of the clock on the wall. My cheek is mashed against the duvet. My whole body is trembling. I am so thoroughly fucked out I can’t even speak.
His lips quirk in the ghost of a smile I can feel against my shoulder. “Should I untie myself?”
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
I want to keep him like this, bound and ruined. I want to memorize every line of him, every muscle trembling with the effort of giving up control. I want to keep this version of him, just for a minute longer, before the world comes back.