He snogs me until my lips are swollen and sore, then moves slowly and tantalisingly from the corner of my mouth down my jawline, kissing a path down to my neck, where he lingers, pinching little mounds of flesh between his teeth and sucking in a way that makes me lay my head back and exhale broken vocalisation. I tug at my silken cords, I rub my head against his hair, I try to push my body against his but he puts a hand on my stomach, holding me in place. He must know I am burning up, he must know I want him to touch my liquefying core, to feel his skin on mine, oh, anything, just stop teasing me…
“Patience, Beth,” he reproves, his lips against my neck. “You don’t get any say in what happens here. Just sit back and submit to me.”
Patience?! Argh! But he moves to kneel between my legs and my heart leaps with the hope that he will now attend to me there. But he does not. He takes my breasts, one in each hand, and then I feel a wet warmth against one nipple, his tongue, which licks and laps at the hard bud, sending multiple messages of bliss pulsing through my body and down to my crotch. He tastes me for ages, until I am wriggling and moaning with frustration, then he closes his lips around it and suckles, flicking his tongue across it as he does and I begin to buck, begin to worry that I might be staining his sheets with the volume of my excitement, and that he might well keep this up for hours on end.
“I know, I know,” I yelp at him. “I get it. You’re in control. You’re the boss. Now please, please can you fuck me?”
He kneels back up. “Hmmm….no,” he says, and starts right in on the other nipple, lapping, licking, flicking, suckling, chuckling at my howl of anguish. I am sure I can’t take much more of this; my essences have made it halfway down my thighs now; I’m going to drown in the juices of arousal. Sinclair should be arrested for attempted murder.
I feel a divine friction – maybe a knuckle - down against the source of the cataract. “Ah, quite stimulated, I see,” he understates, releasing the poor nipple momentarily.
“Please….” I whimper as the knuckle is drawn back. There are so many lessons being learned here, chief among which is the understanding that sadism consists of more than not sparing the rod. This is sheer torture. And now there is hot air…breath…against my supersized clit, wafting gently, then hotter…oh…just….touch….nooooo. It goes then comes again then goes then is back.
“What are you trying to do to me?” I rave semi-coherently, then I feel something warm pressed against that frantic nub…and I hear him take a good long inhalation…oh, it’s his NOSE! How novel.
“I could dab some of this on
my handkerchief and bring it out during long dull meetings for a fragrant aide-memoire,” he drawls, his words seeming to be addressed to my sex. “That might enliven proceedings.” Oh, his lips are so close, so close…his tongue darts out and encircles my opening several times, then it flickers briefly to the centre while his fingers spread the labia majora wide and his nose bumps my clit again, side to side…and…yes…that’s all it takes… The orgasm gushes out of me, through every portal, racing through every vein, lighting me up electrically, pouring out on to Sinclair’s fingers and tongue and nose while he continues to charm it forth. Finally, ages later, it begins to sputter, to subside, to leave my shaking body ravaged and empty. It finishes. But Sinclair does not. Before my heart has even slowed, he returns his mouth to the scene of the crime and commences giving me a proper licking and fingering combination, bringing the dulled and deadened sense-receptors back to tingling life much more quickly than I would have thought possible, sending great juddering jolts of sensation back up inside me, driving me hard to the brink once more.
“Oh, you can’t dooooo this to me again,” I yell as he tips me over, and I writhe and twist so violently in my tethers that I wonder how I haven’t wrenched his cord into shreds.
“Now you’re ready to be fucked,” he proclaims and I wince and whimper as he hooks his elbows under my knees and draws my legs wide…oh, those muscles ache, argh!... and my bottom is raised off the bed a little, so I am effectively suspended in the air and then I feel it, his blunt tip against my entrance and I worry slightly that he is going to hurt me, but I am so well-lubricated that he just glides in, spreading and stretching me, keeping me held so firm that my aching stomach muscles are not too strained, thankfully, though my arms and shoulders are starting to quiver. “Slow and sensual, or hard and fast?” he ponders. Hey, he takes requests.
“I’m not sure how long I can take this,” I wail. “Please make it hard and fast.”
“I wasn’t asking you,” he retorts. “Just thinking out loud. But since you mention it….I think hard and fast is the way to go.” And with that, he edges back, all the way back, and then slams right up to the hilt again so that his balls slap against a cane stripe, eek. “Hold tight,” he advises, rather redundantly, given that my hands are tied, and then he rides me like a madman, plunging into my slick tract with all the force of his weight, angling me upwards, and upwards, and up again until he has found the spot and he pounds me into the final and most headwrecking climax of the morning, throwing me onto his shaft like a sex rag-doll and filling me up with a feral growl. I am kicking my legs wildly in the grip of his arms, marvelling at the discovery that I like it as rough as this, as rough as he does, when he drops his hold on me and I flop back down, beyond spent.
He unties me and returns my arms gently to my sides, then removes the blindfold. Everything is blurry and I don’t know whether it’s the shock of the light or general post-orgasmic malaise. Perhaps both. Eventually I make out his facial features above me; the sharp angles and exotic planes of him. There is a kind of tenderness in his eyes and half a roguish smile. I cannot resist reaching up and cupping his face in my hands, stroking it.
“You’re killing me,” I tell him dreamily. “But I love it.”
He drops a kiss on my sweat-beaded brow. “I know,” he avers. “I’ll be killing you a lot more, I think.”
“Mmm. Do.” I shut my eyes, flexing my wrists a little against the vague numbness in them. Fingertips drifting up my arm, drawing little patterns on my weary skin.
“Why don’t you go back to sleep?” he suggests. What a star! Just what I was planning to do. “I’ll wake you for lunch. I think I’ve exhausted you.” Exhaustion never felt so good. I want to savour the feeling of him beside me in a drowsy post-apocalyptic kind of way, but I’m asleep before I even have a chance to answer.
Chapter Eight
“I thought we’d go out,” he says, “now that the rain has cleared up.”
Has it cleared up? I squint at the window and it is true that there seems to be some brightness beyond the blinds.
“Come on then. Up. Shower. Dressed.” He removes his dressing gown cord from where it still flutters on the bed head, waving me up and out.
Later on we sit in the lounge of the Gorge Hotel, looking at the Suspension Bridge and the cliffs that veer down either side of it to the flat muddy churn of the river. He has ordered two roast dinners and we sip at orange juice while we wait for it to arrive.
“Will you tell your parents about me?” he asks, in a manner that is too studiedly casual to really be so. “When you go back home next weekend?”
I wonder if he is worried about finding a shotgun-toting dad at his door and find the idea amusing. “No,” I tell him. “I don’t think…they’d understand.”
“Do they know you live with me?”
“They don’t know you’re a Professor. Just ‘a friend’. Would you want them to know?”
He shrugs. “There’s no need for anyone to know. It isn’t anyone’s business.”
“Right.” Hm, doesn’t sound like a longlasting commitment, does it? “So would you tell your parents?” I ask slyly.