He tangled his fingers in her hair and tightened. “You could own a man like that,” he whispered.
His words surely weren’t true; they were a puzzle. But maybe, yes. She swirled the tip with the right amount of suction that they always liked, and he let his head fall back. She found his balls, cupping them, rolling them, and he pumped his hips into the air. She wasn’t stupid, for all that they’d called her that. She wasn’t slow, though sometimes she felt that way. He was like any man; all he wanted was pleasure. That’s what he must have meant. She could stay if she pleased him; yes, she knew.
When his hips jerked in a rhythm, it was time. She found a steady slide, in and out. The whore’s technique; well, that was appropriate for her. Get him off, finish him a million times, so why did it feel different this time? Why did she feel so cold?
His semen was a warm splash at the back of her throat. She forced it down, trying to find appreciation in his shout. He’d lost control; they always did in that moment. She’d never figured out what to do with it, never really wanted to usurp them, but she knew men were brought low during climax.
As he fell back against the chair, his still-hard cock slipped from her mouth wetly, a trail of come stretching between them. She reached with her tongue to catch it, but it fell to the wood floor. Immediately she leaned in to lick it up, hopefully before he saw her and got too angry, but he stopped her.
“What are you doing?”
Her gaze drifted to the floor, that damnable wet spot that meant she hadn’t followed the most basic of rules, she hadn’t swallowed all of the come, she hadn’t appreciated the gift.
“Leave it. I want you to leave it there.” He definitely wasn’t angry now, or even aroused. She recognized the look in his eyes now—sadness. “Touch yourself. I want to watch you make yourself come.”
She shifted her weight where she knelt. This had been a small part of her training, near the beginning, when she could still have an orgasm. Sometimes it had worked; other times she had faked it. But the way his black gaze stripped her, she wouldn’t be able to do that now. He was relaxed, prepared to wait, but all his attention was on her.
She pulled the dress up around her waist, exposing herself. But then she was already so bare, what was once more? Her fingers found her clit, rubbing tentatively at the sensitive skin there. She felt a pinch of pain at the rough treatment but nothing like arousal. Nothing like pleasure.
She pressed harder, hurt herself faster under his intent gaze.
“Stop,” he said.
He squatted in front of her and replaced her hand with his. His fingers swirled around her clit then skidded down along her sex. “Dry, dry as a fucking bone. And curled up tight. Are you afraid of me?”
She felt herself throb against his hand.
“Or maybe you’re not afraid of me, and that’s the problem. Is that what you need to get off? A little fear?” He slapped her lightly, the pain small but the sound loud. “A little pain?”
Her hips rocked against his hand, but what was this? Hadn’t she dreamed, hoped for a day without fear—without pain? Now he’d offered her regular sex, painless sex, and she was too broken to do it.
His forehead came to rest on her shoulder, and her breath caught. It was a show of weakness, or it should have been, but he was so large, so intense, that it seemed to give support instead of take it. His palm cupped her below, just resting, feeling.
And then he began to speak. “I’ve got you. You’re all turned around right now. Confused right now, but you’re with me. I love these breasts; did you know that? So pale and sweet. Large too, for your body but I like them. They stand up proud. The only part of you that seems proud, sometimes. And your waist is too small, but it makes me hard anyway. I love to look at it, especially from behind, the way it flares out into those hips.”
Her body had relaxed, fallen loose in his embrace. His hand was still on her sex, and she was still dry, but she was relaxed. It was a start. She understood what he was doing. It was just another way to play with her, to manipulate her. Probably he didn’t even mean the words, but it felt so good to believe.
He wanted her. He saw her. And if it were only her body that he saw, it would be enough. Maybe that’s all there was left. But she didn’t need to think of that, not when his hand had started a subtle roll against her skin, and he was still talking to her.
“I dreamed of you riding me at night. So dark, with only the faint light of moonlight on your breasts as they moved with you. It wouldn’t be about what we could see though, but what we couldn’t. You, panting above me. The sucking sounds of your cunt.”