“Mmmm,” I moan, when he pulls at my head, urging me to take more of him, “Yes, like that. Take it, Logan.”
He surges between my crushed-together tits and into my mouth, harder and faster, and his hands clutch at my hair, gripping the damp mass and holding me in place. All I have to do now is hold on to my tits and take his cock into my mouth. I do so eagerly, loving each taste of him, the slide of his hardness between my teeth and over my tongue. Not going deep, just enough that I can taste him.
I moan now at each slide of his cock between my lips. I moan for him, because when I do his lip curls and he thrusts harder and his cock throbs thicker, and I moan for myself because giving him pleasure and seeing him lose control is bliss to me, is its own form of sexual pleasure. Not the kind of pleasure that leads to orgasm, but the kind of pleasure that can only come from giving something beautiful and incredible to one’s lover.
He is my lover.
This revelation stuns me, sends my heart into palpitations. Little things like that have the power to shock me, for some reason.
He takes me. Takes my mouth. Takes my tits.
“I’m about to come, Isabel,” he grunts in warning.
I moan around him, humming. Release my tits, and take his cock in my hands. Stroke him slow, gazing up at him. Lips around the broad springy head, tongue fluttering over the very tip.
It’s a whim, a last-minute decision to retake ownership of something done to me. To choose something for myself and in so doing erase the ignominy and violation I felt.
I feel him tense, feel him throb between my lips. The decision hits me, and I pull my mouth off him and sink down onto my haunches on the wet marble, shower splattering warm on both of us. He comes, a thick white jet of seed shooting violently out of him and onto my upturned face. I feel it on my mouth, lips, chin. My mouth is open, so it lands on my tongue, salty and musky. On my cheek, running down to my jaw. I stare up at him, blinking through the spatters of water and strings of come, and see that I’ve shocked him.
I’m up on my knees again, his cock between my tits, and I accept another splash of his come on my lips, licking it away with a glance up at him, feeling powerful and seductive. I did this for me, not for Logan. As a “fuck you” to Caleb and everything he did to me that I didn’t choose. It’s not something I would want on a regular basis, but I need it in this moment. I am retaking myself. Assuming ownership over my sexuality.
I take Logan’s cock into my mouth and wrap both hands around it and pump hands and mouth on him until he’s groaning and grunting and his knees are dipping and he’s hunched over me. Until he gently tugs me away, up to my feet. Finds the washcloth and wrings it out. Curls his arm around my waist and tucks me to his side, tips my face up, and washes away his seed, kisses me.
“Wasn’t expecting that,” he murmurs.
“I know. Neither was I. But I wanted to . . . remove the stigma and negativity of how that felt.”
“I don’t want you to ever feel—”
I twist off the water as it’s starting to go cold, then cut him off. “Logan. I did what I wanted to do. For me. Letting you”—I work up the courage to say exactly what I mean, the way he said it—“letting you fuck my tits . . . that was for you. Having you come on my face, that was for me. Not because I got any kind of weird sexual satisfaction from it, but . . . well, you know what happened. I told you. I did that for me. To take it back.”
He helps me out of the shower, unfolds a dry towel, and wraps it around me, and another for himself. We each dry off, and then I turn to him as he cinches the towel around his waist.
“Logan? I do wonder, how did it feel, for you? What did you think?” I don’t bother with the towel, once I’m dry. I like his eyes on my body.
He lets out a breath. “There’s nothing you could do that wouldn’t be incredible. But . . . it was hot. I’m not gonna lie. Seeing you, watching you, watching you take my cock in your mouth, between those big beautiful tits of yours . . . it was hot as fuck. I swear to god I’ll never forget it as long as I live. It’s a mental image I could jerk off to until the day I die. Coming on your face . . . that’s a little different. That’s not something I’ve ever really wanted to do before. Just not my thing. I never wanted to make anyone feel like I got off on . . . something that to me smacks of degradation, I guess. It’s a common theme in porn, the come-shot to the face. But I never saw the eroticism in it. Sex, for me, to be really amazing, is about mutuality, mutual satisfaction. And that’s what’s out of this world about our connection, is that we just . . . we have this incredible, fucking amazing chemistry together.”
He turns it back to us. God, I love him.
Is he real? Or am I dreaming? Is this just a fever dream?
“Do you masturbate very much?” I ask.
He bobbles his head. “Depends.”