When her nails scored his chest, there was a moment he nearly fell over the edge, when that tidal wave of liquid heat pouring from the rake of her nails into his blood nearly bowled him over—but he was bound by the sight of her over him, the clench of her cunt around his cock as she coaxed every drop of pleasure from her release, the hand still curled against his cheek. It drew him away from orgasm without dimming his arousal, seduced him back into the moment...
A desperate sound tore out of him as she pulled herself off of him, but when she ordered him to use his mouth, not to come, he moaned with fresh pleasure as he eagerly swept his tongue along her slit, greedy for the taste of her. He lifted his head as much as he could, eagerly pressing closer to her sex so he could push his tongue inside—he didn’t care if she rode his face too hard, wanted to fucking drown in the heat and scent of her arousal bathing his face when she came again.
And holding back his own release as he pleasured her with lips closing around her clit, fucking his tongue into her...it was the purest form of surrender he’d ever known as he gave her control of when and how he would come. He was a raw, aching, open nerve unable to do anything but feel and feel and feel because she wanted him to—because everything he was and would he belonged to her alone.
He belonged to her, and more importantly she owned him in return. She commanded him, she used him, she cared for him when he was too far gone to...she owned him so totally she couldn’t be afraid of losing him or hurting him. Nothing was an abuse of power or trust, because he was nothing more than hers, and everything was allowed.
And as he held himself in check and used lips and tongue to get her off a second time, the notion of giving her that freedom from fear and loss and the strain of controlling her love of power—it was the greatest threat to his self control with the perfect pleasure it brought him.
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timeasmymeasure
Re: 9/24 - around quarter to six
Date: 2018-11-28 04:44 am (UTC)A desperate sound tore out of him as she pulled herself off of him, but when she ordered him to use his mouth, not to come, he moaned with fresh pleasure as he eagerly swept his tongue along her slit, greedy for the taste of her. He lifted his head as much as he could, eagerly pressing closer to her sex so he could push his tongue inside—he didn’t care if she rode his face too hard, wanted to fucking drown in the heat and scent of her arousal bathing his face when she came again.
And holding back his own release as he pleasured her with lips closing around her clit, fucking his tongue into her...it was the purest form of surrender he’d ever known as he gave her control of when and how he would come. He was a raw, aching, open nerve unable to do anything but feel and feel and feel because she wanted him to—because everything he was and would he belonged to her alone.
He belonged to her, and more importantly she owned him in return. She commanded him, she used him, she cared for him when he was too far gone to...she owned him so totally she couldn’t be afraid of losing him or hurting him. Nothing was an abuse of power or trust, because he was nothing more than hers, and everything was allowed.
And as he held himself in check and used lips and tongue to get her off a second time, the notion of giving her that freedom from fear and loss and the strain of controlling her love of power—it was the greatest threat to his self control with the perfect pleasure it brought him.