I get on my knees, the industrial carpet leaving imprints in the skin. Heat flares in his eyes as he pulls his sweater over his head and drops it to the floor, then looks down to watch me unbuckle his belt, slide down his zipper. Forget men with guns or clenched fists; if there is an image more symbolic of male power and control than a man looking down on woman kneeling in front him, I haven’t seen it. His eyes flicker from my face to my image in the mirror and back again. I slide my palms into the waistband of his white cotton boxer briefs, the faint, familiar scent of detergent released by the heat of his body as I slide his shorts and jeans down just far enough to free his cock. As I do this he braces one forearm against the wall at shoulder height and threads the other hand into my hair. His thumb rubs over my temple. Our eyes meet. His are hard and fierce. Whatever he sees in mine makes him growl, “Fuck, yeah.”
Earn it,
he said, and earn it I will. The hot, dry skin stretched taut over his swollen cock brushes my cheek as I press a kiss into his lower belly, then his upper thigh, then his scrotum before I lean back and part my lips.
“Tongue first,” he says.
My eyelids quiver and close helplessly before I drag them open again and use the flat of my tongue to paint his cock with broad strokes. I concentrate on the sensitive stretch right under the head, but neglect no portion of his rigid length. I lay my palms flat on his upper thighs. When the muscles there and in his abdomen tremble under my fingertips with each lick, I open my mouth and take him all the way to the back of my throat, the press and release of his fingers against the back of my skull setting the rhythm. As the pace quickens I look up at him, note his hand now fisted against the wall.
He guides my pace and makes it last, taking his pleasure from my lips and tongue, the warm, wet suction of my mouth, with a single-minded focus that makes me crazy with longing. Eventually, however, he rests his head on the rigid muscles in his forearm and, with a low groan, begins to thrust into my mouth. I back off just enough to keep from gagging, but the tightening fist in my hair keeps me close. In response, I moan around his stiff shaft.
He goes rigid under my hands, swells on my tongue mere moments before the first pulse of semen hits the back of my throat. The harsh grunts and the involuntary jerks of his body only intensify the electric hum in my head. When the tension ebbs from his body, leaving him loose limbed against the door, I let him slip from my mouth and look up at him. My eyes are wet.
His fingers possessively caress my jaw before his thumb applies a slight pressure to my lower lip, then slips inside. I lick the pad of his thumb, listen to his breathing slow and soften.
“Very nice,” he says. “Get on the bed.”
I step out of my shoes, the uninspiring furnishings nothing but background chatter as I watch him yank the comforter and top sheet completely from the bed to create a wide playground of soft white cotton over a firm mattress. He points, and as the air conditioner emits its low hum, I stretch out on my side to watch him undress, a process that takes less than five seconds. Loafers kicked off, unbuckled belt and jeans shoved down, along with underwear, and he is naked before me.
Each time I see his body, all lean lines sculpted not by heavy muscles but rather by sinews under a thin layer of skin, I am reminded of how unnecessary physical size is to establish male power. I have yet to meet a man with Jack’s presence, the commanding aura compelling and seductive. Until tonight, the air of command he radiates has been implicit, humming under the surface of our hotel liaisons. I’ve gone on my knees for him before, but never with such explicitly dominant overtones. Tonight, as the lingering musk on my tongue reminds me, I serviced him.
According to him, this means I’ve earned…something. Whatever he decides to give me. A savvier woman would have negotiated on her way down, but I’m not savvy. I’m a stained-glass artist, among other things. Besides, I know Jack won’t disappoint me. That would be cutting his nose off to spite his face. Jack’s here for the satisfaction of an orgasm, yes, but also for the darker pleasure of watching me shudder, helpless under him.
His warm hand grips my shoulder and rolls me to my back, then he shifts to lie beside me, a heavy thigh over mine to keep me where he wants me. For a long moment he stares into my eyes, and his orgasm has softened his features only slightly. Need roils under his skin. I know this, but it doesn’t show in his face. He has a great poker face. Trial lawyers often do.
I, however, am unable to hide even the slightest emotion, especially when I’m alone with him, so I imagine that what I feel is what he can see in my expression. Desire. A hint of embarrassment, perhaps, in the heated flush on my cheeks and neck. Anticipation and uncertainty, those, too, flash through me and therefore across my face. But slowly the heat of his body against mine, the promise in his semierect cock, the weight of his leg pinning me to the bed, work their magic. Without thinking about it I wet my lower lip with my tongue. He watches, then looks down at my lace covered breasts. My nipples harden under his scrutiny. Only then does he lift his hand from my lower belly, trail the tips of his fingers up over one breast and along the sensitive underside of my arm to lift and press my palm into the headboard.
He repeats the movement with my other arm, then kisses me. “Leave them there,” he whispers. “They move, I stop.”
In the moments between rising from the floor and now, the colors had begun to muddy again as reality retook my mind. It was a slow invasion, just a mental note to add an appointment to my to-do list, a brief moment when I tried to remember if I’d locked my car before entering the hotel. His words slammed the door on the mundane again, and I notice the yellow tint of the cream wallpaper, the burgundy glow of the drapes backlit by the sun.
I arch my back, testing my body in this position. My elbows are slightly bent, giving me leverage to push against his thigh, but then he straddles me, his weight braced on his elbows on either side of my shoulders, his thighs to the outside of mine. I moan at the demonic move. In this position, trapped under him, I can squeeze my thighs together and shimmy a little, but he knows that’s not what I want. I want to spread my legs and rub against him like a cat in heat.
I’m not going to get that. What I do get is the weight of his body on mine as he kisses me, staking his claim on my mouth the way he will on my body, when he decides to. He draws my lower lip into his mouth, nibbles on the fullest part, kisses and licks his way over to the sensitive corner before detouring over my cheekbone to my ear. I am panting, mouth open, tongue flickering out to taste him on my lips. He comes back for another teasing bout, this time lapping at the edge of my lower lip, then the fullness of my upper lip, dodging my tongue.
When I lift my head and slant my mouth across his in an effort to get the full tongue kiss I am now desperate for, he laughs.
“No, baby.” Shocking that his voice and words should be so intimate when he’s denying me. Controlling me. “Not until I’m inside you.”
“Anytime,” I gasp.
“You’re not ready,” he whispers as he licks a trail down my throat to the pulse throbbing at the base of my neck.
I have soaked the crotch of my red lace panties and my clit is buzzing for contact: finger, tongue, pubic bone, his thigh, I don’t care.
“I’m ready!”
“Baby, you’re lukewarm right now. When you hit a rolling boil, I’ll fuck you.”
His words make me groan and lift against him, but he just laughs the way he never does outside this hotel room, hard and short, and lifts himself up on one hand to flick open the front clasp of my bra. Beginning at my breastbone, he presses open-mouthed kisses, full-tongue, the bastard, to every inch of my breast until he reaches the scalloped edge of my bra, drawn back almost to my nipple. He nudges the fabric back and I feel cool air, his heated gaze, then his teeth scrape over the tight bud. He laps at the underside of my nipple, then nips the swollen tip. I let out a high-pitched, shuddering gasp and he stiffens.
I open my eyes, ready to tell him he hasn’t hurt me, but his concentration is elsewhere. A moment later conversation registers in my consciousness, the tone slightly shocked as it moves down the hallway.
They heard me. They heard that sound escape my throat, one that could only be construed as wanton, lascivious, and a part of me is horrified. My eyes meet Jack’s heavy-lidded gaze, all masculine amusement.
“Don’t make me gag you,” he says, and suddenly silence becomes not a polite necessity, but a dark demand. His words crawl like molten lava through my brain and down my body. I might not be savvy, but I am strong and capable, and a bit ashamed by how well this works.
He returns his attentions to the eager peak. He is slow, methodical and relentless, without a care in the world as I clamp my lips together in submission. As he turns to my other breast, the first nipple swells and throbs in the cool air. I keep my hands pressed against the headboard, trying to breathe through my nose when I want to part my lips and gasp for air. Part my legs and beg for mercy.
He spreads his knees and rubs his now erect cock over my mound, the pressure tantalizingly seductive and maddeningly ineffectual. The rhythmic rasp of lace against skin and hair becomes a slow counterpoint to his infuriatingly even breathing and my own stifled whimpers.
I want to roll him and ride him, part my thighs so he can pound me into the mattress. I want to push his face between my legs and fist my hands in his hair to hold him in place. I want to
come.
And the wanting, the burning ache, grows without check as he pushes my breasts together and licks, then blows on, the superheated nipples. Back and forth, back and forth, coupled with a soul-destroying slide of erect cock and tight balls against my clenched thighs as he lengthens his thrusts over my mound. Need expands inside me, like the flutter of hundreds of hummingbird wings under my skin, with no release. I can’t squirm. I can’t touch him. I can’t spread my legs or writhe, can’t do anything except lie under him and take it. In silence.
Just when I think I’m going to lose my mind and scream for him to
do anything, please, fuck me now
, he sits back on his heels and works my panties down my thighs and off. He parts my legs and settles between them as if he has all the time in the world, while I hover on a plateau, the razor’s edge of my orgasm just out of my reach. I’m unable to stop the low moan that wafts out of me as he spreads my legs wide. He strokes my inner thighs, lays a big palm on my trembling belly, and says, “Shhhhh. Shhhhhhh,” over and over again until some of the tension eases from my muscles.
Nothing happens for several vibrating moments, and I lift my head to see him studying my pussy.
He looks up at me, his eyes somehow both feral and knowing. “Beautiful. So pink and wet.”
His breath wafts against my folds, which feel hot and wet, and also swollen. So very swollen. My clit feels three times its normal size. I drop my head back on the pillow and arch toward him, careful to keep my hands on the headboard.
He, of course, ignores my mute pleading. “You like this,” he says, and I wonder if I can come from the pressure of his breath on my clit.
“Yes, Jack. I really, really like this.” An incontrovertible truth, given the state of my cunt.
The reward for my admission is his tongue. He traces the outline of my folds, circles my clit once, then backs off again to lap and lick. The breadth of his shoulders holds me open for him, his hands deviously stroking my belly, my mound, occasionally dipping into the top of my sex, but never where I’m desperate for him to touch. My clit. My nipples. I have no idea how I can feel such brutal need when he’s barely touching me.
He slides first one index finger, then the other, through my slick heat, and sucks my clit into his mouth at the same moment his fingers, coated in my juices, reach up to pinch my nipples. He rolls the diamond-hard tips between his fingers and I draw tighter and tighter as pleasure streams between my nipples and pussy. I am there, I am so there, I can feel the chasm opening underneath me and I reach for his head because I love nothing more than to push against his mouth while the waves crest. But I can’t find purchase in the sweat-dampened layers of his hair. My grasping fingers graze his stubbled cheek as he pulls away and the orgasm retreats.
“Oh, please, Jack…I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I babble, and I slap my hands back to the headboard. I’m ready to promise him anything, another blow job, sex bent over his desk at work, the elaborate chocolate soufflé he loves, whatever he wants, if he will just…
Oh, yes.
Yes
.
His tongue hardened to a point, he draws circles around my clit, the pressure better than nothing, but not enough, not quite enough. One hand leaves my breasts, and at least two fingers, maybe three, glide in and out of my pussy. Oh God, oh God—pinching my nipple and licking my clit and finger-fucking me and I cannot take another second of this, but I do, then another, then another because he demands it.
When he stops again I know it is possible to die from desire.
In one fluid motion he rises between my legs and claps his hand over my mouth to stifle my needy wail. I stiffen in shock at the rough treatment, but in the same movement his cock slides into my cunt. I am wet, but tight, and the measured thrust rasps along tortured nerve endings. I suck in what air there is behind his cupped fingers, then he moves his hand to grind his mouth against mine. When his pubic bone hits my clit, hard, I go rigid in anguished ecstasy. In that long, terrible moment when I am strung out so tightly I don’t know if I can come but know I’ll die if I don’t, I feel every excruciating detail of the head of his cock tugging against my swollen channel as he withdraws, then rams home. His tongue sweeps into my mouth.
I implode. My vision goes black, and the heavy weight of him, the pressure and possession of his cock, focuses every molecule in my being into a whirling vortex between my thighs. In the next moment white-hot, eradicating sensation pulses out from the dark, secret place where we are joined. I shudder, and shudder again, draw breath and scream into his mouth as he strokes through the convulsions.