“Still,” he says, and I obey immediately. Or I try to, because his movements have changed. They’re slower. More sensual. And when he slides his finger down to find how wet I am, I can’t help but wiggle with pleasure. “You like this,” he says. “Let’s see if we can’t make you like it more.”
He lifts his hand, then brings his palm down on me. The sting is local at first, then seems to spread, a million tiny sparks that start out hot and then fade to a pleasurable glow. He repeats it, and this time a moan of pure pleasure is wrenched from me.
“That’s it, baby,” he says as he dips his finger lower to explore my drenched and ready sex. “Oh, yes, you definitely like that.”
He lands another spank, then another, then soothes my ass with gentle strokes as fire seems to fill me, making me burn with a wild need.
Once again, he slides his hand down, but this time instead of simply teasing my sex, he thrusts in hard and I rise up on my toes, lifting my ass and giving him better access, because right then all I want is this. This feeling of spiraling off as Jackson pours pleasure through me. Of knowing that I can go as far as he can send me, but that he is my anchor and will bring me back.
He finger-fucks me, moving in and out in a rhythm that makes my pleasure rise, and as his cock twitches beneath me, I imagine that he is over me, pounding inside me, and I moan from the overwhelming pleasure of it all.
“Do you feel that?”
“Yes.”
“That’s me, baby. My cock. My hand. My skin. You brought the vibrator, and that’s fine. I promise I’ll make good use of it with you one day, but not now. Today, nothing gives you pleasure other than me. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I say as my muscles clench tight around his fingers, wanting to draw him in deeper. I’m close and so wet and my head is spinning and all I want right then is for Jackson to take me over, hard and fast and very thoroughly.
And then, because this is all about punishing me, he withdraws his finger.
I whimper, and he responds with a chuckle. “Patience, sweetheart.” He gives my rear a very light swat, but even that simple contact sends sparks through me. “Bed,” he says, and I know that I’m going to have to wait a bit longer for the sweet pleasure of release.
Then again, I’m on fire from what he’s doing to me, dancing along a precipice, with my body primed and ready to fly. And oh, dear god, I want to know what he will make me feel next.
I get on the bed as ordered, then watch as he stands, negligently letting the towel drop. He is fully erect, his body lean and tight, his face so full of passion that he looks like need personified. More than that, he looks like a god, and I am awestruck by the fact that someone like Jackson—so brilliant, strong, and sexy—can look at me with such undiluted desire. But he does, and I am weak from the force of it.
He holds up the rope, then crooks his finger.
I crawl to him, then pause in front of him. I’m aware of every part of my body. Of every slight wisp of air from the vent above.
“Turn around,” he says, and I comply.
“Now arms behind your back, elbows at ninety degrees. Hands to elbows so you’re making a square.”
Once again, I comply, and he uses the rope to tie my arms and wrists so that I have no use of them at all. It’s an odd feeling, trapped and vulnerable, and yet at the same time arousing. But only because I am with Jackson, and I crave his touch and trust him to take care of me.
“Now kneel, then turn on your side with your calf and thigh still together.”
It’s an odd position, but I manage it, and he uses a knife from the side table to cut a length of the cord so that he can bind my left thigh to my left calf.
“Your arms are in a box tie,” he says. “I’m putting your legs in a frogtie.”
I take his word for that. And I bite back the desire to ask him how he knows all of this. Then again, I know damn well that Jackson hasn’t been a monk. Far from it. I tell myself that’s good. That I’m getting the benefit of his experience. And I try very hard to banish jealous thoughts.
Considering the attention Jackson is paying to me, that’s really not hard. With every loop of rope, he caresses me. With every new knot he strokes me. He has been busily tying me—first the left side, and then the right—and even as he is doing that he has been touching and teasing me, so subtly that I only now realize just how aroused I am. How ready for him—and for whatever it is that comes next.
When he is finished, my legs are bound such that I am forced to kneel with my arms behind me, almost like a penitent.
“You look amazing.” His eyes echo the words, as does his erection. “Next time, we’ll do more. A cord around your breasts to heighten their sensitivity. Or between your legs so that every movement teases your clit. So many sweet possibilities.”
I lick my lips, already intrigued, and close to an orgasm simply from being positioned like this, my legs wide and my sex exposed.
“Do you know why I want to bind you?”
I shake my head, wanting only to hear his answer.
“Because I want you to fully feel everything I give you. No struggling against sensation. No pulling away from pleasure because it is so heightened that it borders on pain. Bound, you have no choice but to take it in. Bound, you have no choice but to feel.”
He slides his hand between my legs and slowly strokes me. I tremble, lost in the overwhelming awareness of every brush of skin against skin. “And do you know why this position is so popular?”
Again, I simply shake my head.
“Because you are completely open. I can take you any way. Your cunt. Your ass. Your mouth.” He brushes his finger over me with each word, and I shiver at the thought of being so thoroughly fucked. “I will, too, one day. I want all of you, Sylvia. But right now, I want to feel you on me. I want you close. I want to hold you and control every movement. And I want to be close enough to see your eyes and claim your mouth when you come.”
“Yes,” I whisper, so wet I can feel the slickness on my thighs. “Please, yes.”
He spreads my legs, then kneels between them, lifting my hips as he uses one hand to ease me onto my back before thrusting into me with one quick, powerful stroke. I am wet—so desperately wet—and there is no hesitation, no need for gentle coaxing, and I cry out with the pleasure of being so thoroughly and deliciously filled.
I’m on my back, and the sensation of arching up as he fucks me is wonderful. My skin feels tight and awake, my breasts teased by even the motion of the air. But he soon changes that. He reaches down and slides his hands under me, then lifts me up so that I am straddling him.
I have no hands to use, and no legs for balance, so though I am on top of him, he is doing all the work. He holds me at the waist, lifting me up and down so that I am pumping him, and he is filling me.
It is insanely erotic, this sensation of fucking and being fucked at the same time, and I do the only thing I can do and that is squeeze my muscles tight around him with each thrust, trying to milk him so that he comes hard and fast, even though I do not want this glorious sensation to end.