Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“You’re going to come now, Annie,” he said.
Not a question. Not an invitation. A statement of fact in the same voice that had told me my cunt was his, the same voice that had told me to keep stirring, the same voice that had reshaped the architecture of my entire life in three days. He said it the way a man might say the sun will rise tomorrow, and my body believed him before my mind had finished processing the words.
His hands left my thighs and found my hipbones. He pressed me down—hard, harder than before, his broad palms flattening my pelvis against the mattress with a force that eliminated every possibility of movement. I was pinned. Fixed in place like a butterfly under glass, my legs spread wide around his shoulders, my hands still clutching the backs of my knees because he’d told me to hold them there and I couldn’t have disobeyed, even if I’d wanted to.
Then his mouth returned to me, and the difference was immediate.
Where before he’d been exploratory, patient, mapping me with the careful attention of a man surveying a landscape, now he was deliberate and relentless. His tongue found my clit with unerring skill and pressed against it—not circling, not teasing, but bearing down with a flat, firm, rhythmic pressure that sent the first shockwave crashing through my body before I’d drawn a full breath. His lips closed around the swollen nub and he sucked, gently at first and then harder, and the pleasure that detonated at the point of contact was so sharp and so total that my vision whited out.
I came.
The orgasm ripped through me with a violence that arched my spine despite the force of his hands holding my hips down. My inner walls clenched around the aching emptiness where his cock had been… where it belonged. The contractions radiated outward through my belly and my thighs and my chest until my entire body was a single, convulsing nerve.
“Master!” I screamed. “Oh, God… Master… Master… Master…”
The sound of it in my own wrecked voice, raw and desperate and unadorned, felt like the most honest thing I’d ever said.
He didn’t stop.
His mouth kept working me through the peak and into the aftermath, and before the first orgasm had fully released me, the second was already building. His tongue shifted—lower, pressing into the sensitive hollow just below my clit, then dragging upward through my folds with a slow, devastating stroke that gathered every drop of my arousal onto his tongue before returning to the swollen center of my need. His hands pressed my hips down even harder, his fingers digging into the hollow above my hipbones, and the immobility—the sheer, helpless inability to squirm or buck or escape the pleasure—made the next orgasm feel like something being done to me rather than something happening inside me.
I lifted my head.
I don’t know what compelled me—some desperate need to see, to witness, to confirm that this was real. I raised my head from the pillow and looked down the length of my flushed, quivering body to where my master lay between my spread thighs.
The sight nearly killed me.
His dark head moved between my legs with a slow, purposeful rhythm. His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed in concentration, and the expression on what I could see of his face was one of pure, undisguised enjoyment—the face of a man savoring something exquisite, something he owned, something he could taste whenever and however he pleased.
His broad shoulders held my thighs apart with an effortless strength that made my smallness, my helplessness feel absolute. His hands on my hips held me pinned with an authority that said I wasn’t going anywhere until he decided I was finished.
And his mouth—God, his mouth—moved against my pussy so dominantly, so possessively that I felt dizzy.
The arousal that slammed through me at the sight was so violent, so overwhelming, that my head fell back against the pillow as if the muscles in my neck had simply given out. I couldn’t look. Seeing him there—seeing the reality of this powerful, experienced man choosing to bury his face between my legs, to taste my shameful wetness, to make my whorish little cunt perform for him with nothing but his tongue—it was too much. The visual fed the physical, the physical fed the visual, and together they created a feedback loop that threatened to short-circuit every system in my body.
The second orgasm broke over me in a long, rolling wave that seemed to last forever. My thighs shook against his shoulders. My fingers cramped around the backs of my knees. I sobbed his name again, and again, and the tears came—not the tears of humiliation or feeling overwhelmed, but the simpler tears, the ones that meant I was feeling something too large for my body to contain.