He tossed the gear to the bed and seized my upper arms. "Submit to me!" He crushed me against his body, my nipples raking the cloth of his shirt. He kissed my neck again, his hands descending to grip the cheeks of my ass. He ground me against his pulsing cock--until the idea of him taking my ass didn't fill me with alarm.
It filled me with need.
He released me, grating, "Open your mouth for me." He held up the ball gag before my widened eyes.
I could have clenched my jaw; I could have screamed at him. Instead, I found myself parting my lips.
"That's it, milaya. Now look at me when you lick it."
Lick? When I gazed up at him and swiped my tongue over the ball, his lids went heavy with satisfaction. So I did it again.
He rubbed the moisture over my lips, tracing the outline of my mouth, then fitted the ball between my teeth. While I tried to get used to the foreign sensation, he fastened the straps behind my head.
Though I'd been gagged, collared, and bound--he wasn't through with the gear. He moved me to lie on my front, then began pulling something else up my legs. Whatever had been in the drawstring bag?
I thought I felt more straps. These didn't seem to be leather--more like . . . elastic? He shimmied them past my calves and knees, then higher, until one hugged each of my upper thighs.
What is this? What could it be? God, the curiosity . . . Maybe it was another dildo like the one he'd used at the club?
When he secured a third strap around my waist, I felt something spongy between my legs. I realized what it was with the first vibration--one of those wearable, remote-control vibrators.
Fitting it snugly over my clit, he turned it on at a frustratingly low speed. "You'll enjoy this." The sensation made me moan against my gag. "But not too much." He set it to pulse on for a brief period, then off for much longer, then on again at that slow, slow speed.
"On your knees," he ordered.
This was really about to happen? Could I actually do this? If I was honest with myself, I'd admit that I trusted him to keep me safe, to take care not to hurt me. Hands still locked behind my back, I made my way to my knees.
"I want you facedown." I heard him stripping behind me.
He could have positioned me to receive him, but he seemed determined to make me participate, to submit at every opportunity. Did he assume my aching horniness would compel me to obey him?
If so, he was right.
Heart racing, I leaned forward to rest my forehead against the bed, leaving my ass up in the air. That vibrator came back on, making my hips roll.
"You always get what you want, don't you? But I hadn't given you your way in this."
He pressed the backs of his hands against my inner thighs. "Spread your legs."
My mind whispered, Step off the trestle, just as he commanded, "Submit to me, milaya." I couldn't resist both my will and his.
The anticipation of what he was about to do to me was maddening. The mere idea of this act . . . with him . . .
When I worked my knees wider, I felt the head of his cock brush along the back of one of my thighs, leaving a distinct trail of dampness. How badly he must want this!
"Do you trust me not to hurt you?"
I had to nod.
"Good." He slapped my bottom again, but this time his palm was wet. With oil? He drizzled a line along my crevice.
When I felt drops trickling directly over his target, the gag muffled another moan. He grazed his forefinger up and down, scarcely making contact with that needy part of me.
Each pass of his finger, he applied a tiny bit more pressure. As the vibrator fired up again, continuing its slow assault on my clit, he pressed hard enough to breach me, just barely.
My groan of frustration made him hiss in a breath. "My greedy girl wants more?"
I nodded my head against the bed, arching my back. The vibrator stopped, and I wanted to cry. By this point, I would have begged him to fuck me there.
With one hand gripping my hip to hold me steady, he started to circle the pad of his finger over my opening, making me drool around the gag.
Waiting . . . waiting . . . Right when the vibrator came back on, he dipped inside to his knuckle.
At last! I moaned at the exquisite sensation. With the vibrator humming, he pumped his finger.
Against the gag, I cried, "More!"
"As you wish." More oil. Deeper penetration. "You think I would hurt you like this? That I wouldn't prepare you?" Another finger joined the first, wedging inside, stretching me.
For what felt like agonizing hours, he gave me shallow pumps. More oil. Deeper. More oil. Wider. Vibrator buzzing on and off.
I was glad of the gag when I began to babble and beg. Please, please, please. I was ready--couldn't be more ready. By the time he removed his fingers, I was nearly insensible.
I heard him squirting more oil. To slather over his heavy length? I could all but see him oiling himself, gliding his big hands across the taut head, the thickened base, along those prominent veins.
I wanted so badly to stroke him, to lick him, anything, but I was helpless. Even without the gag, my mouth would've been ajar, starved for something to suck. Every inch of my body was empty and open, receptive to whatever he wanted to give me. . . .
When the crown kissed my hole, I shook from the jolt of sensation.
"Don't fight me," he groaned. "Let me in." He pressed forward, entering me--just as the vibrator ramped up once more.
Once the entire oiled head was inside, I moaned because it was so good. Better than good.
He delved farther, his girth difficult to accept. Even still, pleasure suffused me the deeper he went.
Between gnashed teeth, he said, "Teper' ti prenodlizhish mne vsetselo." Now I've possessed you. Completely. He sounded as crazed as he'd looked earlier.
I twisted my head around and chanced a look back. His gaze was riveted to where our bodies joined. If eyes could incinerate . . .
Was he overwhelmed like me? How strange; I was bound, vulnerable, impaled--yet he seemed overpowered by this act taking place between us.
He withdrew a couple of inches. As I writhed, trying to adjust to him, I felt him drizzling more oil. "Relax, love. Surrender to me."
I willed myself to relax as much as I could.
"Good girl." Then he gave his first thrust into my ass, bellowing with satisfaction. The force of it rocked my body, pulling on my collar.
I could do nothing but cry his name against my gag--accepting the fact that I had leather strapped around my neck, that my arms were immobile, that I'd been wired to a device meant to drive me out of my mind.
That the man I loved had completely dominated me, and I was melting for him.
He drew his hips back, then rolled them forward, sending his cock even deeper. After another measured stroke, he fucked harder, grunting with pleasure. His sweating body slapped the oiled curves of my ass--more punishment against flesh that had already been whipped into submission. Conquered.
But I reveled in the sound of our skin colliding, knowing he was about to make me come. And then he would follow. He'd told me he would fill me up with cum. . . .
Yet then he stilled. "Up on your knees." He lifted me so I was kneeling with my back to his torso. He wrapped an arm across my chest, seizing my left breast in a possessive grip, trapping my bound arms between us.
His free hand trailed down my belly. With the heel of his palm, he cupped the humming vibrator tighter against my clit, then he stretched two fingers farther between my legs. He plunged them inside my hungry pussy right as he bucked behind me--and it was . . .
Cataclysmic.
He wrenched an orgasm from my core, screams from my lungs. As the pleasure rolled on and on, fierce contractions overtook my lower body.
"I feel you!" With a savage bellow, he joined me, beginning to ejaculate. His fingertips dug into my curves, his hips jerking with each palpable shot of hot cum--one after another as he grated, "Never forget . . . who you belong to!"
Long afte
r he'd emptied himself inside me, he kept thrusting, as if he didn't want to relinquish his new prize.
Finally, he collapsed over me. In a hoarse rasp, he told me in Russian, "There is nothing left of me. . . ."
Chapter 43
Sevastyan freed me.
He hadn't nuzzled my neck as he used to, hadn't shown me his usual affection. He'd merely pulled out of me, leaving me limp on the bed, then started on buckles and straps.
Once he'd removed everything, my arms and jaw were sore. I didn't know what I was supposed to do or say.
Without a word, he scooped me up and into the bathroom, turning on the shower. In the tangle of my mind, one thought stood out. Nothing has changed.
I was still stuck in this hopeless relationship, devoid of trust and sharing. Except that now, he seemed even more distanced.
There is nothing left of me. What had he meant by that? Did he mean that he'd come his brains out and was empty?
Or that this was all I'd ever get from him? Beyond sex, there was nothing?
I plumbed my emotions and recognized that I was feeling . . . despair.
He carried me into the shower, easing me to my feet to stand with him under the spray of hot water. He poured bath oil into his palms, washing me with his bare hands. "Let me tend to you," he murmured as he laved my body with such familiarity, as if we'd been together for years.
As a husband would a wife. Like two people who trusted each other.
His detachment dwindled--he couldn't seem to hold on to it--and soon soothing Russian endearments spilled from his lips. With zero hesitation, he saw to every inch of my body, inside and out, even my bottom.