Before I can answer, he plunges his arm downward. And cups my pussy.
“I would like to see you come for me the way I spilled for you,” he says kneading. “I would like to hear your helpless cries. Watch you tremble in your submission.”
Apparently I’d like to see that too. As he spins his fantasy, my core pushes into his hand with a mind of its own.
The needy sensation won’t last long, I know. Other Damianos had tried this once, and it had been a fumbling disaster. His fingers were too big and blunt, and I was too impatient to make for a good teacher. Real talk 100, his clumsy rubbing did the opposite of turning me on. So I’d grabbed his hand in both of mine, and said, “You know what? Let’s take this show straight back to Licky Town.”
But I soon find out that this Damianos doesn’t have a fumbly finger problem. When he starts rubbing, the sensations don’t stop. He kneads my core a few times, the ball of his palm circling my clit. Then, holding my gaze with his, he easily slips his two middle fingers into my not-dry-at-all hole.
The sudden invasion makes me gasp. But what comes next makes me mewl. His hand becomes heavy on top of my pussy, anchoring me so I can no longer mindlessly push into his hand. At the same time, long fingers curl upwards, rubbing some secret part of me that makes my entire core light up with a needy excitement. Then the ball of his hand continues to circle, but this time with a lot more pressure.
Suddenly his fingers no longer feel too big. In fact, they’re just the right length for this impossible action. My mewls soon turn into helpless moans.
“Your flame is lit up with surprise. Did he not touch you like this?” His dark, resonant voice fills up my ear.
“Once,” I admit. “It didn’t go well. How…?”
“As I said, we drakkon are quick studies.”
Usually, I find this version of Damianos Drákon arrogant as fuck. But right now with the magic he’s creating down below I’m like Amen, you speak on that, boy. At least that’s what I was planning to say.
My quip ends up coming out as an even louder moan as deep pulses of sensation start shooting through me. Closer and closer. I think I’m going to com—
Without warning, Damianos pulls out and says out loud, “We will see to your hair now.”
“Wait…what?” My voice cracks as Damianos grabs a golden jug from the far edge of the tub instead of finishing what he was doing. The jug is so large and shiny, I assume it’s got to be a synth job at first, made to look like real gold.
But one whiff of it up close tells me the real story. Years of polish aren’t enough to cover up its ancient spell. I can just hear my anthropologist cousin, Koko, saying, “That artifact should be in a museum!” as I sniff at it.
Damianos, however, dunks the priceless golden jug into the water and then raises it back up.
“Close your eyes,” he instructs.
That’s all the warning I get before he pours the bathwater over my hair, drenching it. Again, nowhere near as gentle as Other Him.
Okay, well…
He’s obviously punishing me for leaving him with blue balls that one night. I know that. Yet it is kinda hard to act like he didn’t get me just as bad as I got him as he washes my hair. Worse even.
Because guess what the only thing more erotic than a man washing your hair is. A man bringing you to the straight edge of coming, then stopping everything to wash your hair. My body stays a tingling as he completes two rough shampoo cycles, then starts to detangle it with some Greek conditioner I’ve never seen before.
It’s been a few too many days since I last cleaned my hair. Under any other circumstances, I’d be grateful not to have to deal with a long-overdue wash and detangle session myself. But the way my body is throbbing as he does his thing… Gratitude is impossible.
But I guess, my time with Damianos has taught me something after all. I grit my teeth, refusing to give him the benefit of a response.
DAMIANOS
She refuses to speak her upset out loud, but I can feel her frustration and rage burning over our mate bond. I can also see it quite clearly in her flame.
Good.
It makes it all that much easier to mask my own reaction to having watched the way she’d responded to my retribution. The press of her hungry core into my hand. The way her bountiful breasts bobbed underneath the water, the entire upper half of her body writhing when her lower half could not…
The incomplete orgasm had been meant as a punishment. A brutal withholding of pleasure that would reestablish my dominance over her. And I believed forcing her to sit through a hair-braiding session would only enhance the torture.