She pressed her fingertips and thumb together and he let out a tiny moan.
“Both hands,” he said.
There was room enough for them to sit one above each other. The head of his manhood was capped by a sheen of smooth skin and a tiny slit, from which seemed to seep a morsel of his elixir. He reached toward her, forgetting his pipe in the other hand, and tangled his fingers in her loose hair. Slowly he drew her head down and forward.
“Part them pretty lips,” he said softly. “Open them wide and lick it.”
She shivered from scalp to toe. There was a definite part of her that wanted to simply get up and walk away. She assumed this was her innocence still battling to maintain itself. But she had abandoned that naive creature for him, and as the tip of her tongue touched the glans, she decided virginal Dara was gone forever. With a firm grasp on the lock of hair, he guided her to move, speaking softly, telling her what to do with her tongue, her lips and where to kiss, how to stroke his downy balls with her hands while sucking his sweet fiery pole. She had much to learn about pace, and guile of both mind and mouth when working in partnership. It took more than physical endurance to please him; he expected her to be creative and comprehensive in her oral skills. She had to decide whether to tease the line of his tempered veins with her tongue or draw the generous bulb deeper into her mouth, and consume it until it knocked against the back of her throat. She choked a few times, but he was not unkind to her. When she gasped for breath, he released her head and allowed her to inhale deeply, before demanding her resumption. Demand not with his voice or rough hands, but simply with the wilting stare of his commanding eyes.
With her confidence growing, her ignorance diminishing, he shifted from holding her hair to combing his fingers through her strands, twirling the locks, occasionally tugging on one. He settled back in his seat and smoked, and with her working hard to please him, he responded with husky moans between plumes of exhales.
Was there any pleasure for her? She did not think it possible at first to feel anything other than what filled her mouth. Yet the shivers had become quivers of delight, springing forth from her belly, up into her breasts, and down into her sex. There was a strange sense of satisfaction in satisfying him as much as herself. If there was joy, she felt it keenly, but she could not achieve completion without his touch.
He cupped her chin in his palm and eased her head up. “Well done. Go have a drink.”
She washed his taste down her throat and into the pit of her belly. It was a good taste and unique, and nothing that matched anything she had tasted before in her limited experience.
She turned, discovering he had moved. The rocker was shifted aside and in its place was a kitchen chair, the sturdiest
one that he used. With no arms and a straight back, its purpose alarmed her slightly, especially when he sat upon it with an expression bordering on stern. He patted his knee. His member, the focal point of his body, had not lost its potent erection.
“Straddle me.”
She stared at his mammoth thighs and the girth of his upright cock. “I can’t.”
He smiled. “I’ll help you.” He held out his hand.
She took it and hooked one of her legs over his broad lap. He ringed her waist and lifted her bodily, until her legs were positioned either side of the chair. Then, without letting go, he lowered her. The head of his cock pushed aside her slippery folds with ease. She was poised and nervous. He possessed a strength that might cower her, but she realised she could put good use to that sturdy frame. She pressed her hands down onto his thickset shoulders and balanced herself, uncertain whether she should sink or rise above him. He squeezed her hips and shifted his knees upward. With ease he entered her, and with a further jerk of his hips, she was impaled successfully.
She gasped, feeling the stretch, the forced opening. He pinned her down, requiring her to stretch and give until the full measure of his cock was embraced by her taut tunnel. There was no room for escape for her, but neither for him, unless he threw her off.
“I feel it in my belly,” she stammered.
He relaxed his grip. “I feel wet cunt.” He cocked his head to one side. “Your eyes are watering.” It was an observation, not a question or a reason to stop. “Ride me.”
“How?” She was stuck upon his lap.
He cupped his hands under her bottom and lifted her up as if she was as light as a feather. “Like this.” He lifted her, and she came close to losing him, then once more she was thrust down. She understood that vigour was required.
She arched her back and rose onto tiptoes. The movement was delicious, frictionless and breath-taking. Gaining momentum, she did not need his guiding hands or support. Using the full span of his hands, he caressed her back from tailbone to nape, down her chest and under her breasts. A broad grin struck his face.
Dara was on the cusp of a climax when he tweaked one of her nipples between his finger and thumb. She winced, clenched her quim, and tossed her head back.
“You played with me. Now I play with you,” he said pleasantly.
As she bucked and ground her hips into his pelvis, he teased and tickled her breasts. He used his hands, his lips and tongue; he kissed and sucked, fluttered or rolled his tongue around each nipple in turn. He kneaded with his hands, trapping her breasts as she bounced. Throughout, she had to keep going, because if she slowed, he nudged her with a gleeful reminder by using his teeth. When the sharp stings transformed into a subtle caresses, she moaned. Her legs were weakening, her muscles cramping. She cried out in frustration. She did not want to stop, but she could not keep going.
“I’ll help you,” he said soothingly. Once again, he had her arse cheeks cupped in his palms and with that wonderful ease of strength, he propelled her up and down.
Her hair flew in all directions, catching his face. She scraped her nails down his bare chest and arms, clawing at him, oblivious to the crushing grip of his hands. The throes of crippling pleasure were joined with joyous pain. The climax, which he masterfully engineered from the moment she had straddled his thighs, was designed to herald what he planned for her next.
He lifted her off his cock, twisted her around, and brought her down onto the sheepskin rug at his feet. She landed, without discomfort, on all fours. He immediately penetrated her from behind on bended knees, driving his weight into her. What prevented her from flying forward was a firm grip on her shoulders. Below, her breasts swung in tandem to his thrusts. She came again instantly and grasped at the fleecy tufts. Now she knew the true purpose of the rug—to cushion her knees.
The quaking erupted throughout her body, each tiny contraction of a tender muscle joined to another, and on, until she was rippling from calf to arms. The tension dissolved in conjunction with the waning orgasm. In its place, she felt only bliss and because she was neither rigid nor soft in her flesh, she simply yielded to his thrusts, the steady pounding of his hips against her bottom.
“Mm, you are a greedy girl,” he growled. “But so am I as voracious.”
Abruptly he halted, muttered a curse, and retrieved his cock. As she anticipated, he slid the tip of his cock up her slit into her furrow, then into the tiny opening, just in time to capture his lengthy spillage. The heat of it scorched her insides, burning its way into her core. The miniature thrusts stopped, and he withdrew. She slumped forward and ended up spread-eagled on the rug, and in seconds, she was asleep.