Rated: M

When he finally entered his study, he found her sitting atop his desk, the comforter folded neatly beneath her buttocks. Her feet were swinging back and forth and she was leaning back on her outspread hands, her chest thrust into the air, head resting against her right shoulder. If she thought he was going to be taking her on top of his desk, she was thoroughly mistaken. Not this morning.

“You redressed,” she said.

“Yes.” While she had been waiting for him, he had secretly re-donned his pajamas. For the only reason that he found it particularly arousing when the playing field was slightly uneven–visibly in his favor–between the two of them; when she was so totally and thoroughly exposed to him, but she had to work at getting to his body.

“Do you think that’s fair?”

“No,” he said. “That is why I did it.”

“You really are quite the villain sometimes,” she said, top teeth pressing into her lower lip, her hips imperceptibly wiggling from side to side on top of the comforter.

“Am I?” Well, someone had to be. And she was far too sweet. “I can only conclude, then, that villains make you wet.”

Her knees moved apart, showing to him that his conclusion was beyond correct. He could see clearly the skin on the inside of her thighs and right beside her vagina dimly glittering in the morning light. He was thankful for the foresight she’d had in placing that blanket beneath her before hopping up onto his desk. The clean-up procedure would’ve been annoying. Just a bit. And they would’ve been forced, simply by circumstance, to do it themselves. No going to the housekeepers for that one. Just imagining the suspicious glances and the resulting out-of-earshot gossip made him fidgety.

Her gushing sex was why he so often tried to restrict their love making to leather when they wandered from her bed. But sometimes it simply couldn’t be helped. Circumstances be damned. He’d play maid with her for a few minutes if need be. The sex was worth it.

Though the possibility of leaving behind tangible evidence–undeniable proof–of their secret intimacy at times made his blood race wild. But he’d never tell her that. He could hardly tell himself that. However, something in her eyes during those moments told him she already knew. Apparently he didn’t have to say anything. Occasionally he wondered why she wanted to hear those three little words from him so much if she could so clearly read everything that was on his mind all the time.

She nimbly fell back onto her elbows, widening the spread of her legs even farther. “Adi, will you lick me? Please?” she asked, short of breath, heady.

He shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice light but unmistakably resolute. Her eyes enlarged with consternation and she immediately pushed herself back up onto her hands, her fingers curled into her palms. He could see she wanted to say more, her lips parted slightly, but she wasn’t sure which course would get her what she wanted from him.

He began walking toward the desk then, and his stare turned heavy, his blue eyes creeping up on menacing. He placed a hand next to one of hers and promptly leaned in close, like he was moving in to kiss her; and she jerked back just a bit in reaction to how quickly he’d angled himself toward her. Her pupils were frantically darting between his. She wanted to bring her lips to his but some mysterious instinct wriggling in her tummy was telling her it was best to keep away for now. And it was oddly similar to the one that kept her away from dangerous animals.

“I will not be doing a single thing to you, lovely girl, until you’re off my desk and on this floor.”

“Oh,” she exhaled, her breath slithering down his neck.

“So make your decision and make it fast.”

“There’s no decision to make,” she said hastily, the words tumbling out of her mouth as she shook her head. “I’ll go wherever you want me to, darling.” Words that applied across the board. She meant them in more ways than one.

“Then why have you remained on my desk?”

“Because… well, because you’re in the way.”

His eyes stayed fixed to hers for a long moment. Overtly, carelessly intoxicating her in hypnotism. Then his other hand darted between her legs, moving towards her pounding, aching vagina; and she thought he was going to touch her, that he was going to lay his fingers flat against her clitoris or slip his fingers into her burning sex. But he stopped short, centimeters between his flesh and hers, and she choked on her cry of disappointment. The crimsoning petals of her vagina could feel the heat coming off his fingertips.

“Not a single thing,” he said, breath brushing across her lips, amused in the most sinister way. He stepped to the side and leaned back against the desk, arms crossed. He watched, engrossed, as she hopped off in such a rush she miscalculated the force needed to perform the action and almost fell over herself onto her face. He tried to stifle his snickering by clearing his throat. Whether or not he was successful he did not know. She was giving him no attention, wholly focused on ripping the duvet from the desk and spreading it out as much as she could onto the floor.

Then, sitting with her calves tucked beneath her buttocks and her hands resting on her thighs, knees touching the outside of the blanket, she looked up to him for further instruction. He had to think for a moment. He wasn’t entirely sure where he wanted to go at the moment. He should’ve been thinking ahead. All he’d been thinking about was the intercourse while she’d been waiting in here. He hadn’t been entirely focused on the build-up like he so often was when he knew they were about to make love.

Suddenly, she said, “If you won’t lick me, will you let me lick you?”

Should he? He wasn’t sure yet. What did he want right now?

But before he could decide, she had already crawled over to him and had risen to her knees, running her hands over the erection hidden beneath his pajamas. She brought her lips to the fabric, placing energetic kisses over the spot she knew the head of his cock to be, her nails leisurely running up and down the underside of his shaft. His head fell back as his hands dropped and his fingers rigidly gripped the lip of the desk. The room was suddenly tilting perilously, threatening to tip him onto the floor. The ceiling above him refused to stay in one place, so he closed his eyes. There were so many noises he always had to asphyxiate inside of himself when he was with her. And the rage he felt at this only made him harder.

He felt her fingers slip into the waistband, and gently pull down the front of his pajama pants. Her other hand took a firm hold of his cock and she slowly drew her tongue up along the underside of his shaft, starting at the base and traveling up to the very tip. She began making lazy rings around the head before tenderly sucking it into her mouth, her hand sedately but confidently moving up and down his entire solid length. And some of those rhapsodic noises he was trying to smother within his chest escaped as one of his hands shot out onto the surface of the polished desk, helping keep him upright.

With a faint smuck! from her moist pink lips, she released him from her mouth, her tongue delivering a few final, delicate licks. She started teasing him by dropping light kisses down each side of his shaft as she softly caressed his testicles with her other hand, lovingly nuzzling up against his cock. Worshiping, adoring the part of his body that had unearthed a critical dependence to disabling, dizzying bliss. That she treated and serviced religiously on her knees as though it were a sacred altar. Both of her hands slowly drifted up to lay flat against his groin, her fingers moving through his pubic hair as she leaned forward until she was right up against him. She sighed happily as she swept her tongue over his pubic bone, delicately kissing and nibbling at his electrified skin as he struggled to keep his knees from giving out.

Then she gently pushed herself away from his body, her hands still flat against his hips, and immediately, exuberantly sucked him fully into her mouth in one smooth motion. She moaned around his cock, one hand moving to the base as she began to steadily stroke him off with her mouth, and a sonorous groan bolted from deep within his chest. She knew far too well precisely how to make him weak, how to make him want to fall to his knees. He glanced down to see her squirming at the sound of his lawless pleasure. It brought back the image of her on the desk from a moment ago, of what was currently hidden from his sight. Hidden between those swaying hips, between those clenched thighs. Absolute, outright wetness. A wetness triggered only by the sight, the sound, the scent, the taste, the touch, the thought of him.

And it instantly pulled up on that desire within him that had originally driven him into this room. Just how much he did want to fall to his knees, hold her legs apart and lick her. How much he wanted to consume that driving need for him. How much he wanted to hear her beg, and beg, and beg when he continued to pull back and deny, and deny, and deny. How much he wanted to watch her chest rise and fall as he told her to hold off because this was simply foreplay; and he wanted her to cum the instant she felt his cock penetrate her. It pulled up on that desire of how much he wanted to hear her whimpering his name.

But she couldn’t do that with his cock filling her mouth.

His hands went to her shoulders and he pushed her off of him with a huff. Her gaze flew up to his, her mouth still open and very much ready to inquire. But his searing eyes, looking out from beneath his dampened brow as he supported his bowed over frame on her shoulders, his breathing heavily loaded, it all told her everything she needed to know. She crawled into the center of the blanket as he straightened back up, trying to regain a normal pace for his lungs, a normal speed for his pulse. She caught his eyes with ease as she gracefully fell onto her back, her nipples hard like little bits of pink candy beckoning to his tongue.

She had set the word Patience to loop in her head, prepared for a game of stalling and suspension. But it hardly had time to echo twice before he did fall to his knees right between her legs. He grabbed her thighs from behind her knees, and leaned into her so severely he’d flattened her breasts to her chest under the pressure of her thighs. His face was so close she could feel his breath on her lips again; the spread of her legs wide and high beneath the weighty incline of his body, everything just below her hips now on great display.

He leaned closer, until his lips were only a silken-light sensation on hers. “What was it you had been entreating me to do again, Fräulein?” he asked, the nerves within their lips flickering intensely, almost painfully at the nearly nonexistence contact between them.

“Fuck me. I want you to fuck me, Adolf,” she panted. Demanded. Impatient and needy. Her fingers speeding down the buttons to his top, clumsily pushing them through the slits in the fabric as a couple caught on the cotton by the haste.

No. Her answer was inaccurate. She was skipping a step. “That is not what you’d asked for,” he smirked, his lips still teasing hers, the fingers around the backs of her knees tightening in their hold. He pressed her legs even harder down onto her chest. Her gymnastic flexibility never failed to unhinge his addiction for her body. “Besides, I’m not confident you’re wet enough for that step.”

“I’m always wet enough for you,” she whined desperately, a great shadow of incredulousness covering her words. She was scowling slightly. He’d already made show of this earlier with pride.

“Show me,” he whispered, and kissed her as she tried to force his opened shirt up over his shoulders. He slid one of his forearms in horizontally behind her knees to maintain her position while freeing up one of his hands. His fingertips floated across her skin: down over her sternum, down over her stomach, down over her navel, down to and resting spread across her mons pubis. “Show me you’re ready for it, Evchen. Show me you deserve it.”

His fingers languidly slipped down between the lips of her sex, and her eyes rolled as she moaned, her legs pressing back against his arm as she tried to raise her hips to meet his touch. He ran two fingers up and down over her blushing opening again and again, thickly glazing his fingers up to the second knuckle in her fluids. Then he effortlessly inserted them into her, pushing forward until his palm was flush against her fevered vagina; and her jaw dropped, her eyes lost their focus, her body jerked up against him. She found herself gagged by a sound of rapture attempting to break out from between her teeth.

The tissues securely ensconcing his fingers in a stranglehold were pulsating hard and hot, and he could see her copious nectar had already reached the blanket beneath. She was undeniably ready for him. No doubt. And his erection was growing painful. But that’s not what this game was about.

He knew she still had more to offer; and his erection hadn’t reached excruciating yet.

He threw her legs back down to the floor and nuzzled his face into the crevice between the bottom of her left breast and her ribs, kissing and nipping at the flesh. His tongue whisked across her ribs to the side of her body, and her hands curled into the comforter. He dropped kisses down the very perimeter of her abdomen until he reached the peak of her left hipbone, sucking her skin in between his teeth until it turned cherry red. Then he harshly bit down. Leaving behind an unmistakable imprint. And she yipped, bit deep into her lower lip in an effort to muzzle the fever pitch.

His mouth casually traveled across her hips, moving low enough that his tongue just barely grazed the top of her tenderly hypersensitive clitoris on its way to her other hipbone. With a frazzled gasp and her hips thrusting up into the air, she begged him wordlessly to cease teasing her in the way he was so determined to. There was too much adrenaline and too much dopamine for her veins to handle, the deadly dose of the cocktail over saturating her heart and her sex. She needed him to release her from its hold.

He’d received this silent request from her many times, and he never tired of seeing it. He answered her by administering the same treatment to the peak of her right hipbone that he’d given to the left: making it blush red before biting into her like pretty, virgin fruit. He proceeded up the perimeter of the right side of her abdomen, arriving at her ribs and traveling over them with his tongue. Mirrored treatments for both sides of her body. Completing a sensual lap.

And before her trembling and tingling nerves–which he continued to pull and wind, tighter and tighter like piano wires, daring her to let them snap beneath the weight of their whirling wonderland–could even marginally reset and resettle back into place, he’d moved the assault to those rose candy nipples. No time for her body to adapt. He was persistent, determined on getting those wires to split.

His mouth enveloped her right nipple, his tongue painting wet circles around it as he took the other between his fingers. Toying with her body, making her arch her back and surrender her breasts to his complete authority. Making her mewl incoherently and plead in soft, high-pitched sounds. Making her body slowly, but even willingly and enthusiastically cave to his control, one territory at a time. He moved to her left breast and proceeded to torment it in the same way, taking her nipple into his mouth but utterly avoiding meeting it with his tongue as his fingers switched to her right.

He took turns keenly, ardently drawing each of her nipples into his mouth, delighting in the way her body squirmed beneath him. And as they reacted more and more to his sensually fanatical and devoted treatment, he graduated from his tongue to his teeth. Nipping, then biting until they had crimsoned, and she had lost all mastery over what sounds were allowed to flee from between her lips.

He moved to briefly place his mouth over hers. His fingers went to both of her now exceedingly sensitive nipples, taking them between his thumbs and forefingers. “I’ve always loved these,” he murmured through slippery, impassioned kisses, pulling up on them until her hands had reflexively latched onto his wrists with her nails biting into his skin. “They’re so… responsive.

She laughed feebly, her head falling to the side. “They like you,” she sighed out shakily. He could see how weak she’d become, everything but her fingers around his wrists having become utterly limp beneath him like a doll made of cloth, connected at the joints by unraveling yarn. He could see in her heavily intoxicated eyes just how blurry her sense of reality had become, how slack her hold on the world outside of them had become. And it was only this observation that made him realize he’d started to gradually kneel down before this same force. It was far too easy and far too enticing to push the rest of this world into total nonexistence when he was with her.

And he liked this about her. He loved her for it.

Things were so simple with her. So natural. She made him feel like the fate of the world didn’t depend on him. She held his sanity, and of it she was viciously protective. Like no one else was nor ever had been.

He proceeded to heedlessly scattered hickies and love-nips across her breasts, drops of scarlet paint thrown carelessly across her skin. Her war wounds. Personally delivered to her by him. There was an awareness that he didn’t have to keep himself in check, that he didn’t have to hold back because this part of her body would be shielded the moment she stepped out of their realm. And this made him feel unlike anything else. A soft, sprightly sensation associated specifically with her as he looked at her concealed breasts throughout the day knowing he was the only one aware of what secrets she held. What secrets were depicted on her breasts, written across her chest like an admission.

Her entire body had become his personal confession.

A confidential confession. But thorough in detail and exhaustive in description of everything he kept hidden living within his own chest. Hidden in plain sight. The best place to hide his biggest secret. Hardly anyone ever knew what they were really looking at if they came upon his secret because she was written in a language they could not translate. His own brand of hieroglyphics: made of gold, real pretty to look at, sparkling beneath the sunlight, but what on earth did she say? And all they’d ever receive in answer was Egyptian silence.

The only way to read her was to find someone who knew the language. Admittedly, it became fairly easy at that point. But it was persuading those who knew to break their own silence. And that could be far more difficult than it appeared, sometimes impossible. Even still, outside the two of them, no one knew this language fluently. They still hadn’t discovered his confession secretly written across her body: the Rosetta Stone.

Finally, she wound her fingers tight into his hair, and he glanced up at her. She was panting hard through her teeth, her eyes tortured by a fiery, lethal mixture of frustration and lust. Her bottom lip had turned wine red, making him think of the wine red lips she held between her legs. She abruptly reached for his hand and thrust it between her thighs, pushing his fingers tight up against her drenched sex. Silently telling him she was ready, she was ready for him, couldn’t he see and feel how ready she was for him?

His fingers were still, his stare locked with hers. Against his now strikingly slippery fingers, he could easily feel her pulse, a feature of her body he brought out that he found to be so intriguing, so satisfying. He used her pulse to count long, harrowing seconds, only out of a villainous interest to magnify her ache even further: Eins, zwei, drei, vier, fünf, sechs, sieben….

She groaned, a shockingly serrated sound; and closed her eyes, her voice pitched to the heavens: “Adi, plea–”

He silenced her by rapidly placing his mouth over hers. His tongue ran over her bottom lip and he tasted a thin ribbon of blood. Lightning tapping on his nerves and bolting through his veins that he couldn’t control. He wanted to make her bleed more. Make her bleed the way she made him bleed. Bestow unto her actual wounds. Because she’d love it so, so much. Because it’s what they did to one another.

Then, suddenly spurred on by that thread of bizarre creativity she was responsible for having woven in him, that was at the heart of all his sudden radical cravings, a different idea spawned. A different desire, a different need from before. A dream resurfacing. Stealing his attention. Stealing that pull.

He pushed himself up off her and shifted to one knee. He took a firm hold of her wrist and started moving to his feet, pulling her with him. She was staring up at him through half-lidded eyes. She knew she was confused. She could sense it speaking beneath the heavy, humid haze that now pillowed her mind. But it was hard to hear clearly. Hard to focus, hard to understand, hard to stay in one place in all this shameless lust he’d cast over her. “What are you doing,” she said. Hardly even sounding a question. The words had come from her mouth but she didn’t hold any attachment to them. She didn’t care about the answer.

“Up,” he said. The order clipped and hoarse. She allowed him to haul her to her feet, leaving no trail of resistance. She fell against his chest, knees bent, legs shaking, arms caught between their bodies slick with sweat. His hands grabbed her arms just below her shoulders, supporting her frame. Then after a moment, he roughly spun her around. Hands still on her arms, she suddenly felt his mouth next to her ear. “Walk.”

“I don’t know if I can,” she breathed. She wanted to. She did. But she knew she was walking the edge of falling back to the floor.

His fingers pressed into her arms. “I won’t let you fall. Trust me.”

“All right.”

So her feet moved her forward. And his hands did not vanish from her arms. His body encouraged her on, employing a gentle force as he pushed her ahead; pushed her towards a wall where glass casings had been built snugly into the wall. Casings that housed a handsome looking collection of books, spines maroon and ribboned with gleaming gold.

He directed her past the wide, varnished table with its vase of fresh white flowers and its accompanying cushioned chairs. He directed her until she stood, still swaying on her feet, before one of the bare sections of solid, light wood-paneling that sat between two of the glass bookcases. And there she found two faded images of them in the two cases on either side of the panel. Two glinting copies of the man she loved each wearing a peculiar expression. That sinister amusement. But tenfold. A plan; flashing, fanatical intention behind the eyes.

Sudden momentum. She was falling forward, his hands gone from her shoulders. There had been another force from behind, further encouragement, this time less gentle. Her hands shot up in front of her, palms landing flat against the smooth wood to soften the impact. And then she felt him step up behind her, his body right up against hers. Trapping her to the wall. He delicately pulled her hair back away from her neck, and kissed the hollow beneath her ear. “There,” he murmured, a hand returning to one of her arms. “See? You did that quite well. No need for worry.”

She couldn’t respond. Where words had come from before was now empty, lost. The haze had thickened and was dripping down her body, moving fast, slipping with envious speed across the perspiration on her skin. She shut her eyes. Her fingers curled into her palms, knuckles resting against the hard paneling.

His hand drifted down her arm, jumping from her elbow onto her ribs. The other found her hip and pulled her snug against him, flush to his groin. Still concealed, his erection was pressing rigidly against her lower back, a sensation that was insisting her outright, thorough attention. But this was hard to fulfill because the fingers on her ribs had meandered around to the front of her stomach, just beneath her navel and were straying farther down.

“Spread your legs,” he said, lips still at her ear. And her muscles had tensed and jerked at his words. She’d forgotten his voice was so close, almost inside her. Her concentration had been split and shredded into too many pieces, spread out across her body. He’d scarcely left a single thing behind as a remainder to his previous kiss, his previous words. Only moments ago, but so far away. And she felt him laugh at that wonderful reaction.

But her body automatically fell to his instruction with both her feet moving out to the side. His fingers continued their descent until they hit her clitoris, brushing down with the weight of silk. And she gasped viciously, loudly. She threw her head back into the dip of his shoulder and turned her face into his neck. But he placed a hand to the small of her back and pushed her right to the wall again. “How much do you need it?” he said, punching wet words out from clenched front teeth.

“Ah, fuck.” A response that didn’t make sense but answered his question all the same.

His fingertips swept down between her legs again, longer and lingering but remaining light in force, and she cried out. These brief, fleeting touches were starting to hurt. A prolonged touch was required to soothe the pain that had begun to flare, and flare hot and deep. She needed friction. She needed hard pressure. And every time he stole it away it only delivered agony.

Suddenly, three fingers were urging her lips apart and her jaw dropped only too eagerly. Her tongue was against them, meeting a thick coating of fluid she was surprised to find not unpleasant.  She had never tasted herself before. “Can you feel that?”

“Mm-hmm,” she nodded, moaning immorally around his fingers. She was limp, going limper. Her knees wanted to give in but he was forcing her up, determined to hold her there.

“This is how wet I always want you before I fuck you. Understand?” She wanted to answer with elegance and clarity. She wanted to speak. She wanted to tell him satisfying his desire, meeting his standard, it would certainly be no issue. Never had been. Never would be. But all she could do was eagerly nod.

His other hand wandered back down, fingers brushing the inside of her stupendously saturated thighs. Honey-like fluids had coated her skin halfway down her thighs in a shiny gloss. “Are you ready to cum?” he asked.

Her jaw dropped again, and she responded with too loud and too high of an, “Uh-huh,” through a mouth still stuffed.

He didn’t seem to notice, though. His entire body was solid, stiff and strained from the excitement, the expectation, with his breath filling her ear. The sweet, syrupy scent of her arousal pervaded his focus through the sticky summer heat, making him feel heady and blitzed. And there was a crude, primitive impulse flickering in his core to grip her even harder, to thrust her up against the wall even harder; to handle and fuck her with no regard to any sort of civility or restraint. If only they lived alone. Wholly and utterly alone. He would demand she scream, and screw her until she did so with this same lack of grace. He was already pointlessly searching for a way to make it happen.

Instead, he had to demand silence from her.

“I have two conditions,” he said. He felt her teeth squeeze his fingers, and it was a strong, deliberate effort to restrain himself from simply thrusting into her. Little things. It was always the little things. He’d never told her about the little things. But her body clearly knew well how his worked and always responded accordingly. She always reacted in the ways he wanted her to.

“First, you need to bite back on that enchanting voice of yours. We don’t want it wandering down the halls, do we?” She shook her head, and he kissed her shoulder. “Good,” he said, speaking firmly against her skin, stifling the carnal tremor working into his voice. “Second, you’re going to cum the instant you feel me enter you. I want you over the edge in a single thrust.”

She nodded, enthusiastic, his fingers moving with the motion. He took a step back and moved her hips with him, placing a slight forward bend into her position. Her hands slid out to the side, palms flat against the wood again, bracing her form. He leaned over her, pulled his fingers from her mouth and placed them atop of hers, warm and slick with her saliva. She was staring at his reflection in the glass bookcase again, transfixed by his movements. Her arduous panting was beating against his wrist as she watched his other hand disappear behind her, down between the two of them.

Then his eyes caught hers in the glass without warning. And there was a strange shimmer of fear, as if she’d been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to be doing. “You’re terribly tense,” he said, the timbre of his words low and dense.

She had started to shiver, her teeth faintly chattering, strictly from her staggering, crushing desire. “Only a little,” she said, her voice severely, blatantly choked. The lie shining like a beacon of light out of her large, intense blue eyes. Her entire countenance was betraying her. At some point it had crossed over enemy lines, had chosen him over her.

She felt him insert a finger into her, an odd and–she quickly realized–fairly wicked method of teasing her. Finding the point of nerves and giving to them the stimulation they’d become miserably desperate for. But for her current plight, it was only a cruelly inadequate taste of all he was capable of granting her.

He was careful not to give too much friction, too much pressure, too much thickness. He wanted her nerves springing up at every small touch, at even the most pathetic hint of a graze. He wanted them searching. Hunting for his touch. He was intent on solidifying her feeling of dissatisfaction, erecting it to a height that was utterly unbearable. He wanted to remind her what it felt like to have something inside her; but it was to be something she’d explicitly recognize she’d never find any type of release in. It wouldn’t be enough, and this would only torment her further. Make her feel even emptier.

He murmured inches above her neck, “One thrust is all I’m giving you. Are you certain you’re ready?” He only had a single finger buried inside her exploiting those shaking nerves, but her fluids had smothered almost his entire hand.

“God, yes,” she hissed. Her eyes were trapped in his stare. And he was silent, his reflection smirking at her, the shadow of some secret deception falling from his rich blue gaze. She kept trying to grab onto the rhythm of his hand with her hips, but the way he’d positioned the two of them didn’t allow for it. She could only marginally shift and twist awkwardly between him and the paneling.

There was an abrupt, harsh pressure on that delicate, tender spot deep within her; the spot that had been nagging her to start clawing at the wall. But before she could start to genuinely appreciate that sudden rough heat, before it could start to build, he’d stolen it away again. She felt empty again. She felt thrown to the ground again. And she needed to cry out again. She wanted to batter the walls with her voice and her fists.

Deliberately, he’d stayed torturously close to the point within her body that had stolen control from her. And had made that chaos feel so natural, so reasonable; that had sent scalding, searing, scorching needles racing negligently through her blood vessels; that had placed the epicenter of her consciousness, of her current reality, right between her legs; that was urging she relinquish her generous and charitable style of love-making in favor of a much more self-gratifying approach that would find and ignite the physical detonation she was seeking.

All the strength in her slender, sweltering body went to clamping shut her jaw. Lest her own sharp-tongued orders for him to simply get to it accidentally slip from between her lips on a growl. She was praying hard that he was nearing his breaking point; and she knew he had to be. She could see his own fevered arousal thinly blown across his skin, a feral appetite reflected in his eyes; and his breath against her flesh was clipped.

But she remained fixed to his stare and bit down hard into her lip, submitting to the silence. Commitment to the conditions he’d lain before her.

His expression transformed. He’d set them out of the purest sense of selfish desire. A desire to watch her struggle to asphyxiate her own noises; and to feel just how profound, how deeply rooted her physical need was for him. A rival to the influences that vaulted forth and thrived within himself.

And she was plainly aware of this. Her stare on fire, teeth weighing deeper and deeper into that lip, his pleasure was somehow, somehow still written in bold at the top of her list. Whatever she could do to make him hotter and harder.

She never missed an opportunity to amaze him.

He’d been able to determine through all five senses how critically she needed this release. But through all her begging and all her own little power moves, she demonstrated an unmatched expertise to know what he wanted and when he wanted it. She knew when he wanted her to heel; she knew when he wanted her to fight; and she knew when he wanted her to take the wheel and go full throttle. She knew what he wanted, and she always gave it without question because that was precisely where she found her purest sense of pleasure.

And this sentiment had inspired him. He’d once found himself wondering: what exactly would she do if all he was looking for nothing but her pleasure? If all he was looking for was, literally, only a taste of her?


© 2017 Elizabeth Klarke

Oooh, this one made me feel rather guilty. All that shameless, indulgent power-play. There’s absolutely no excuse for any of this. And he had so many paintings in his damn study; it was not easy to find a spot ideal for wall-fucking. Christ.
I’m also not even half convinced there was glass over his bookcases. In some photos there are reflections, in others there aren’t. I put it in anyway because it makes for better details.