"Please." My voice barely made a sound.
I watched the cords of his neck tense and release as he swallowed, with an effort.
"Again," he didn't order so much as rasp, gripping himself with one hand that trembled.
"Louder." His manhood was flushed and heavy, beading at the tip. I licked my lips.
"Please," I said, this time finding my voice a little more. "Please let me..."
He was waiting. Every muscle in his body straining with the effort of not thrusting
forward, into my mouth.
"Please let me taste you." My own voice echoed, too loud, in my ears. And then, he did.
I choked a little at the suddenness of it, but a moment later my body automatically
relaxed, accepting him. It was a welcome intrusion - making me feel strangely powerful,
watching the way he reacted, even as his fingers curled tightly around the roots of my hair
and held me in place.
He could lose himself in this, but never completely. Always there was something. I
could see it, even when my world was consumed with pleasing him, timing my harsh breaths
through my nostrils, matching his rhythm. I could see how he held back.
Because this wasn't the sort of thing nice men did. Because it was wrong. Because part
of him expected me to shrink away at his desires, and some part of him almost wanted it,
because it made sense. Because it absolved him of responsibility. Because he both needed and
feared to have me completely at his mercy.
I had always suspected there was something inside him that he never showed me.
Something beyond the elegant bondage and the gentle commands, even the lashes of his belt -
always with a restrained hand, through clothes, nothing more than a sting that would fade by
the next day. It glimmered in his eyes sometimes. When he first lashed my hands behind my back, or when he'd put a hand on my throat. Never enough to restrict my breathing, but...