Chapter 17: Dual Satisfaction
Without waiting for another word, she let his ear slip from her mouth.
In one fluid, powerful motion, she slid both of her toned legs between his, her smooth outer thighs pressing firmly against the softer inner flesh of his. Then she crushed her whole body up against his, eliminating every millimeter of space between them. The heat of her skin, still damp from their exertions, seared through the thin fabric of his shirt. She brought her face around to his, their noses brushing, and captured his lips in a deep, passionate French kiss.
Her tongue explored his mouth with a languid, possessive thoroughness, a stark contrast to his earlier frantic clumsiness. As she kissed him, her strong hands came up to cradle his face, her thumbs stroking the pronounced, soft jowls of his cheeks with a surprising tenderness. She felt him melt into the kiss, his initial tension dissolving into a muffled whimper of surrender against her mouth.
When she finally released him, she kept her face mere inches from his. She maintained eye contact, her emerald green eyes holding his wide, stunned gaze. Those eyes, the color of deep forest moss, were no longer playful or teasing. They were dark pools of intent, the pupils dilated and swallowing the green, radiating a smokey, seductive confidence that pinned him to the spot. They promised ownership.
A slow, seductive smile spread across her lips, still wet from his mouth.
Still holding his gaze with those captivating eyes, she began to slide her body down his. She moved with agonizing slowness, keeping every inch of her torso pressed tightly against him. He felt the defined, muscular plane of her toned stomach—each abdominal ridge a subtle, firm contour—drag down across the softness of his own. Then came the heavy, full swell of her bare breasts, the soft flesh yielding and then tautening as they passed over his chest, her hardened nipples leaving twin trails of sensation on the damp cotton of his shirt.
He stared deeply into her emerald eyes as she descended, his breath hitching in ragged, audible pulls. He didn’t understand what was happening, only that it was the most electrifying, terrifying, and desired moment of his life. Her eyes never wavered, never blinked; they were a universe of green holding him in gravitational thrall, promising both paradise and ruin.
She continued sliding down his body until her strong, shapely legs folded beneath her and she was kneeling on the plush, dove-grey area rug between his sprawled legs. Her powerful hands, palms warm and firm, came to rest on his thighs, just above his knees. The position sent a bolt of pure, triumphant sensation through her. This was power. This was control. Last night with the detective had been about being used, a transaction. This—seeing the awe and desperate want in Gary’s teary eyes from this position of worship—this was hers. She owned this moment, this man, this towering need.
Her smile up at him was a full-blown blaze of lust, passion, and sheer possession. It was a smile that knew its own devastating power. It made Gary shiver from his core.
From her vantage point, she was a vision of sculpted, glistening carnality. The soft, ambient light from the tasteful modern fixtures played over the smooth, latte-colored skin of her shoulders and back. A fine sheen of sweat made her complexion glow, highlighting the powerful, corded definition of her deltoids and the long, elegant line of her spine as she knelt. Her black hair, in its loose ponytail, fell over one shoulder like a silken rope. Her breasts, full and heavy, hung with a perfect, natural weight, the dark pink areolas taut, the nipples hardened into eager points. The low-rise denim cutoffs, already shorts so minute they were more suggestion than garment, had ridden up impossibly high during her descent. The frayed hem of each leg was now wedged deep in the cleft of her ass, and the center seam was pulled taut into the smooth, bare lips of her shaved pussy. The rough, damp denim was a constant, maddening pressure, a direct friction against her sensitive outer lips, a low-grade stimulant that kept a soft, warm pulse throbbing between her legs.
With one hand still resting on his thigh, she brought the other up. She began running her palm slowly, deliberately, up and down the inside of his other thigh. Through the thin cargo shorts, she could feel the solid, heated column of his erection—a massive, thirteen-inch length trapped and straining against its fabric prison. Her touch was measured, a tantalizing promise.
Feeling her stroking him through his pants was driving Gary wild. His head fell back against the white couch cushion, a choked sob escaping his lips. Seeing the most beautiful woman he had ever seen—this goddess of muscle and curve and fierce, emerald-eyed will—kneeling before him, deliberately stoking the fire in his lap, was a psychic overload. His fingers dug into the couch’s upholstery.
She grinned up at him, a flash of white teeth in her flushed face. Her bicep flexed subtly as she applied pressure, the muscle cording and then softening under her smooth skin with each movement of her hand. Her core remained engaged, a testament to her athletic discipline even in this moment of abandon, the lines of her stomach flat and defined.
Still holding his gaze with those predator-green eyes, she shifted her roaming hand. Her fingers, strong and sure, walked up his thigh to the button of his cargo shorts. With a deft flick of her thumb and forefinger, she popped it open. The sound was absurdly loud in the quiet, elegant room.
The tremor that went through him was seismic. It started in his legs, a violent shivering that made his knees knock together, and racked up through his torso. His breath came in short, sharp gasps.
Her smile didn’t falter. She maintained that deep, possession-heavy eye contact, her emerald eyes dancing with dark amusement and undeniable hunger. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of his shorts and the soft cotton of his boxers beneath. The tips of her fingers brushed the hot, smooth skin of his lower abdomen, just above the base of his trapped, aching cock.
At that first feather-light contact of her skin against his, Gary’s whole body started to shake and tremble uncontrollably. A desperate, wordless moan was torn from his throat. His eyes, wide and swimming with tears of overwhelming sensation, remained locked on hers, captive to the commanding green depths that held his fate in their hands.
His eyes, wide and swimming with tears of overwhelming sensation, remained locked on hers, captive to the commanding green depths that held his fate in her hands.
Her smile widened into a mocking, playful pout. She tilted her head, the loose black ponytail swinging over her bare shoulder. “Aww, is someone getting all shaky?” she cooed, her voice sliding back into that airy, vacant teenage register. “Like, did you forget the magic word?”
He blinked, confused, his breath still catching in ragged hitches. “M-magic word?”
“Silly!” she giggled, giving his trapped waistband a little tug. “You gotta say ‘please’ if you want your treat.” Her emerald eyes glinted with mischief, a stark contrast to the dumb-blonde tone. “Do you want your treat, Gary? Do you wanna see what’s in the wrapper?”
“Please,” he gasped, the word shuddering out of him. “God, please, Lydia.”
She held his gaze for one more beat, letting him squirm. Then, with a roughness that made him yelp, she yanked his cargo shorts and boxers down in one hard, unceremonious pull. The fabric caught for a second on the thick, rigid proof of his arousal before giving way, tumbling down his hairy thighs to pool around his ankles. His cock sprang free, slapping up against his stomach with a soft, wet sound.
The sight stole the air from her own lungs.
It was massive. Thicker than her muscled, toned forearm, a pillar of flushed, veined flesh that curved slightly upward from a nest of coarse, dark hair. The head was a broad, smooth, purplish dome, almost the size of her palm, glistening with a bead of clear fluid. She had never seen anything like it outside of porn. A strange, detached part of her brain, the part that was still a planner, a researcher, noted the sheer impracticality of it. How did he live with this? How did he hide it?
But the larger, animal part of her was simply captivated.
Lost in the moment, a whisper escaped her, loud enough for his trembling form to hear. “You’re beautiful.”
She didn’t look up at his face yet. Her eyes drank in the sight of him, this brutal, fascinating anatomy. Slowly, she leaned forward from her kneeling position, bringing her face right up against the heated skin of his shaft. She could feel its radiating warmth, smell his distinct, musky scent—a mix of soap, sweat, and something fundamentally male. With a reverence that felt both performative and utterly genuine, she wrapped her strong, tanned hand around the base. Her fingers couldn’t close all the way; the girth was too immense.
She began to stroke him, a slow, firm glide from root to tip. The skin was like hot velvet over steel. Her other hand came up to cup his heavy, hairy balls, weighing them in her palm, feeling them tighten already.
Only then did she lift her gaze to meet his.
Her eyes held his with an intense, almost dominant focus. It was a look of pure lust intertwined with absolute control, a green-eyed dare that challenged him to look away while she held his most vulnerable self in her hands. She saw his awe, his terror, his bliss reflected back at her.
Maintaining that unbreakable eye contact, she opened her mouth. Her pink tongue flicked out, a quick, teasing dab at the glistening slit at his tip. She tasted his pre-cum—salty, slightly bitter, profoundly intimate. Then she took the broad head into her mouth.
It was a strain immediately. Her lips stretched to their limit to accommodate him. She pushed forward, letting her tongue flatten and writhe against the sensitive underside of his crown as she took more of his length into the wet, sucking heat of her mouth. She managed a little over half, maybe seven inches, before her throat reflexively clenched and she gagged, pulling back with a wet pop.
A flash of frustration darkened her features. She wanted to take all of him, to conquer this monstrous thing, to feel it hit the back of her throat. The failure rankled.
So she attacked what she could reach with frantic, sloppy devotion. She licked up and down the rigid shaft with broad, flat strokes of her tongue, paying special attention to the thick, prominent vein running along the bottom. One hand stroked what her mouth couldn’t reach, her forearm cords straining with the effort of moving her fist up and down the slick, oily skin. Her other hand massaged his balls, her fingers working the hairy, taut sac.
Then she ducked her head lower, nuzzling past his shaft. She took one of his large testicles into her mouth, sucking gently, then more firmly. The wiry, oily pubic hair scratched her lips and tongue, the taste undeniably musky and strong. It was a nasty, disgusting taste by any objective measure.
But to her, in this suspended reality, it was intoxicating. It was the scent and flavor of his abject surrender, and it made her own arousal spike violently. A fresh, hot gush of her own wetness soaked the already-damp denim wedged between her bare pussy lips, a virtual river now running down the smooth skin of her taut, toned inner thighs where she knelt squatted between his large, hairy ones.
She tried to fit both of his balls into her mouth at once, her cheeks hollowing with the effort, a compromise for not being able to take all of his cock. It was sloppy and wet. When she finally released him with a soft gasp, a string of spit-slick hair and her own saliva trailed from her lips to his flesh, some of it splashing across her naked, heaving breasts, making them glisten in the low light.
“Fuck,” Gary moaned, his voice broken. “Oh God, Lydia… your mouth… I can’t… I’ve never…”
She went back to his cock with renewed, desperate need. She took as much as she could into her mouth again, bobbing her head, using her hand in tandem, a messy, noisy rhythm of suction and stroking. The oily, musky taste of him, the sheer physicality of it, didn’t repulse her. It drove her. She sucked harder, licked more fiercely, even let her teeth graze the sensitive skin in a way that made his whole body jolt.
And she realized, with a clarity that cut through the sexual fog, that she felt no shame. Not like she had with Earl in that motel bathroom. This was different. This was her choice, her power, her exploration. She was using him, yes, but she was also discovering a part of herself she never knew existed—a part that found profound, twisted beauty in this raw, filthy act.
From Gary’s vantage point, the sight was earth-shattering. The most stunning woman he had ever laid eyes on was between his legs, worshipping his body with a fervor he’d only dreamed about. Her beautiful face, flushed and serious, was a masterpiece of concentration and lust, her emerald eyes constantly flicking up to hold his, pinning him in place. Her strong, tanned arms and corded forearms worked tirelessly, muscles flexing and relaxing as she serviced him. The smooth, powerful line of her back dipped and arched with each movement. Her bare breasts swayed heavily with her efforts, droplets of spit and sweat catching the light on their curves.
“You’re amazing,” he choked out, his hands hovering helplessly above her head, afraid to touch her and break the spell. “This feels… I didn’t know… I can’t believe what I’ve been missing.”
His words, gasped between moans, pierced her. A pang of something like pity, but colder, more clinical, cut through her arousal. This simple act—a makeout session, a blowjob—was blowing his mind. These were baseline things, things everyone had done. They felt nice, sure, but they shouldn’t be the most intense sexual experience of a man’s life. The sheer poverty of his experience was suddenly, starkly sad.
Her mind, ever cataloging, ever connecting, drifted back. It went to the condo, to Jason’s laptop, to the list of requested acts for that other life she was investigating. One phrase stood out now, glowing in her memory like a neon sign in the dimness of Gary’s tasteful living room: ‘rimjob.’
It had sounded bizarre then. Dirty in a clinical, transactional way. But here, now, with the taste of this man on her tongue and his awe in her ears, the idea transformed. It wasn’t about the request anymore. It was about the experience itself—something she’d never done, a frontier. She wanted to know what it felt like. Not to receive, but to give.
And she knew, with absolute certainty, that she wanted Gary to experience it with her.