Chapter 2: The Glam Session
The studio air was a curated chill, scented with tuberose and new fabric. Lalisa sat on a high-backed chair, a human mannequin. A makeup artist dabbed at her cheekbones with a soft brush, the bristles whispering against her skin. Her own reflection in the lit mirror was a stranger—flawless, porcelain, empty. Her body, however, was a live wire.
Every nerve ending was still screaming from the office. The memory of Nelissa’s hands, the coarse fabric against her soaked panties, the terrifying, exhilarating command in her voice—it played on a loop behind her eyes. She could still feel the phantom pressure of that thick ridge against her clit. A faint, hot throbbing pulsed between her legs, a traitorous echo of the orgasm that had wrecked her just hours before. She clenched her thighs together under the silk robe, a feeble attempt to quell the ache.
The artist leaned in, smoothing a gloss over her lips. Lisa’s gaze, unfocused, drifted across the bustling studio. Racks of breathtaking couture, assistants in black scuttling like ants, the photographer arguing softly with a lighting tech. It was a world she knew, a performance she could execute in her sleep. Today, it felt like a movie set built on quicksand.
The sharp, decisive click of heels on marble cut through the ambient noise.
Lisa didn’t need to look. She felt it. A shift in the room’s pressure, a collective inhale from the staff. Her eyes snapped to the mirror’s reflection of the doorway.
Nelissa Khan entered, and the studio seemed to bend around her. She’d changed. The soft pink suit was gone. In its place was an outfit of devastating, calculated power: tailored black tuxedo trousers, a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, and over it, a blazer of sheer black silk chiffon. It was transparent. Through the delicate fabric, the perfect outline of her black lace bra was visible, as was the tantalizing, flat plane of her stomach. The clothing was masculine in cut, feminine in material, and utterly, confusingly erotic.
And there, impossible to ignore even in the reflection, was the distinct, heavy bulge at the front of her trousers. No attempt to conceal it. A blatant statement.
Nelissa’s eyes scanned the room, dismissing everyone, until they found Lisa’s in the mirror. A bolt of pure voltage shot down Lisa’s spine. Nelissa’s expression didn’t change. It was cool, composed, the CEO assessing her assets. But her eyes—those icy blue chips—held a familiar, possessive fire.
She crossed the room, her movements efficient and graceful. She didn’t speak to the photographer, the stylist. She walked directly to Lisa’s chair. The makeup artist froze, brush mid-air.
“Give us a moment,” Nelissa said, her voice low but carrying. It wasn’t a request.
The artist scurried away. Nelissa pulled another chair close, the legs scraping softly on the marble. She sat, angling her body toward Lisa, their faces close in the mirror’s frame. She reached out, not touching Lisa, but plucking a single, stray eyelash from her cheekbone with a surprising gentleness.
“You’re thinking about it,” Nelissa murmured, her voice for Lisa alone. A casual observation.
Lisa’s breath caught. She tried to hold the eye contact in the glass, tried to muster some defiance. She failed. Her gaze flickered down, to the reflection of Nelissa’s lap, then back up, cheeks flushing.
A ghost of a smile touched Nelissa’s lips. She leaned in closer, her breath a warm caress against Lisa’s ear. The scent of vetiver and cold stone enveloped her. “I can smell you from here, babygirl. That sweet, needy little cunt of yours is still aching, isn’t it? Still thinking about Mommy’s fingers inside you, stretching you open.”
Lisa whimpered, a tiny, choked sound. Her hands gripped the arms of the chair. The blatant, filthy words in this sterile, public place were a violation that made her core clench tightly.
“If you keep blushing like that,” Nelissa continued, her tone conversational, almost bored, “the makeup won’t hold. And we have a very long, very public day ahead. So, you need to pull yourself together.” She leaned back, her gaze sweeping over Lisa’s reflection with clinical appraisal. “Think of something else. The stock market. The fiber content of raw silk.”
But as she spoke, her own hand drifted, almost absently, to rest on her own thigh, her fingers drumming a slow rhythm perilously close to that outlined bulge. A blatant, silent contradiction to her words.
The photographer, a wiry man with expressive hands, approached tentatively. “Ms. Khan? We’re ready to begin with Ms. Manoban. The first look is the ivory gown.”
Nelissa stood in one smooth motion. “Proceed.” She didn’t move far. She perched on the edge of a nearby equipment crate, one long leg crossed over the other, a living sculpture of controlled intensity. She watched.
The shoot was agony. Lisa was directed through poses she’d done a thousand times—leaning against a backdrop, gazing pensively out the window, laughing over her shoulder at an unseen joke. Each movement felt stiff, her smile plastic. She was hyper-aware of Nelissa’s unwavering stare. It felt like a physical touch, tracing the lines of her body through the gown.
During a lighting adjustment, as a stylist fussed with the train of her dress, Lisa heard Nelissa’s voice, clear and cutting across the quiet.
“The posture is wrong. She’s holding her breath.” Nelissa stood and walked over. The stylist retreated. Nelissa came up behind Lisa, so close the sheer chiffon of her blazer brushed against Lisa’s bare back. Her hands settled on Lisa’s hips. Not a stylist’s adjustment. A owner’s grip.
“Arch your back,” Nelissa instructed, her voice a low thrum in Lisa’s ear. Her hands applied pressure, tipping Lisa’s pelvis forward. “Present yourself. This dress is a fantasy. You need to look like you’re waiting to be ruined in it.”
Lisa obeyed, a shiver wracking her frame. Nelissa’s thumbs rubbed small, slow circles on the crest of her hips. The photographer, sensing gold, began shooting rapidly, the shutter a frantic chorus.
“Better,” Nelissa purred. Her right hand slid from Lisa’s hip, around to the flat of her stomach, pulling her back flush against her own body. Lisa could feel it all—the soft give of Nelissa’s breasts against her back, the unyielding, hard line of her cock pressed against the curve of her ass. Even through the layers of silk and taffeta, the heat was incendiary.
“Now look at the camera,” Nelissa commanded, her lips brushing the shell of Lisa’s ear. “Look at it like you want to fuck it. Like it’s the only thing that can give you what you need.”
Lisa’s gaze snapped to the lens. Her eyes, formerly blank, now held a dark, desperate heat. Her lips parted. The shot was captured—a masterpiece of poised lust. The photographer let out a breathless, “Jesus Christ.”
Nelissa released her and stepped back, satisfaction a cool mask on her face. “There. Now you understand the assignment.”
The shoot continued, a torturous ballet. Every few minutes, Nelissa would intervene—adjusting a strap with fingers that lingered, tilting Lisa’s chin with a possessive grip, murmuring corrections that were nothing but thinly veiled dirty talk. By the time they broke for the final wardrobe change, Lisa was trembling, a mess of frustrated desire and frayed pride.
Her final look was not a gown. It was a two-piece set: a tiny, structured cream-colored bra top and a matching skirt that was little more than an elegant handkerchief, slit to the hip. It was virginal and provocative, a contrast that mirrored her entire situation. They were shooting in a more secluded corner of the studio, a faux-boudoir set with a velvet chaise.
Nelissa dismissed everyone for this segment. “Privacy,” was all she said. The team vanished, leaving only the photographer and a single lighting tech who knew better than to look up.
“On the chaise,” Nelissa directed Lisa. “On your back. Legs bent.”
Lisa lay down, the velvet cool and strange against her skin. The skirt fell open, revealing the entire length of her toned thigh. She felt horrifyingly exposed.
Nelissa stood at the foot of the chaise, watching the photographer work. “Hand behind your head. Good. Now look at me. Only at me.”
Lisa turned her head. Nelissa’s gaze was a physical weight.
“Think about the contract,” Nelissa said, her voice carrying clearly in the quiet. “Think about your signature on that page. It’s just a formality now, isn’t it? Your body signed it this morning. Your pretty little cunt signed it when it came for me.”
The photographer’s shutter clicked, capturing the raw vulnerability on Lisa’s face.
Suddenly, Nelissa moved. She didn’t walk around. In one fluid, powerful motion, she put one knee on the chaise, straddling Lisa’s legs, caging her in. She loomed over her, blocking the lights, filling Lisa’s entire world. The sheer blazer gaped open, a shadowy paradise of lace and skin.
“What are you doing?” the photographer stammered, lowering his camera.
“Shooting the campaign,” Nelissa said, never looking away from Lisa. Her voice dropped, a gravelly whisper meant only for the woman beneath her. “The world wants a love story? Let’s give them a glimpse of the truth.”
She lowered herself slowly, bracing her hands on either side of Lisa’s head. Her hair fell around them like a curtain. Lisa could only stare up, mesmerized by the ferocity in her eyes.
Then Nelissa kissed her. It wasn’t for the camera. It was hungry, devouring, a conqueror claiming her spoils. Lisa’s hands flew up, tangling in Nelissa’s hair, pulling her closer, a moan swallowed by the insistent heat of her mouth. The shutter clicked, rapid-fire, capturing the unscripted, hungry truth.
Nelissa broke the kiss, breathing harshly. Her lips trailed down Lisa’s jaw to her neck. “Tell me you want it,” she growled against her pulse. “Tell the camera who you belong to.”
“Mommy,” Lisa gasped, the word a ragged surrender. “I want it. I want you.”
It was the permission Nelissa was waiting for.
Her hand slid from the chaise, down the inside of Lisa’s exposed thigh. There was no pretense now, no audience in her mind. Her fingers, long and sure, pushed the scrap of cream silk aside. They found Lisa hot, dripping, and utterly ready.
“Fuck,” Nelissa hissed, her own composure cracking. “You’re drowning for it.”
She didn’t tease. One finger, then two, slid inside with a slick, brutal ease. Lisa cried out, back arching off the velvet, her legs falling open wider in helpless invitation.
Nelissa fucked her with her hand, a steady, deep, pistoning rhythm that was as much a punishment as a reward. Her thumb found Lisa’s clit, rubbing tight, unforgiving circles.
“This is what you needed, wasn’t it?” Nelissa panted, watching Lisa’s face contort. “All day. Just my fingers in this desperate little hole. You’ve been empty all afternoon, haven’t you? Empty and begging for this.”
Lisa could only nod, her hips lifting to meet each thrust, her cries filling the quiet studio. The photographer was frozen, a statue, but the shutter continued to click, an automated witness.
“Come for the camera, babygirl,” Nelissa commanded, her voice guttural. “Come all over my hand and let them see what I do to you. Let them see how pretty you look when you’re mine.”
The pressure was too much, too good, too exactly what she’d been craving. Lisa shattered. The orgasm tore through her with violent, silent intensity, her body seizing, her inner muscles clamping down on Nelissa’s invading fingers in rhythmic pulses. A thin, broken wail escaped her as she rode it out, completely laid bare.
Nelissa worked her through it, slowing, then gently withdrawing her glistening fingers. She brought them to her own mouth, never breaking eye contact, and slowly, deliberately, sucked them clean. The obscenity of the act, done with such cool arrogance, made Lisa whimper anew.
Then, Nelissa stood up. She smoothed her sheer blazer, adjusted her trousers. She looked utterly composed, save for the wild flush on her cheeks and the dark, satisfied hunger in her eyes. She turned to the photographer, who stood with his camera hanging limply from his neck.
“The shots of the kiss, and the ones just now,” Nelissa said, her CEO voice fully restored, though slightly breathless. “You will delete them. The rest are the campaign. Understood?”
The man nodded, mute.
Nelissa looked back down at Lisa, who lay spent and trembling on the chaise, the cream skirt rucked up around her waist, her vulnerability absolute. Nelissa’s expression softened, just for a fleeting second. She reached down and gently pulled the skirt back into place, covering her.
“Get dressed,” she said, her tone quieter now, almost tender. “The car is waiting. We have a wedding to finalize.”
She turned and walked away, her heels clicking decisively towards the door, leaving Lisa with the echoes of her touch, the taste of her power, and the devastating understanding that she was no longer just engaged. She was already owned. And a part of her, a deep, secret part that had always felt like a missing puzzle piece, had just slotted violently, perfectly, into place.
And a part of her, a deep, secret part that had always felt like a missing puzzle piece, had just slotted violently, perfectly, into place.
The silence in the studio after Nelissa left was heavier than the shouts of a stadium crowd. Lisa lay there, the velvet chaise biting into her bare shoulders, her body humming with a strange, new electricity. She could still feel the ghost of Nelissa’s fingers inside her, the wetness between her thighs a cold, claiming truth. The photographer cautiously approached, avoiding her eyes as he gestured to the rack of clothes. “Your street clothes, Ms. Manoban. Whenever you’re ready.”
She dressed mechanically in the dressing room, pulling on simple jeans and a sweater. The soft cotton felt like a lie against her skin, which still burned with the memory of sheer chiffon and possessive hands. When she emerged, one of the silent security team was waiting. “The car is this way.”
He led her not to the main entrance, but back through the labyrinthine halls to the private garage. The black Mercedes sat idling, its rear door open. And inside, already seated, was Nelissa.
She was on her phone, speaking in rapid, fluent French, her profile sharp in the gloom. She didn’t look up as Lisa slid in beside her, just shifted slightly to make room. The door thunked shut, sealing them in. The partition between them and the driver was up. It was a vault on wheels.
Nelissa finished her call, tossed the phone onto the seat beside her, and finally turned her head. The car pulled smoothly into the Parisian evening.
“Well?” Nelissa’s voice was calm, analytical.
Lisa stared at her. “Well what?”
“How do you feel?” It wasn’t a caring question. It was an assessment, like checking the temperature of a solution.
Lisa looked down at her own hands, folded in her lap. She felt scraped raw, gloriously used, seen in ways that should have felt violating but instead felt like absolution. “I don’t know.”
Nelissa nodded, as if this was the expected answer. “The pictures from the end will be deleted. The rest will break the internet. You looked…” she paused, searching for the word, “…authentically devoured. It’s the best campaign they’ll never fully understand.”
She shifted, crossing her legs. The movement drew Lisa’s eyes. In the close darkness of the car, the outline of her cock against the fine wool of her trousers was a stark, intimate secret. Lisa’s mouth went dry.
“See something you like?” Nelissa asked, her tone lightly mocking.
Lisa jerked her gaze up to the window, her cheeks flaming. “No.”
A low, knowing chuckle. “Liar.” Nelissa uncrossed her legs, spreading them just a fraction wider in the spacious back seat. A deliberate display. “You can look. I don’t mind. In fact, I encourage it. Get used to the sight of it. You’ll be seeing a lot more, very soon.”
The car hit a bump, jostling them. Lisa’s shoulder brushed against Nelissa’s arm. She flinched back as if scalded.
“You’re jumpy,” Nelissa observed. She didn’t move away. Instead, she reached over and picked up Lisa’s left hand. She turned it over, tracing the lines of her palm with a single, cool fingertip. “Your heart is still racing. I can feel it in your pulse.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Lisa whispered, her voice strained.
“Because the hard part is over.” Nelissa’s finger stopped tracing. She simply held Lisa’s hand, her grip firm but not tight. “You submitted. In front of a witness. You came on command. The uncertainty is gone. Now you just have to live up to the promise you made with your body.”
She lifted Lisa’s hand and pressed a soft, dry kiss to her knuckles. The gesture was so at odds with everything else that Lisa’s breath hitched.
“The wedding is in three days,” Nelissa said, still holding her hand captive. “My father has a villa in Cap Ferrat. We’ll go there tomorrow. A small ceremony, just family, a few essential staff. Then the press release. Then the world knows you’re mine.”
The words ‘you’re mine’ shouldn’t have made a warmth pool in Lisa’s stomach. But they did.
“And then?” Lisa asked, mesmerized by the sight of her own small hand engulfed in Nelissa’s larger, stronger one.
“And then,” Nelissa said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, “I take you to our suite. And I finally get to peel that expensive, unnecessary wedding dress off you. And I get to see if you taste as good as you smell after a full day of belonging to me.”
Lisa’s core gave a violent, hungry clench. A small sound escaped her.
Nelissa’s eyes glittered in the passing streetlights. She was enjoying this, drawing out the anticipation, letting the fear and the need twist together inside Lisa. She was an expert at deferred gratification.
“Are you scared?” Nelissa asked, tilting her head.
“Yes.”
“Good.” She released Lisa’s hand. “A little fear is healthy. It means you understand the scale of what’s happening. You’re not a child. You know what this entails.” She settled back against the seat, her gaze forward. “You should be more scared of the alternative. A life of stadiums and sycophants, ending alone in a penthouse with nothing but trophies and tinnitus. This,” she gestured vaguely between them, “this has stakes. This has teeth.”
The car wound through narrower streets, approaching the hotel’s discreet service entrance.
“We have separate suites again tonight,” Nelissa stated. “Final night of pretend propriety. I have contracts to review. You should sleep. You’ll need your strength.”
The car stopped. The security guard outside opened Lisa’s door. Cold night air rushed in.
Lisa hesitated, one foot on the pavement. She looked back at Nelissa, who hadn’t moved.
“Is that an order?” Lisa asked, the defiance faint but present.
A slow, predatory smile spread across Nelissa’s face. It was the most beautiful and terrifying thing Lisa had ever seen. “It’s a strong recommendation, babygirl. But let’s call it an order. It’s good practice.”
She leaned forward then, just as Lisa began to slide out. Her voice was a hot, dark promise in the space between them. “Dream about my cock. Dream about how much it’s going to hurt when I push it into that tight, perfect cunt for the first time. Dream about begging me to stop and then begging me never to stop. Let your subconscious get started on the work.”
Lisa stumbled out onto the pavement, the words branding themselves onto her mind. The door closed. The tinted window reflected her own stunned, wanting face before the car pulled away, disappearing into the flow of traffic.
She stood there, the Parisian night cold around her, her body hotter than it had ever been.
She didn’t dream about it. She lay awake, staring at the ornate ceiling of her suite, and thought of nothing else. The phantom ache between her legs became a persistent, pounding rhythm. She touched herself once, around two in the morning, her fingers frantic and clumsy, but it was a pathetic imitation. It wasn’t the same without the command, without the blue eyes watching her break. She stopped, frustrated and throbbing, and spent the rest of the night tracing the memory of Nelissa’s smirk in the dark.
The flight to Nice the next morning was a study in surreal tension. Mr. Khan was present, discussing floral arrangements and seating charts with an assistant. Nelissa worked, tapping on a laptop, every inch the serene CEO. She was back in a crisp white shirt and tan trousers, her hair in a sleek ponytail. She offered Lisa a polite, distant smile. “Did you sleep well?”
Lisa, feeling hollow-eyed and raw, just nodded.
“Good.” Nelissa’s eyes flickered over her face, missing nothing. She knew. Of course she knew.
They were driven from the airport in a small convoy. The Villa des Anges was not a house; it was a kingdom of white stone and purple bougainvillea perched above a glittering Mediterranean cove. It smelled of salt, pine, and absurd wealth. Staff in muted uniforms whisked their luggage away. Mr. Khan took Nelissa aside for a discussion in a sun-drenched study, his voice a low rumble.
Lisa was shown to a room that looked like a museum exhibit—all antiques and sea views. Her wedding dress hung in a climate-controlled closet, a spectacular creature of ivory lace and satin. She ran a finger down the sleeve. It felt like a costume for a sacrifice.
A soft knock sounded at the connecting door to the next suite. Before she could answer, it opened.
Nelissa stood there, leaning against the frame. She had changed into loose linen trousers and a simple black tank top. Her feet were bare. She looked younger, softer, but no less dangerous.
“Overwhelmed?” she asked.
“It’s a lot,” Lisa admitted, gesturing at the room, the dress, the view.
Nelissa walked in, closing the door behind her. She went to the window, looking out. “It’s just scenery. The only thing that matters happens in here.” She turned and tapped her own temple. “And in here.” Her gaze dropped, pointedly, to Lisa’s core.
She walked toward Lisa, her bare feet silent on the rug. She stopped a breath away. “Tonight is our last night unmarried. Traditionally, the couple is kept apart.” A smile touched her lips. “But I don’t care much for tradition.”
She reached out and hooked a finger in the belt loop of Lisa’s jeans. A simple, casual gesture that felt more intimate than the kiss in the studio. “I have to dine with my father and the mayor. Legalities. It will be tedious. You’ll eat in your room.”
Lisa nodded, hypnotized by the proximity.
“After,” Nelissa continued, her finger tugging gently, pulling Lisa an inch closer, “I’m going to come back through that door. And I’m going to tease you until you’re fucking incoherent.”
She said it so plainly, a simple statement of fact. Lisa’s knees weakened.
“I’m not going to fuck you. Not yet. That’s for tomorrow, when the papers are signed and the rings are on.” Her other hand came up, brushing a strand of hair behind Lisa’s ear. “But I am going to make you come so many times you’ll forget your own name. I’m going to map every sound you make with my tongue. I’m going to get you so ready for me that by tomorrow night, you’ll be begging for the pain just to feel full.”
Her voice was a low, steady current, pulling Lisa under. “Do you understand the program for tonight, babygirl?”
“Yes,” Lisa breathed.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes… Mommy.”
The smile Nelissa gave her was radiant and terrifying. “Good girl.” She leaned in, kissed her—a soft, chaste brush of lips that was a lie for all the filth they’d just exchanged. Then she turned and left, the connecting door clicking softly shut behind her.
The evening was an eternity. A maid brought a tray of exquisite, tasteless food. Lisa paced. She showered. She looked at the wedding dress and trembled. The sun set, painting the sea in flames.
Darkness settled. The villa grew quiet.
Lisa sat on the edge of the bed, wearing only a thin silk camisole and shorts. Every nerve was a lit fuse. She heard the faint sound of the connecting door opening.
Nelissa stepped into the room. She’d changed again, into a long, dark robe of raw silk. It was tied loosely at her waist. Her hair was down, damp at the ends, as if from a shower. She carried a glass of water in one hand. She looked like a queen in her own private quarters.
She didn’t speak. She set the glass on the nightstand. Then she went to the French doors, opened them, and let the warm, night-blooming air float in. The sound of the sea was a distant sigh.
Finally, she turned. Her eyes found Lisa in the dim light. “On the bed. On your back.”
Lisa moved, lying down against the pillows. Nelissa approached, her robe whispering. She didn’t join her. She stood beside the bed, looking down.
“Take off your shorts.”
Lisa obeyed, shimmying out of them, leaving them in a pool on the sheets.
“Now the top.”
The silk camisole joined the shorts. Lisa lay completely bare, the cool air pebbling her skin, her nipples tightening. She was exposed, not just physically, but in her terrible, eager need.
Nelissa’s gaze was a physical weight, traveling over her breasts, her stomach, the junction of her thighs. It was a visual caress, a slow, possessive inventory. “Beautiful,” she murmured, not a compliment, but a confirmation of a fact. “Open your legs for me. Let me see.”
Lisa, her face burning, let her knees fall apart.
Nelissa made a soft, approving sound. “So pretty. And so wet already. Just from waiting.” She finally moved, sitting on the edge of the bed near Lisa’s hip. She reached out and ran the back of her knuckles along the inside of Lisa’s thigh. The touch was feather-light, maddening. “You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what you thought about.”
Lisa swallowed. “Your… what you said in the car. About it hurting.”
“And did that scare you?”
“Yes.”
“Did it excite you?”
Lisa closed her eyes. “Yes.”
The knuckles stopped. Nelissa’s finger replaced them, a single fingertip tracing the outer folds of her pussy, not entering, just skating through the slickness. Lisa jerked, a gasp tearing from her throat.
“Look at me,” Nelissa commanded.
Lisa opened her eyes. Nelissa was watching her face, watching every micro-expression as she played with her. Her own expression was one of focused, intense curiosity.
“This belongs to me now,” Nelissa said quietly, her finger circling Lisa’s entrance, applying the barest hint of pressure. “Every part of it. This swollen little clit.” She brushed over it, making Lisa cry out. “This tight hole.” Her finger pressed, just the tip slipping in before retreating. “The way you drip when I talk to you like this. It’s all mine to learn. Mine to use.”
She leaned down then, her breath hot against Lisa’s inner thigh. “I’m going to taste you now.”
She didn’t use her hands to hold Lisa open. She just lowered her head and licked, one long, slow, flat stroke from her perineum all the way up to her clit.
Lisa’s back arched off the bed, a shattered moan filling the room. It was too much. It was not enough.
Nelissa teased her. That was the only word for it. She was a master of it. She used her tongue like a paintbrush—feathering light, fluttering strokes that made Lisa squirm and beg, then broad, demanding presses that made her see stars. She would focus on Lisa’s clit until she was writhing, on the brink, and then abandon it completely to languidly lap at her inner lips, to trace circles around her entrance. She sucked, gently, on the sensitive flesh, humming in appreciation.
“You taste even better than you smell,” she murmured against her, the vibration ricocheting through Lisa’s entire nervous system. “Salty and sweet. Like fear and want all mixed up.”
Lisa was a trembling mess, her fingers tangled in the sheets, her hips rolling uselessly, trying to get more, trying to find the pressure she needed. “Please,” she sobbed. “Please, Mommy, please.”
“Please what?” Nelissa asked, lifting her head. Her lips and chin glistened in the moonlight. “Use your words.”
“Let me come. Please, I need to come.”
Nelissa considered it, her head tilted. Then she gave a slight, regal nod. “Alright. This time.”
She dove back in, her technique shifting instantly. No more teasing. Her mouth sealed over Lisa’s clit, her tongue a firm, relentless point of friction. One of her hands came up to press down on Lisa’s lower belly, holding her in place, while two fingers of her other hand finally, blessedly, pushed deep inside her.
Lisa screamed. The orgasm detonated, a white-hot concussion that tore through her with brutal, merciful force. It seemed to go on forever, wracking her body, milking Nelissa’s fingers, leaving her limp and gasping.
Nelissa slowly withdrew her fingers, her mouth softening, placing soft, kittenish licks on Lisa’s oversensitive flesh as she shuddered through the aftershocks. She sat up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked utterly composed, save for the dark hunger in her eyes.
She brought her soaked fingers to her own mouth, sucking them clean with a slow, deliberate obscenity. She stood, retying her robe.
“That’s one,” she said, her voice hoarse.
Lisa could only blink, her vision blurred, her body a puddle of sensation.
“Sleep,” Nelissa said, walking back to the connecting door. “I’ll be back in a few hours for two.”
She left. The door clicked shut.
Lisa lay in the dark, the taste of her own pleasure and the salt of the sea on the air, completely ruined, completely owned, and more alive than she had ever been. The teasing wasn’t a prelude. It was the whole point. It was the claiming. And she was desperate for more.