Chapter 6: Punishment and Reward
The hallway stretched before him, a tunnel of faded floral carpet and dim sconce lighting that seemed to pulse with the frantic beat of his heart. Larry’s legs felt unsteady, his knees weak. He fumbled with his zipper, the fabric of his trousers still damp from their encounter in the elevator. The scent of her, of their mingled sweat and sex, clung to him like a second skin. He could still feel the ghost of her throat around his cock, the violent, claiming pressure of her body taking his.
And there she was.
Leaning against the doorframe of 1208, silhouetted by the warm light spilling from the room. One thin silk strap of her black dress had slipped down her shoulder, revealing the smooth, pale curve of it. Her eyes, dark and hungry, tracked his every clumsy step. A slow, predatory smile touched her lips as she watched him approach, a wolf observing its prey stumble into the trap.
“You’re late,” she said, her voice a low, rough thing that scraped along his nerves.
He opened his mouth to offer some feeble excuse, but no sound came out. He was close enough now to see the smudge of her lipstick, the wild disarray of her hair that his hands had caused. In one swift, violent motion, her hand shot out and fisted in his tie, yanking him forward off his feet and into the room.
The door slammed shut behind him with a final, echoing thud.
The world tilted. Her mouth was on his, not a kiss but a devouring, all teeth and desperate tongue. Her other hand was already at his shirt, buttons pinging off and scattering across the hotel room floor like tiny, white seeds.
“Two minutes, I said,” she growled against his lips, her breath hot. She pushed his suit jacket from his shoulders, then tore his shirt open, the fabric ripping at the seams. “You kept me waiting. I don’t like to be kept waiting, Larry.”
She walked him backward until his calves hit the edge of the king-sized bed, and he fell onto it, the mattress groaning under his weight. He looked up at her, dazed, his chest heaving. She stood over him, a vision of terrifying beauty, her dress hiked up around her thighs. She hooked her thumbs into the sides of her black lace panties and peeled them down her legs, stepping out of them with a deliberate, slow grace that was more threatening than any hurry.
“You know what happens to boys who are late?” she purred, climbing onto the bed, her knees straddling his hips. She leaned down, her breasts pressing against his bare chest, her lips brushing his ear. “They get punished.”
In a fluid, powerful motion, she shifted her body upward, moving from his hips to his chest. She gripped the headboard with one hand for balance, her other hand tangling in his hair, pulling his head up from the pillows.
“Open your mouth,” she commanded.
He obeyed, his mind a white noise of shock and raw, aching desire. She lowered herself onto his face, not an invitation but an imposition. The thick, musky scent of her filled his nostrils, the same scent that had been on his fingers, on his cock. Her wet, swollen flesh met his mouth.
“Eat me,” she ordered, her voice guttural. “You’re going to eat my pussy until I come all over your face. And you’re not going to stop. You don’t get to come up for air until I say so.”
She ground herself down against his mouth, silencing any response he might have had. The taste was overwhelming, salty and deep, the taste of their elevator encounter, of her own unique, potent flavor. He tentatively flicked his tongue, and she moaned, a deep, shuddering sound that vibrated through her entire body and into his.
“Harder,” she gasped, her hips beginning to move in a slow, grinding circle. “Use your fucking tongue, Larry. Don’t be shy now.”
He surrendered completely. He let his mind go blank, letting instinct and her explicit commands take over. He licked and sucked at her clit, tracing the intricate, sensitive folds of her, drinking the essence of her. His hands came up to grip her thighs, holding her in place, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. He was her instrument, a thing to be used for her pleasure.
“Yes, just like that, you bastard,” she panted, her rhythm becoming more frantic, her grip on his hair tightening to the point of pain. “Oh, god, right there. Don’t you dare stop. Don’t you fucking dare.”
Her words were a filthy, continuous stream, urging him on, degrading and praising him in the same breath. She was riding his face with a savage intensity, her body bowing over him, her head thrown back. The room filled with the wet, sloppy sounds of his mouth on her, her ragged moans, the creak of the headboard.
“I’m going to come,” she warned, her voice strangled. “I’m going to fucking drown you. Take it. Swallow every drop.”
Her body went rigid above him, a taut bowstring. A guttural cry tore from her throat, raw and unrestrained, as her orgasm crashed over her. She convulsed against his mouth, her inner muscles clenching rhythmically, a flood of her release coating his tongue and chin. He kept working his tongue, drawing out every last shudder, every last pulse, until she collapsed forward, her body going limp, her forehead resting against the headboard.
For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged, synchronized breathing. The air was thick with the smell of sex and sweat.
Slowly, she pushed herself up, her movements languid and satisfied. She looked down at him, her eyes heavy-lidded. His face was glistening, wet with her. A slow, possessive smile spread across her lips.
She traced a finger through the mess on his chin and brought it to her own mouth, sucking it clean.
“Good boy,” she murmured, her voice husky. Then she slid off him, rolling onto her side beside him on the rumpled sheets. She propped her head on her hand, her gaze traveling over his disheveled, half-naked body, the tent in his trousers that had never fully subsided.
“Now,” she said, her finger tracing a lazy circle on his stomach, moving lower. “Let’s see what else you can do.”