Chapter 3: One Last Test of Control
Your hand closes in her hair and you haul her off you at the last possible second, her mouth leaving you wet and open, her eyes wild.
"Please," she rasps, lips slick. "Please, sir, I was so close to making you break."
"Not yet." Your voice comes out rougher than you intended, and she hears it, and her grin turns feral. You stand, hook an arm under her knees and one across her back, and lift her. She weighs nothing in your grip; she goes boneless on purpose, head lolling against your shoulder, showing her throat to you like an offering. You carry her out of the living room, past the still-running TV, into the bedroom where the moonlight lies in pale stripes across the sheets.
You drop her on the mattress. She bounces once and immediately reaches between her own thighs.
"Hands above your head."
She obeys with a whimper that shakes her whole soft body. You take your time. You unbutton your jeans one button at a time while she watches, chest heaving, nipples rigid, thighs glossy where they press together. You push the denim down slow, step out of it, and climb onto the bed without touching her at all. You kneel between her ankles and look at her, all of her, the soft curve of her belly, the heavy flare of her hips, and you let her see you looking.
"You'll earn me," you say. "You'll earn every inch. First you're going to come apart once more with nothing but my voice."
"Please, I can't, I'm starving, I'll be good."
You drag two knuckles up her soaked slit and press them against her clit, and she arches clean off the bed. You work her in slow circles, watching her face crumple, feeling her thighs start to quiver against your hips, and when the tremor climbs to her belly you pull your hand away and hold it up between you, glistening.
"No," she sobs, hips bucking at empty air. "No, no, you bastard, touch me, please, I'll do anything, I'll scream the whole building awake."
"That's the idea," you say, and lower your mouth to her instead.
Your mouth works her open, tongue flattening against her clit, slow, deliberate, merciless. Her hands stay above her head because you ordered it, fingers curling into the pillow, knuckles white. Her hips fight your grip. You pin them down with both forearms across her soft belly and eat her through the first shudder, the second, and right at the third, when her whole body goes rigid, you lift your head.
She screams at the ceiling. Actually screams, wordless, throat raw.
"Please. Please, sir, I can't hold it anymore. I'm going out of my mind." Her voice cracks. "I need you to take me. All of me. Take me completely, make me yours, own me, ruin me, I don't care, just please fuck me."
"You want my cock?"
"Yes. God, yes."
"You want me to use you like you're mine?"
"I am yours." She's crying now, tears sliding sideways into her hair, hips grinding up at nothing. "I've been yours since the day you put that ring on me. Please take what you own."
Something in you finally tears loose. You drag her up the mattress by the hips, flip her onto her hands and knees, and she gasps at the roughness of it, then moans, loud, shameless, exactly as promised. You press the head of your cock against her soaked entrance and hold there, one long breath, making her feel it, making her wait.
"Say it again."
"Take me. I'm yours. Please."
You drive into her in one hard stroke and her moan shatters into a sob of pure relief. Her walls grip you like she's starving, because she is, because you starved her. You grip the soft flare of her hips, the curves she spent a week doubting, and pull her back onto you with every thrust.
"Louder," you growl, and she does.
The room fills with it, the slap of your hips against the soft curve of her ass, the wet, obscene sound of her taking you over and over. She screams your name against the pillow, then lifts her head to scream it again at the wall.
"Harder. Please, sir, harder, I'm right there, I'm right there."
"Come for me." You reach under her and find her clit with two fingers, circling fast in time with your strokes. "Now. You've earned it."
It hits her like a collapse. Her whole body seizes, thighs clamping against your hips, back bowing until her shoulder blades press into your chest. Her pussy clamps down on you in hard, rhythmic pulses, and she wails, raw and shameless, the sound she promised you hours ago on the couch. Her arms give out and her face drops into the pillow, still sobbing, hips stuttering back against you through every wave.
"That's it. That's my girl. Ride it out."
"I'm coming, I'm coming, oh God, don't stop, don't you dare stop."
You don't. You hold her hips and drive through it, slower now, deep and grinding, letting the contractions milk you while she shakes. The tears on her cheeks are different now, loose and happy, her mouth curled even as she gasps.
She goes limp under you, trembling in little aftershocks. You slide out slow and she whimpers at the loss, reaching back with one blind hand until it finds your thigh and grips it.
"Oh my God." Her voice is wrecked. She turns her head, cheek on the pillow, and looks at you with glassy, half-drunk eyes. "I think you killed me. My husband killed me and I saw God."
You laugh, low, and smooth the sweat-damp curls off her forehead.
"You're not done," she whispers, and her hand slides back to squeeze your ass, pulling you closer. "I know you. You didn't finish, and you're not finished with me."
You let her feel exactly how not-finished you are, pressing against her thigh, and her breath catches all over again.
You grip her waist and flip her onto her stomach in one motion, and she yelps, then laughs into the pillow, giddy, because this is the part she craves. Your hand spreads across the soft curve of her ass, then cracks down on it, sharp, and she jolts and moans at the same time.
"There she is," you say, hauling her hips up, dragging her knees into position. "Ass up. Now."
She scrambles to obey, arching her back deep, presenting everything you spent the week telling her you worship. You slide back into her with one brutal stroke and her fists twist into the sheets.
"Yes. Oh God, yes, like that, don't be gentle."
You're not. You take handfuls of her hips, the soft flesh she doubted, and use them as leverage, pulling her back onto your cock hard enough that the headboard taps the wall. Her ass ripples with every impact and you watch it, drunk on the sight, one palm smoothing over the red print you left there.
"Harder," she pants, cheek flat on the mattress, eyes rolled half back. "You're not going to break me, I promise, I promise, just take me."
You lean forward, one hand fisting in her chestnut curls, and turn her head so you can hear every sound she makes. She's loud. Louder than the couch, louder than earlier, a stream of yes and please and your name broken into syllables. Her thighs are shaking again already, oversensitized from everything you denied her, and you feel the flutter start around you.
"Again? Already?"
"I can't help it." Her voice breaks apart. "You starved me, sir, I'm going to come again, I can't stop it."
"Then come." You release her hair and wrap your arm across her collarbone, pulling her back against your chest, thrusting up into her from below, deep and punishing. "Come all over my cock this time. Show me who owns this pussy."
She shatters. Her scream goes hoarse halfway through and she still doesn't lower it, convulsing in your arm, and you feel your own control finally, completely, burn to ash.
You drag out of her at the last second, teeth gritted, cock hard and angry and dripping. Not yet. You're not spending yourself buried in her, not this fast, not before you've wrung everything out of this night.
"Off. Roll over."
She obeys on a dazed giggle, collapsing onto her back, and you manhandle her where you want her, flat against you, her spine pressed to your chest, her whole soft weight spread across your stomach. Her thighs are still trembling. Her hair spills over your shoulder and her head tips back against you, throat bare, chest heaving, wrecked and waiting.
"Hands on your own vreats," you say into her ear. "Hold them for me. Present them."
She cups herself, squeezing those soft handfuls together, nipples poking through her fingers, and she watches you down the line of her own body with heavy, half-lidded eyes.
"Sir. Are you going to finish on me?"
"Yes."
"On my face? Please, I want to taste it."
"Not your face." You wrap your hand around yourself, right at her hip, the head of your cock brushing the warm curve of her belly. "All over you. Every inch you spent a week hating. I'm going to mark every one of them."
She shudders against you. "Oh God."
You start stroking, slow at first, your fist tight, the swollen head dragging across her stomach, leaving slick tracks on her soft skin. She can feel every vein of you sliding against her belly and it makes her moan, low and broken, hips tilting up instinctively to chase the contact.
"Faster," she begs. "Come on, mark me, I want to wear it."
You fist yourself harder, the wet sound of it loud in the quiet room, and she squirms on top of you, pinching her own nipples now, watching your hand through glazed eyes. Your thighs tense under her. Your abs tighten and she feels it, gasps at it, the coiling right beneath her back.
"Where do you want it first?"
"Anywhere. Everywhere. Please, sir, please."
The first spurt hits her belly, thick and hot, a white stripe across that soft curve she's been hiding under blankets all week. She cries out like she came again. The second lands higher, across the underside of her tit, the third joining it, and you keep stroking through it, milking every pulse onto her skin, roping her stomach and chest until she's glazed and dripping and giggling in disbelief.
"Oh my God. You covered me."
"Look at yourself." You drag two fingers through the mess on her belly, slow, deliberate, tracing the curve she doubted. "This is what I think of this body. This is what it does to me."
She lifts her head to look, cum pooling in her navel, streaked across her nipples, and something in her face just gives. She laughs, wet and shameless, and scoops a fingerful from her belly and sucks it clean.
"Mm. My husband's cum tastes like victory."
You groan, drained, boneless against the sheets, and she rolls off you onto her side, careful not to smear the mess, admiring herself like a painting.
"You held back." She turns, propping her cheek on her hand, tracing one finger through the stripe on her tit. "You were right there inside me and you pulled out. Why?"
"Because I want more than one round tonight. And you're not done being starved."
"Three orgasms, sir. I'm hardly starving."
"You came three times. I came once." You run your hand up her thigh, slow, feeling the tremor that still lives in it. "The math is wrong. I intend to fix it."
Her eyes drop to your cock, spent and soft against your thigh, and a slow, wicked smile spreads across her flushed face. She knows exactly what you just bought yourself, and exactly how she plans to spend the wait.
"Good," she says, smearing your cum across her stomach in lazy circles. "Because I was going to ask how long until you're hard again."
"Not long enough for you to get comfortable."
"Who said anything about comfortable?" She stretches, cat-lazy, every curve on display, glazed and glowing in the moonlight. "I'm just going to lie here wearing you, sir, until you're ready to ruin me properly."
You reach over and pinch her hip, right on the softest part, and she squeals and swats at your hand.
"Careful," you say. "Keep teasing and round three gets rougher than round two."
She grins at the ceiling, utterly unrepentant, cum drying on her skin. "Promises, promises."