by Nikki Sex
I groan with need.
Her breasts press against my chest, her slim arms wrap around my neck. Renata’s fingers entangle in my hair as she embraces me. The musky scent of aroused woman fills my senses. I kiss her back, answering her desire with a desperate craving of my own.
White-hot passion flares. Our tongues thrust and parry, circle and stroke. Sighs and groans, musical songs of need fill the air. My hands roam her heated skin, down her back until I grasp her buttocks. My fingers press into her soft womanly flesh as I pull her closer.
Jesus. I’m uncomfortably hard. I think I could climax from simply feeling her desire through this one kiss. Her wanton need for me. All misgivings, doubts and uncertainties fade away.
Her mouth is wet and soft and warm and… fuck. A lifelong fantasy fills my thoughts.
I want those soft, sweet lips of hers wrapped around my cock.
As though I’ve spoken out loud, she stands up and moves in front of me. With a knowing smile, and never once taking her eyes from mine, she places a hand on each thigh, kneels between my legs.
Her generous lips part, but she doesn’t say a word.
She doesn’t need to.
My cock jerks and twitches. The feel of her delicate, feminine fingers resting on my thighs, seeing her right there, her mouth so close to my aching erection… well. My whole body is at a fever pitch of excitement.
On her knees before me, Renata is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
Smiling, her gaze still locked with mine, she intently watches and delays. She wants to know if I’m ready for this. She’s patiently waiting for my permission.
I’m unable to speak. Instead, I inhale a deep breath, lick my lips and nod.
Taking my cock in her hand, she leans toward me with her luscious mouth open. The pink tip of her tongue is visible, and the sight makes me even harder. My body hums and my dick throbs, quivering with need.
I moan when she takes me inside her sweet, sexy mouth where a pool of saliva awaits me. I’m surrounded by heat and slick moisture. Her tongue gets busy, and her mouth creates a vacuum. Her strong, rhythmic draw and pull against my cock feels beyond divine.
Already, she’s surpassed every oral fantasy I’ve ever had.
Holy shit. I’m blown away. It feels too good. The sight of her kneeling between my legs is too much. Add that to the delicious erotic sensations of strong suction combined with her busy, licking tongue and I’m already about to explode.
Renata’s lips move slowly up and down. Then she takes my hard on in her fist, working her mouth and hand together. I grip the mattress, fingers curled as my senses reel. I’m dazed by inconceivable pleasure.
Breathing raggedly, I shudder and my balls clench. I think I’m going to come!
“Stop,” I call out. Her hand stops moving and her mouth stops sucking.
“Look at me,” I tell her, placing my hand lightly under her chin, my thumb caressing her face. Her blue gaze is dark with arousal. She’s so incredibly beautiful.
I catch my breath while gazing at her. Every single ounce of my natural confidence and dominance in the bedroom returns. She brings out the real me, completely accepting exactly who I am.
I’m back in control while I enjoy her going down on me.
I won’t have difficulty climaxing now.
Oral sex is just that, an erotic pleasure given by the mouth of one’s partner. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It isn’t wrong. It isn’t bad. It isn’t a sin to give, or to receive it.
Her eyes dance mischievously in her excitement. Getting me off clearly turns her on. Why should I be surprised? Getting her off does the same to me.
Shaking my head, I can’t help but grin. “It’s a good thing you have my dick in your mouth,” I murmur. “Otherwise, I bet you’d be talking, wouldn’t you?”
She flicks her tongue, skimming under the head of my penis. I gasp. Her gaze remains on me. Moving up and down, she sucks hard, pulling my pulsing cock with delicious vigor. Fuck.
I swallow hard and my hands move to her head, keeping her still. I tangle my fingers in her silky hair, tightening my grip. “Did I tell you to start sucking?” I growl at her, my voice low, deep with lust.
Her eyes widen in a coy expression of innocence, the little minx.
I smile. “This feels so amazing, I want to savor it,” I tell her. “How am I going to do that if you make me come?”
Renata can’t talk and truthfully, I don’t think I can hold off from sexual release much longer. So much has happened tonight. I’ve realized so many things about myself. What an epiphany. A huge weight has been lifted from the burden of fear, shame and self-hatred I've carried with me for as long as I can remember.
She’s expanded my world and introduced me to pure ecstasy.
I stroke her hair with both hands, then place my palms back on the mattress. I nod. “Go ahead, darlin’,” I tell her. “You go right ahead. Do as you like. This time, you’re in charge. It’s your turn to make me come.”
I’m so close already, teetering on the edge. It takes only a few heartbeats under her skilled hands and mouth. My eyes squeeze shut. I groan loudly when I feel the familiar delicious sensation of cramping at the base of my spine, my thighs and my balls. Exquisite pleasure, building to epic proportion, rushes outward from my groin as an orgasm slams into me.
I climax violently. My hips jerk, but I’m careful not to thrust inside of her as I ejaculate. I don’t want to hurt or choke her. True to her own preference, she swallows every drop.
It’s the sexiest thing ever, her swallowing, drinking me in.
Something primal within me, my inner caveman perhaps, sighs with deep satisfaction. The woman takes my breath away. The look of sated satisfaction on her face must certainly reflect my own.
There’s no question in my mind. Renata’s enjoyed sexually pleasing me as much or even more, than I’ve enjoyed being sexually pleased.
In this we are alike.
It’s probably part of why we’re utterly drawn to each other. We’ve both been damaged. We both suffered with shame and pain that’s left its mark on our souls. Inside, we’re the same.
I want to make her heart overflow with happiness, appreciation and joy. I long to possess her, protect her and pleasure her. The swing set I’ve built her isn’t enough—I’ll find something else to give her. I don’t know what exactly, yet I’m sure I’ll figure it out.
I’m here in this perfect moment. My mind is free of fear and bullshit.
Next time she wants to give me a blow job, I might very well be nervous again. I doubt I’ve fully conquered this hang up, but that doesn’t matter. Today, I overcame my fears, and I triumphed.
In this moment, I’m at peace.
With Renata by my side, everything makes sense.
Passion, happiness and love fill my heart. I peer down at the kindhearted woman kneeling at my feet and brush my fingers along her cheek. I’m so grateful. Words could not begin to explain how I feel, but I have to make an attempt.
“Thank you… for this, darlin’,” I say in a raw, husky voice. “Thank you for everything.”
Chapter 14.
“Trauma? But yes, it changes us, of course. Yet, I am persuaded such struggles expose the heart and liberate the soul. When we come through the night we appreciate the dawn. Embrace your trials, mes amis. Triumph over suffering and pain. Darkness? Such is as much a part of life as is light.”
— André Chevalier
~~~
Renata Koreman
I wake at dawn, lay very still and wonder what woke me. Briley was up early this morning for a bottle, so I don’t expect him to rouse for a while. Mitten’s probably outside already.
Blinking the sleep out of my eyes, I turn to regard him in the shadowy light. Deep in heavy slumber, his breath is slow, steady.
Careful not to disturb him, I ease out of bed.
Grant is sleeping in! This never happens. He wakes first, gets up, does his daily exercises, goes out for a r
un and returns home, usually all before I’m even out of bed.
I stare at this complex, compelling man, pleased to see him resting so peacefully. He has such a stranglehold of control on himself, he rarely lets go.
I examine his facial scars, pink and white against the tan of his lean athletic features. Lord, he’s beautiful. While he’s asleep, worry lines don’t mark his face. There’s no visible tension. He seems so much younger.
Last night, he remembered how his abuse began. His father initially used fear of death, ridicule and intimidation as part of the grooming process. Feelings of confusion and love were mixed up in there, too.
This is a significant step toward recovery. After a lifetime of blaming himself for engaging in these acts, as well as for any pleasure derived from them, he was overwhelmed by guilt and shame. Hopefully, now the associations he has between kissing and oral sex and feelings of dread and panic will disappear.
Trauma changes who we are as people, but not necessarily for the worst. As terrible as it sounds, I feel I’m a better person for all I’ve been through. Once I get over my own sense of panic and take back my self-assurance, André assures me I’m going to be a powerhouse—a force to be reckoned with.
I smile, recalling his soothing voice of confidence.
André has always believed in me.
Once more, my eyes are drawn to him. An indifferent sleeper at best, this rare restful tranquility is a good sign. A thrill of pleasure shoots through me. I helped him to achieve this calm. It warms me and fills me with love to see him like this.
I wonder how knowing what his father did will change him. Ever since our first time, we’ve had nothing but incredible chemistry and mind blowing sex. Our sheets are on fire when we’re in bed. Could our love life get even better? If so, it will definitely be the death of me!
Chest bare, the covers rest along his flat stomach. I never have the opportunity to see him like this, so it’s hard not to stare. For a moment, I admire the tough, corded strength of his upper body and his colorful tattoos. One look at him, and I’m already short of breath.
I lick my lips, picturing exactly what he can do with that smoking-hot body of his. Images flash through my mind of him, his big cock deep inside of me from above… Yes! As well as from below… yum. And from behind, oh yeah.
Jesus, when did I become such a nymphomaniac? I simply can’t get enough of Grant.
Down girl—let the poor man sleep.
Deciding that I’ve been peering at him long enough, I quietly slip away.
I wash my face and hands, brush my teeth, grab the baby monitor and go downstairs to brew some coffee.
Placing the monitor on the counter, I think of how sweetly Briley smiles when I come into his room for his middle of the night feedings. How would Grant act if Briley was his? For a moment I imagine Grant's reaction if I were to ask him to marry me, or—better yet—someday in the future, when I tell him I’m pregnant with our first child.
After last night and the closeness we felt, I can’t help but think he’d be happy about either, or both of these fantasies.
Today, I’ll make pancakes, with yogurt and fruit. Grant and Mitten both adore bacon, but having it for breakfast every day isn’t exactly healthy.
Mitten likes plain yogurt, so he’ll be happy.
I switch the morning news on low as background noise, but don’t really watch it. Grant bounces down the stairs, arriving in a flurry of excited motion. He’s already showered and dressed. He looks happy, rested and sexy as hell.
“Morning,” he says brightly. He takes my face in his hands and presses his sensuous lips briefly against mine, with lavish enthusiasm.
I grin. “Good morning. I made coffee.”
“I could smell it from upstairs,” he says and heads toward the kitchen cupboard, pulling out a mug. With a broad smile, he pours himself a cup. “I slept in.”
“So I noticed. Will you have time to do your exercises before you go to work?”
“No,” he says, his smile curved up into the same shit-eating grin he’s worn since he came downstairs. The man is supercharged and happy.
“This is different,” I observe.
“Other than when I was injured, this’ll be the first time I’ve missed my daily workout for probably ten years.”
Ten years?
I blink, shocked by a decade of steadfast self-discipline. The man's a virtual machine. No wonder he looks like he does. Of course, genetics have been kind to him, as well.
“You don’t seem too upset about ruining your record,” I say.
“Not in the least.” His smoky gray eyes seem very blue this morning. His lips form a satisfied smile. “Exercise gives me a feeling of peace and control, but I don’t need it today. I had the best sleep of my entire life and I feel fantastic.”
“Is that right?” I ask, looking down to stir the pancake batter.
I knew this already. Grant is a restless sleeper, usually tossing and turning all night, often tangling himself up in the blankets. But last night, he slept church-mouse quiet.
I lift my chin and our eyes meet. His gaze sends shivers of pleasure down my spine. My stomach flutters, I’m no longer hungry. All I need to keep living is to be near him.
What a pathetic sap I’ve turned into. I’m hopeless.
“The best sleep ever,” he reiterates. “I also called work and told them I’m not coming in today.”
“Really?” I sound like a kid who’s just been told Santa’s coming.
“Cross my heart.” His eyes sparkle. “I also realized something else first thing this morning. Do people do that after a particularly good therapy session? It’s as if my thoughts are snowballing, but in a good way.”
“Sure. That’s happened to me a few times. What did you realize?”
“Throughout my childhood, I used to attend church every Sunday. Back then I was in awe of God. He was omniscient. He gave us the world, the people, plants and animals. He loved us. Of course, there was also the whole Hell thing which was pretty scary. When I was a child, I feared God more than I loved him. I realized that out while I brushed my teeth.”
I laugh. “A person can get some good thinking in while brushing their teeth. Tell me more about that,” I say, spooning circles of batter onto the griddle.
He grins. “I know, I’m not making much sense.”
“Yes, you are. I just need more information, in order to fully comprehend what you’re telling me.”
Grant shakes his head. “Oh, you’re good. Very tactful, counselor.”
“Thank you,” I smirk. “I do my best.”
“As a child, I thought I loved our Lord—but in actual fact, I think I was taught to be afraid of him. I’m sure the minister had that in mind when creating sermons, ‘Bless those who fear the Lord,’ stuff. It’s relevant because my father was God-like to me as a child. I was completely in awe of him. He was all-powerful, he held my life in his hands, know what I mean?”
“Yes, of course.”
“How I felt about God, was actually similar to how I feared, yet revered and loved my father. I'd had him up high on a pedestal, unable to see his flaws. When it came to my father and God, I think I confused love with fear. It's as if I thought they were the same thing. To be 'loved,' I had to be both God-fearing and father-fearing. When it comes to my father, what I thought was love was actually fear.”
“Wow, that makes perfect sense,” I tell him.
“Does it?”
“Sure. God and your father, both had magical super powers that eclipsed your own. Of course you’d feel dwarfed by reverence, fear and wonder. As a child, or even as an adult, those feelings can be easily confused with love.”
“Yes,” he says eagerly. “I did love my father and in a warped way I think he loved me. My dad wasn’t wicked all the time, which really messed with my head. André said a consistently cruel parent is much easier to deal with—the child simply hates them. My confusion was the result of two opposing forces, ‘Father is good’ a
nd ‘Father is bad.’ André says such a child must then live a lonely life of bitter uncertainty, constantly moving back and forth between joy and despair.”
I quickly flip the pancakes with my spatula, and spin back toward him. “So there was joy?”
“Oh, yes,” he says with a half-shrug. “For the longest time, I was happy—or at least I thought I was. I didn’t know anything else. I was his favorite, the one he’d take with him horseback riding, shooting and camping. He built me up, generously praising my marksmanship in front of his friends. As a child I didn’t question it, it was just the way it was.”
“What about your mother?”
Grant purses his lips. “She’s a mystery. Kissing was ‘dirty’ and she was certainly never affectionate. She fed us, made us do our homework, and insured we looked good for the rest of the world to see. Other than that, she was cold, cut off and distant.”
“What about your grandparents? Did you know your mother’s parents? And what about his your father’s parents?”
“No,” he says. “My mother’s parents died before I was born, and my father’s mother died before I was even five years old, I think. My dad’s father was in a nursing home with early-onset dementia for ages. He passed away two years ago.”
Then Grant's maternal grandfather had to have abused his granddaughter, Grant's mother, I bet. It’s one of those sad truths that the cycle of abuse continues this way. Children who are abused, if they never face their past, tend to find and marry abusers. That’s another reason why it’s so important for a victim to receive counseling.
“What about the rest of the family?” I ask.
He winces. “My father wasn’t always nice to Alex, which made me feel uncomfortable, nor did he have time for Betty Jo—or even my mother for that matter. His devotion to me eclipsed everyone else in the family. Father liked me best.”
“Ouch,” I say. “That no longer sounds quite so attractive. Abusers cut their victims off from others, so they’re dependent and easy to control. Your father isolated you, purposely setting you up so the rest of the family would resent you. He manipulated the entire household so that the love and attention you needed only came from him.” only."
