Melted and Whipped

by Cleo Pietsche

  The way he says it, I absolutely believe him. I’m still spasming, and Porter slides an arm behind my shoulders to trap me against him.

  “Again,” he says.

  I don’t know what he means until he thrusts his fingers back into me. This time his thumb strokes across my clit.

  The sensations are too much, and I writhe in his embrace. “Please,” I gasp. “I’m too sensitive.”

  “Do men usually back off at this point?” he asks.

  “If… they’re… gentlemen,” I say, the words distorted as my body jerks and spasms. My face feels pinched from the effort of trying to endure the unfamiliar sensations Porter is inflicting on me.

  “Ah, but there we have the problem.” He kisses me again, this one almost sweet. It’s the kiss I fantasized about until the day I saw him spanking that girl. “When I said earlier that I would be a gentleman, I didn’t mean it, Emily. If you want me to back off, we’ll go our separate ways. But I’ve wanted you since the day we met, and now that I have you naked in my arms, I’m not going to waste the opportunity.”

  While he speaks, he continues to torment my poor, sensitive clit, and I’m shaking in his arms. It’s becoming embarrassing.

  “Tell me what you were thinking,” he says.

  I bite my lip.

  Chapter Nine

  The second orgasm pulls all sorts of strange, strangled noises from my body. My fingers clutch at Porter’s arms, which are so muscular and hard I can’t believe they’re real.

  None of it feels real, actually. Even through the bliss flooding my body, I’m afraid that I’ll wake up, that this is all a dream.

  My eyes close as I sag against him, and I pull in a deep, shuddering breath. So this is what a dream smells like: wood smoke, clean soap, expensive aftershave… and the musky, intoxicating scent of a man I could easily love again.

  “Are you ready to tell me?” His finger rests on my clit.

  “Nothing, really,” I say. “I was wishing we’d done this in college, that’s all.”

  “You’re loud when you come,” Porter murmurs into my ear. “I’d often wondered, and now I know.” He sounds happy about it.

  I open my eyes and am surprised to be in this unfamiliar room rather than my own bed. Porter’s arms make me feel safe. I don’t know how to respond to what he just said. I don’t think he would lie about wondering what I’m like when I orgasm, but I can imagine that most men might be tempted to exaggerate under the circumstances.

  Luckily, I don’t need to say anything at all. Porter dips toward me. His kiss starts out sweet, his lips teasing mine, but then he turns almost feral.

  Somehow we end up on the floor, the weight of his clothed body sensually pressing against my bare skin. The carpet itself is soft, but the wooden floor beneath it is hard against my shoulders, my buttocks, my heels. The side of his hip presses between my legs. I want to push him away, to stop his clothes from getting wet—because after two orgasms, I’m messy.

  Porter doesn’t let me, though, and his insistence turns me on again.

  No, not again. More. He turns me on more. I think even if he gives me a hundred orgasms, I won’t be satiated.

  He turns me onto my side, gathers up my hair and pulls my head back. I moan, my back arching. Already one of his thighs is pressing between my knees as he flips me onto my stomach.

  Now his weight keeps me pinned in place, my palms flat on the carpet. His fingers tighten in my hair, and my body yields to him.

  “I’m going to tie you up,” he says.

  Even though I don’t think he’s asking permission—why would he when he gave me a safe word?—I say, “Okay.”

  Instead of getting off me, he uses his leg to spread my knees farther apart. There’s something about the position—legs spread, back arched, head pulled back so that my throat is exposed. Porter’s teeth rake down the side of my neck, and I whimper in desperation.

  I’ve never wanted a man inside me as much as I want Porter. I need him. There’s nothing he could ask that I wouldn’t do, and I guess I might feel weird about that later, but then again maybe I won’t. This feels right in a way I’m not used to.

  He cups a hand over my chest, my breast filling his palm while he traps the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Pain shoots like an arrow through my torso, right to my clit.

  “Please,” I whimper. My legs are quivering in a way I’ve never experienced before, a sort of uncontrollable vibrating, and I realize I don’t recognize myself like this. It’s like I’ve been plunked into someone else’s body, a stranger who needs sex more than air.

  Porter bites his way toward my ear, each nip and nibble firmer, more demanding. “Ask again,” he says. “Tell me exactly what you want.”

  “Sex,” I say. “I want you to fuck me.” My voice is throaty, yet another thing I don’t recognize.

  Porter releases my breast and slides his hand over my stomach. I’m a moment too late in trying to suck in my belly, but Porter doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.

  “Don’t move,” he growls into my ear. When he lifts off of me, I want to cry, and when he walks away, I almost beg him to return.

  My body relaxes onto the expensive rug. I feel sexy, desired. If I’d known Porter was capable of this, I wouldn’t have spent months trying to let my high school boyfriend down easy. I would have thrown myself at Porter, not taken no for an answer. If I’d only known…

  Porter kneels beside my head. He lifts my face. His cock is still out, jutting from his pants. Already my mouth is opening, then he’s lowering me onto him.

  I scramble to get my hands and knees under me, then I rest on my forearms, my ass in the air. Adrenaline rushes through my veins as I do my best to satisfy him. Porter’s large hands are around my jaw and throat as he raises and lowers my mouth on his thick pole. He establishes the rhythm, then interrupts it, holding me on him without moving.

  Once again, I’m struck by the sensation of being someone else. Someone better. Someone happier and prettier.

  Also someone sluttier, the kind of woman who enjoys having a man strip her and fuck her mouth roughly. I’d like to give myself credit for being so brazen as to allow it on the first date, but Porter is hardly a stranger.

  He doesn’t even let me suck him for a minute before he gently pushes me away. “I want to do everything with you all at once,” he says as he turns me onto my back. He stretches my arms over my head, then kneels over my face.

  I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen a man from this angle before. It makes his cock look like a tower. I wish he’d pulled his pants down so that I could see his balls because I’m gripped with the urge to lick them, to suck them into my mouth. It’s not that I love giving blowjobs… but I do want to please Porter. Not only because if I don’t, he probably won’t be interested in a second night, but also because pleasing him feels… right. The word keeps rolling through my mind.

  When was the last time anything in my life felt right?

  Porter pushes my wrists together. Something flat and silky wraps around them, between them, around them again.

  I tilt my head back and see that he’s tying me with a black sash, almost a ribbon, really. I try wiggling my arms apart. Even though he’s not finished, I’m already prevented from moving.

  Porter looks down at me. “Is it too tight?” he asks. His tone suggests he already knows the answer, that this is an indirect warning for me to stop wiggling.

  I shake my head, and he smiles. He finishes securing my wrists, leaving the ends of the sash in a loopy bow, then he stands.

  Arms crossed, he stares down at me. I can imagine how I look, my hair mussed from his rough treatment, my body naked, my pussy wet, my wrists bound. I’m like this, and he’s dressed. I’m powerless, at his mercy.

  Panic flashes through me. Sharp and urgent, then… gone. I trust Porter. It makes all the difference.

  He picks me up as if I were weightless, carries me to the bed, and places me on it. I sense that under
different circumstances, he would be rougher, and I’m touched that he’s being relatively gentle for my first time.

  “Open your legs,” he orders.

  My legs slide a few inches apart. Cool air caresses my center, which is hot and damp. Porter kneels between my knees. He removes something from his pocket. A condom.

  “Open,” he says, and he presses it between my teeth. “Hold that.”

  It’s hardly what I expected.

  His hands travel down my knees, spreading my thighs farther apart. I expect him to take the condom at any second, roll it over his cock and enter me, but he doesn’t.

  Instead, he stares at my pussy. I want to close my legs, but I can’t, not with him in the way.

  He unbuttons his shirt. The bulging and rippling of his muscles as he shrugs the shirt down his arms is hypnotic. Not only is he much bigger, he’s got almost no body fat. I can see his ripped abs. It’s intimidating. Even the dusting of hair across his chest is perfect, and I meet his gaze, those golden-brown eyes. If there’s a woman alive who’d dock him points because of his nose or his crooked smile, she’d surely be rethinking that assessment the moment she saw him shirtless.

  I want to stare at his body, but I can’t break away from his eyes. I could lose myself in them, in him.

  He reaches up, pulls something down: a gleaming black rope. It undulates like a snake as he tethers the end to the looping bow on my wrists. Now I can’t pull my hands down more than a couple of inches.

  A little shudder runs through me.

  Porter kneels between my legs again. His hands slide up my legs, then higher until his fingers brush my pussy.

  He leans forward, and before I can protest, he kisses my stomach, just under my navel.

  I squirm, but Porter holds my hips to the sheets. Maybe, I think, he’ll stop there. Surely he’s noticed I’m sweaty, too wet.

  He licks a trail lower, and his intentions become undeniably clear.

  “You don’t have to,” I say. The words sound funny spoken around the square foil packet.

  “I want to.” His licking tongue is close to my clit, tracing a teasing pattern that I know will be very effective. But I can’t let him.

  “Porter, please don’t,” I say. It comes out in a desperate cry, and Porter abruptly sits up.

  “Why?” His expression is concerned as he moves over me, then next to me. He pulls the condom from my mouth. We’re side by side, and it’s so intimate that all the thoughts rush out of my head.

  “Emily?” Porter’s voice is gentle, but there’s tension in his body as he asks, “Did something happen to you?”

  It takes me a moment to understand what he’s asking. “No, no, nothing like that,” I say. “I’m… I feel like I need a shower. You know, dirty.”

  He looks a little surprised. “There’s nothing dirty about an aroused woman,” he says. “Listen, Emily. I’m going to push you, stretch you. Do you understand that?” His words make the breath stutter in my chest.

  “Yes.”

  “But you should know that a man burying his face in your pussy shouldn’t be a limit. Not for you or any other woman.”

  Oh, God. He thinks I’m some kind of prude. “Normally, I’m not shy…” I decide to try another approach. “You’ve already gotten me off twice.”

  His eyebrows dip together in a frown. “So?”

  “So it’s your turn.” My face heats.

  “I don’t keep score.”

  The skin on my cheeks is so hot that I think I might burst into flames. I wish my arms were free so I could cross them over my chest, comfort myself. Porter opens a drawer in the bedside table and takes out another black sash. “This,” he says, “is your freedom.”

  “My freedom?”

  “Freedom to enjoy yourself.” He twists the sash. “If you need to get my attention for an urgent matter”—he slides the cloth into my mouth—“then snap your fingers.” He quickly ties the gag, and he’s careful not to catch my hair in the knot.

  My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my lips and tongue. The cloth tastes like nothing but smells faintly of roses.

  Moving slowly, Porter slides between my legs again. He braces himself on my upper thighs. I can move my fingers but not much else.

  Porter nips at my inner thighs. I hate that his face is so close to my pussy. I’ve been wet for… hours, actually.

  “I love the way you smell,” he says, and as if to underscore his point, he covers my pussy with his mouth. His tongue traces between my folds, then thrusts into my slit.

  This is the last thing I want him to do, but I can’t move away, not with his weight on my legs, holding me immobile. I moan, the sound strange with the gag in my mouth.

  Porter reaches up and squeezes my breast as his tongue swirls to my clit. His fingers lightly flick and pluck at my nipples, and my entire body goes taut, not from fear or embarrassment but from pleasure.

  Each squeeze of his fingers is reflected and magnified in the way he teases my clit. I’ve never felt anything like it. The pleasure isn’t only between my legs—it’s everywhere.

  I don’t even realize I’m about to orgasm. It takes me by surprise, a violent clenching mixed with sharp jabs of pain. The room is heavy with the scent of my arousal. Porter moans, then he’s sitting up, pushing his pants and boxer briefs down. I’m still spasming as I take in the magnificent sight of his nude body. His legs are thick with muscle, and his balls are swollen. What would they feel like under my lips?

  Suddenly I think I understand the urge to taste; I want to suck him again, and not much would change that.

  Porter rips open the foil packet and sheaths himself quickly. He squeezes my nipples, and orgasmic aftershocks ripple through me. Porter unties the gag and wipes my mouth dry.

  “The gag has to come off so I can hear your cries as I fuck you,” he says. “I want to kiss your lips when you come around my cock.” He drags his heavy shaft from my clit to my hole, and I think I’m going to combust. I’d reach for him if I weren’t restrained.

  He doesn’t need to ask me what I want; the demand is in his eyes, and anyway I’m happy to tell him.

  “Be inside me, Porter,” I say. “Please.”

  “You want me to fuck you?” he asks, the head of his cock nudging into me.

  “Yes,” I say, practically sobbing with need. I try to raise my hips, to trick and entice him in.

  Porter resists me. “Say it,” he orders, his eyes burning. “Tell me what you want, Emily.”

  “I want you to fuck me! Please, Porter. I’ve waited all these years.”

  He bucks his hips, impaling me on his shaft. I practically explode. He fills and stretches me, and he’s too big yet just right. “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” I moan over and over.

  He grabs my knees, pushes my legs back, then pounds me hard. Each thrust makes my breasts bounce. The slapping of bare flesh rings through the room.

  This isn’t making love. This is fucking. He’s almost brutal, but he somehow senses my limits, how hard he can bang into me without going too far.

  “Ask for more,” he says.

  “More. More. Please don’t stop, please don’t…” I lose the ability to speak.

  Porter pulls out, flips me over. His right hand smacks my ass hard, then he pulls me by my hips onto my hands and knees. It’s awkward because of how I’m tied, but his urgency is stronger than any discomfort, and I won’t snap my fingers, not unless I’m dying. I’ve longed for a man to take me like this, like we’re animals.

  He slams into me, establishing a fast, punishing rhythm. I know I’m probably all jiggly, but I don’t care.

  This is what I want, this is all that matters: Porter Loughton fucking me like he can’t control himself.

  Except he clearly can, because he hasn’t come yet. That’s fine. I could do this all night.

  He covers my mouth with his hand. “Have you ever been fucked in the ass?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “Do you like it?”

 
I shrug.

  “Then I’ll go easy on you tonight.” He presses a finger between my lips. I think he wants me to suck him, but as soon as his finger is wet, he takes his hand away. Then he’s at my pucker, pressing in.

  There’s no point in fighting him, and anyway I’m seconds away from the most amazing orgasm of my life.

  Between having my holes stuffed full and the way he’s smacking my ass, I lose it, and then he comes, grunting, fucking me hard. I think I might even scream, but I don’t know because I’m somewhere else, transported to a paradise I never knew existed.

  With a practiced tug on the black rope, Porter releases me from the tether. We tumble onto the bed. Porter pulls me close, his muscular arms wrapped tight around me as his fingers quickly free my wrists. His fingers rub into my skin, soothing.

  This man takes care of his lovers. I always suspected that on some level, but now I know it.

  My body relaxes against his. Porter’s even breathing lulls me into a dreamlike state.

  “What did you mean earlier?” I ask. “The thing you started to say, the thing you said you felt stupid admitting… but then we started making out.”

  “It’s nothing,” he says, but I’m not sure I believe him.

  Chapter Ten

  Even though my body is wrung out and exhausted, I wake after what feels like a brief period of sleep. Instantly I remember where I am—and who’s in bed with me.

  Moving as quietly as I can, I turn onto my side. There’s enough moonlight filtering through the window for me to see that Porter is asleep.

  He’s so beautiful, I think as I study his features. Yes, his nose is large and a little crooked, but in an unapologetic, masculine way. A lot of people with his means might have been tempted to get it “fixed,” to make it conform to society’s standards of what a nose should look like.

  I feel like it says a lot about Porter. He’s not selfish—the last few hours are irrefutable proof of that—but he doesn’t care what others think.

  Even though I’m dying to lean across the expanse of cool sheets so I can share his space, I force myself to lie quietly on my back, and I close my eyes.