by Cara McKenna
More than anything else, I fantasize about men masturbating. It imprinted at first because it was safe, detached from me in every way. I could imagine watching any handsome man I wanted, aroused and aggressive, without ever painting myself into the scene. Until Didier, I’d never touched a cock, never seen a hard one in person, never smelled that curious smell. What he let me watch that night made every speculative show I’d ever entertained pale in comparison, and now it’s his hands, his cock, his excitement and no one else’s, branded forever onto the pleasure center of my brain.
His thighs spread mine, rougher than before. One hand clamps to my hipbone, the other guiding his erection—I feel his knuckles as his head sweeps along my lips. I’m wet from excitement, from his mouth and the tea, everything. My body welcomes him in a single deep push and a gasp flees from my lungs. As his length fills me, the plug makes itself known again. The weirdness of it has gone, and as he thrusts it massages something inside me, intensifying the pleasure of his driving cock. I wonder if he can feel it too.
“Do you wish you could see me?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Do you wish you could touch yourself?”
Fuck yes. I nod.
“Too bad.” He hooks his hands under my knees, urging my legs up and hugging them together, my ankles over his shoulder. His cock plunges deep in long, rhythmic strokes, teasing my lips and inner thighs. My clit is screaming for attention. My brain is screaming for my hands to lift the mask so I can see him, see his body strained and his face mean and focused.
“I can do anything I like with you,” he tells me.
“Yes.”
“Turn over, then.”
He helps me move to my knees and elbows, both of us still pretending my wrists are bound to the bed. He sinks deep with a ragged sigh.
“Have you ever fantasized about two men?” he asks me.
“Only a little.” Now and again, a passing curiosity.
His weight shifts against me as he leans for some item or other. I hear a familiar clink—the crystal stopper of the lube bottle. His cock resumes thrusting and his arm is at my side, then the smooth, slippery touch of something at my clit. He draws the glass along my fevered flesh, letting me feel each inch of the dildo.
“You’ve imagined having two cocks at your service? Two men wanting you?” He doesn’t wait for my confirmation. “One man fucking you.” He owns me for a flurry of thrusts. “While another waits his turn?” The glass strokes me. With a long, slow drag, his cock leaves me empty, then the dildo is at my folds. He finds the right angle and I’m filled with that too-perfect smoothness, cold after the heat of Didier. His thumb teases my clit each time he pushes deep. He positions his erection along my cleft, thrusting to toy with the base of the plug. Too many sensations. I’m blind and bound and the pleasure is too much, too many places at once.
“Imagine another man,” he tells me.
I do, and the effort grounds me amid the chaos, giving me focus.
“One man beneath you,” Didier says. He pumps me with the glass. “Another behind you. Me behind you, waiting for my turn.”
On a whim, my brain supplies the image of the baker who works at the boulangerie below my flat. An intense, handsome man, leaner than Didier but with an intriguing face and sinewy forearms always dusted in flour. I imagine him below me and wonder how it would feel to have a wall of male heat on each side, two different voices, Didier’s hands on my hips and this other man’s holding my breasts.
The dildo slips out, Didier slides in. As he strokes my clit with the glass, I try to keep the baker under me but his face blips out. I’m too far gone with the man behind me. The reality of what he’s actually doing is hotter than any ménage fantasy. I may be stuck sharing Didier with other women, but I don’t care for the idea of him sharing me. I’ve done too much coveting in my life. I want to feel like the coveted one for a change.
“I’m only thinking about you,” I tell him, my words jumping with his thrusts.
He slows. “Oh?”
“Yeah. I tried, but I don’t want another man here.” Everything we do, I want it between us. I won’t make room for another, not even in my head.
His hips stop completely, and I feel his palm grazing my waist down to my thigh then back up, the dildo now warm against my mound.
“What do you want?” he asks quietly.
“Just you. You doing all this to me. And to see you.” And to see the dark wood of the bedposts, the weave of the covers, the glint of the candlelight on the bottles. Familiar sights to anchor me while his body leads mine into these uncharted territories.
“Take off the mask, Caroly,” he murmurs.
I do as he says, fumbling with my tied hands, and seeing again is like a drink of cold, quenching water.
“Look at me.”
I crane my neck and take him in, that body I know better than any other man’s, yet as exciting as the first time I laid eyes on him. His expression is dark, as dark as his pupils or brows or the shadow of hair between his legs. As dark as the far corners of the room.
“Just me?” he asks, drawing his length out languidly, sliding back inside just as slow. He feels thick and hot and impossibly hard, so explicit I shut my eyes.
“Just you.”
“What about this?” he asks me, and I feel his fingers between my cheeks, manipulating the plug.
“I don’t mind that. I think I like it.” Sometimes it feels funny and distracting, but more often it feels good.
“And this?” He rubs me with the glass.
“It’s nice, but you’re plenty.” It’s always been quality for me, quantity not a particularly strong draw when I’m looking to spoil myself.
The dildo is gone and two powerful hands knead my hips. “You don’t want to be shared,” he says softly.
I don’t want you to want to share me.
Of course I don’t say that. “I like when you’re possessive.”
A warm noise, neither laugh nor sigh, opens my eyes. He’s smiling that bone-softening smile, little lines around his eyes and mouth etching wisdom across his face.
“I’m more possessive than you know,” he tells me.
My heart squeezes, hard.
“You have no idea how often I think about how all this…” He pumps me deeply for a few strokes and trails his fingertips up and down my spine. “How all this is only mine. How no other man has ever had you.”
It’s no love proclamation. It’s more male ego than anything else, but I’ll take it. I open my eyes.
“I can be very greedy,” he tells me with a smirk.
“I like when you are.”
He reaches beside us and picks up the paddle. “Let me show you how greedy.”
Chapter Three
“Keep your hands as they are.”
I clutch the blanket tight, reminding myself I’m meant to be bound.
He draws the edge of the leather paddle up my thigh, over my butt, along my waist and back. “Here are the rules. You want me possessive?”
Yes yes yes yes yes. “Yeah.”
“Then I want your eyes on me. If you turn away or shut them—”
Whap. I yelp as the slap lights a fire on my thigh.
“Understood?”
“Yes. I understand.” Bossy and possessive, check. As always, Didier’s brilliant at this contentious stuff. He’s merely the mechanism for the pain. He delivers it, but only when my eyes tell him to. And though my neck’s already growing sore from strain, I won’t drop my head and give the order until the first sting fades—he’s not fucking around with that paddle. I keep my attention locked on his undulating body.
“This is what you like to see?” There’s cockiness in his tone and in the way he takes me—slow, sure thrusts, presenting every inch for my appraisal.
“Yes.”
He grazes my back with the paddle, slides his free thumb between my cheeks to circle the plug’s spherical base. I huff a breath and shut my eyes, not realizing my mistake unt
il—
Whap.
“Ow, fuck.” I lock my attention on him, wincing until the second strike fades to a pulsing fever.
“Only I get to have this.” He drives deeper, faster, his stare demanding my confirmation.
“Just you.”
His gaze rakes my body like fingernails. “I’m the only man who’s tasted you or smelled you. Made you come.”
“Yes.”
I turn for just a second, needing respite from his intensity. Another stinging slap, another yelp. I look back obediently.
“Mine is the only cock you’ve ever touched or sucked or welcomed inside you.”
My arms shake from shoulder to elbow, weak from his words. “Only you.” The ache in my neck sharpens and I hang my head, knowing the consequences.
The leather burns my hip and I buck. Another slap, the exact same spot. It stings so badly tears glaze my eyes, but I welcome the fifth strike. By the sixth, Didier is moaning like I’ve never heard, trembling behind each measured thrust. He mutters, “Fuck,” and I see in my periphery as the paddle lands on the bedspread, abandoned. He holds my waist with both hands, letting his dick do the punishing. Another curse, and he slaps my searing skin with his palm.
“I’m the only one.” It sounds as though he’s speaking through his teeth.
“Just you,” I tell him again.
No more strikes, but his fingers bite the flesh at my hips, holding me right where he wants me. His cock owns me in rough, long strokes.
“Tell me,” he begins, but a groan interrupts the thought. “Tell me you’ll never be with another man.”
If only you could ever reciprocate that vow. But he’s not asking me to reply with the truth, simply the next lines in our little carnal play.
His hips speed, his skin slapping mine with each mean stroke. “Tell me.”
“I’ll never be. With another man,” I huff. “I don’t want. Anyone else.” He didn’t ask for the truth, but deep down I’m so scared it’s exactly what I’ve just uttered.
His grip relaxes, pace slowing. Fingers whisper a circle around my hipbones. Damp palms drag along my waist and over my ribs, back down. Each thrust still lands with a jarring bump, but his possessiveness is shifting. He strokes my back, and I can feel his gaze as tangibly as his hands. His thumb traces the furrow of my spine, the gesture tender with affection or awe.
Unsure which incarnation of my lover is behind me now, I crane my neck.
Dark eyes lock with mine and he swallows. For a second I see uncertainty in those perfect features, then his aggression returns, casting any misgiving in its shadow. His cock speeds and his hands grow bossy once more, anchoring me tight by the waist. I drop my head and shut my eyes, wanting to memorize this feeling.
You’re mine, his cock tells me with each push. You’re mine. Mine. Mine.
And I am. I wonder if he knows that, in his heart. I wonder how shoddy my resolve to act as if this is all just casual—just for as long as it lasts—looks from the outside. How it looks to a man who’s made a craft of stripping away pretense to expose women’s deepest desires.
The mysteries of what goes on in that unusual mind are too daunting, so I get myself lost in the demands of his cock.
He grunts with each smack of his hips against my butt. I wish I could see us from the side. I wish I could float out of my skin and just watch, like a ghost. It’s safe, just watching. Here in my body, I feel so much. This is what it feels like to be wanted. Wanted as badly as you want him. All these props and games have made him wild and needy—the things I feel from merely picturing his face. Take what you can get.
Unsteady fingertips circle my waist to find my clit, sparking pleasure in harsh bursts, shooing my worries away. Excitement takes their place. Heat builds against his touch. His full weight presses into me and he’s never felt so big before. Never this rough and never this exciting, not even when we played at him forcing me. That wasn’t him, after all. Not really. But this man, right now…this is the Didier I know, and this is what I’ve done to him. I don’t know which of us is more powerful.
“Let me feel you come,” he says, a plea dressed as an order.
His fingers are frantic, nothing like the masterful instruments I’ve come to expect, the ones that know the precise tempo and pressure I love. It doesn’t matter. Anything will do, coupled with his surging cock and the deep, strange, pleasurable murmur of the plug. I feel a headrush coming on and abandon my acting to slip one hand free from the silk scarf. I grab the headboard as I have so many times now. His thighs urge me forward until I’m nearly upright, and there’s the hot, firm press of his belly at the small of my back, hard arms bracketing my waist.
His free hand cups my breast. I feel a kiss on my shoulder, then a nip, the gentle scrape of teeth and the heat of his moans. I turn my head so we’re cheek to cheek, sharing the same air. Sharing the same body, it seems, sealed together. His groans voice everything I feel—desperate, violent, this pleasure bordering on pain, I want to come so badly.
He puts his mouth right to my ear and whispers, “Come for me, Caroly. Please. Je t’en prie.”
My arousal spikes. It drops deeper, grows harder, constricts like a fist gathering cloth, binding me tight tight tight until I can’t breathe and then…bliss. The hottest, neediest, angriest bliss. His hips slow to the beat of my spasming body, riding the orgasm with me. Joining me? I couldn’t say. I can barely think.
I hear gasping, surprised to discover it’s me.
“Good,” he murmurs, and kisses my neck. “Good.”
His cock’s still hard as stone, its pulse ticking inside me.
I could pass out now, but I crane my neck a final time and he takes the hint, brushing his lips to mine.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
“You’re so very welcome. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”
“No more than I’d hoped you might.”
He laughs at that, but when I turn around there’s mischief in his expression, poorly veiled arousal.
“You’ve earned some spoiling,” I tell him.
He turns me and pins me to the bed, straddling my hips with his erection beating softly against my navel. Suspecting I know what he wants, I reach around, finding the plug’s base between his spread cheeks.
His moan tells me I guessed right.
I tease him for a minute or more, but the touch seems so intimate and he seems so far away, towering too high above me… “Here, lie down.”
On our sides, we lock our legs like before and my fingertips seek smooth copper. With a grunt, he grinds his cheek against mine. “Fuck me.”
I ease the plug out slowly, push it back in. Another groan.
“What does it do for you?” I whisper.
“It’s you. It’s feeling like you own me.”
I think I’d always assumed that if we went here, it would undermine Didier as the strong, masculine figure I’ve come to see him as. But it does something I never expected. It makes me feel strong, giving this man pleasure in the most literal, active sense possible. For the first time in my life, I envy men their cocks. Even when a cock’s passive, it’s a thing of aggression. I like being the aggressor, a little bit. The one doing. I’m timid when I’m on top and not a confident head-giver. But this…this I can do. I’m the active one, but the attention’s not on me.
I stroke him slowly, in and out, recording how he trembles, the way his hips flex to meet the intrusion, rubbing his cock against my belly each time he pulls back. I could do this when we fuck, maybe. I could…
“I could do this when I go down on you sometime.” I could spoil him so rotten.
He moans at the idea.
After a few more languorous strokes, I ask, “Would you like that?”
“Yes. With my hands tied.”
A shiver trickles through me, a chill chased by heat.
He nips at my lip and makes a happy, devious noise. “I’d like to be at your mercy.”
I imagine such a thing—being in charge of
everything he feels. An intimidating goal for another night, but a worthy one.
“Yes. Fuck me.”
My hand sped without me realizing. I give him what he wants, watching rapt as he gets hotter and hotter, his cock all but ignored. I imagine he could come from only this, but finally he stutters, “Straddle me.”
We flip over and I do as he says without any hesitation. He’s too far gone for me to fret over my lackluster skills on top. Turns out I needn’t have worried.
“Hold there.” His hands freeze my hips with a few inches between our pubic bones. He guides himself to my lips and pushes up with a pained gasp. “Just stay. Right there.”
His chest and stomach clench with his rolling thrusts, tendons rising along this throat. His hips move with the exaggerated, rhythmic purpose of a dancer, the motion surely designed to deepen whatever pleasure the plug is giving him. He kneads my thighs, nearly rough enough to bruise, but I’d suffer far worse for a chance to see him this crazed.
“Fuck,” he says, then again. I grin, unseen, ever thrilled to think I’m to blame for this sophisticated man’s descent into prurience. He lets go of my thighs to fist the covers, knuckles bleached bone-white.
“Fuck, Caroly.”
And he’s gone. He grabs my hips and forces them down, cocks his own up, locking us tight as he rides what looks like the most violent, perfect orgasm ever felt by man. His head mashes the pillow, mouth open in silent agony as tremors tense the length of his body once, twice, three times. His ribs work like a bellows as he lowers, and I rub his sweat-damp chest, waiting as he calms. I know we shouldn’t linger this way, not with the condom, but I can’t bring myself to break our bodies apart. Not yet.
He sighs grandly and drops his head to one side.
“Yes?”
He blinks as though he’s just regained consciousness after a head injury. “My goodness.”
“We should probably…” I ease up and he takes the cue, securing the rubber as I move to the side. He strips the condom, folding it in a towel along with the plugs. I feel a little empty with mine suddenly gone.
