He put down the bottle. “Spin around,” he said, and I did. He rewarded me by slapping his sudsy hands onto my breasts. He rubbed them leisurely, the masculine musk of the shower gel overpowered me with his familiar scent of vanilla and cinnamon and musky spice. It did not smell the same on me, the highlights of vanilla coming through more over the heavy spices but I knew that I would be reminded of him as long as it lingered on my skin.
I did not think much more as his hands rubbed over me. I felt and I smelled and I experienced the joy of his body as it rubbed against mine. It was as if he worshipped me. He lingered over every curve and straight, and I felt treasured with every moan and gasp he freed from his lips as he thoroughly cleansed me.
His hands were warm, wet and slippery, and they lifted me to a high level of excitement after only a few strokes. Arms, hands, breasts, hips, thighs, he washed them all. He renewed his suds and enveloped me in a hug as he scrubbed my back. His lips met mine, and we kissed as the steamy masculinity of his scent, hot and liquid, fiery in my nostrils like inhaling the smell of freshly baked cinnamon buns caressed my senses.
His hands dipped lower and cupped my buttocks. As I gasped in pleasure, his tongue plunged between my lips and dominated my mouth as I so longed for him to dominate the rest of me.
“Now, your hair.” He smiled as his lips deserted mine and left me a panting, wanting wreck. He picked another bottle from the side and flicked open the top. I watched as the thick liquid glooped from the bottle and to the palm of his strong hand, then I heard the click and clunk as the bottle was closed and put away. “Turn around,” he said, and like a good girl, I did. My hair was wet form the constant prickle of the shower water, so he went straight in with his fingers to massage the shampoo into my hair.
I’d always loved to have my hair played with. I’d never made a fuss at bath time as a kid. Even then, I’d found the process of having my hair washed soothing. This experience was anything but soothing. His fingertips on my scalp aroused me, and the way he wrapped my curls around his fingers made me think of rough sex and made my pussy long for it.
The scent was stimulating, too, sharp mint and tangy citrus zinged through me, fresh and vibrant like it must for him as he woke up at ohmygod-o’clock in the morning to begin the baking process. After thoroughly massaging the shampoo into my scalp, he pulled me back, so that the water that had cascaded down his back and just splashed onto my skin was now directed directly at the top of my head. The multiple slaps of rain-like drops sensitised me all over, and I felt myself growing even wetter between my thighs.
“There,” he said, as he gently stroked through my hair down to my neck and along my shoulder. “All squeaky clean. Let me get a towel.” He hopped out of the bath and left me feeling cold and desolate without the touch of his skin. I switched off the shower spray and waited, dripping and a little nervous.
“Here we go. Step out, now.” He held a big, blue fluffy towel, and I gingerly stepped down onto the tiled floor. He wrapped the towel around my body and squeezed me tight. “We’ll go into the bedroom.” He grabbed a smaller towel and slung it round his hips. “It’s warmer in there.”
He led me back along the corridor for a few steps, his hand on the small of my back then he pushed wide a door and waved me through.
“Excuse the mess,” he said, but as I looked around at the rumpled duvet and few discarded clothes on the floor I knew that my own room looked far messier than this. “I wasn’t expecting company.” He winked at me, and I blushed. He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled me between his thighs. Gently, he started to rub the towel against my sides and my stomach. With one hand, he continued to caress, the soft friction from the towel making my skin tingle and my tummy tie itself in knots. His other hand pulled apart the towel ends. I flushed more as my naked body in all its wobbly glory was again revealed. I felt nervous with him so close, I thought maybe he would see my stretch marks since he was so close to my stomach and I was sure he could only think them disgusting
If he noticed them, he didn’t mention. He just moved the towel underneath his hands to dry my breasts. His fingers ran around my nipples through the thick material, and my knees trembled as strong arousal coursed through my body. He stood and squeezed my shoulders through the towel, then spun me around and continued over my back before scrunching up my hair in the towel to dry it, leaving it looking like a fuzzy-wuzzy lion mane.
He moved down my back, drying as he went to my buttocks, where he scrubbed them dry with great vigour that left me panting for breath and longing for more. He turned me again and sat back down so he could finish my stomach and hips and down to my thighs. He bent right over and ran his hands and the towel up and down my legs, taking care to dry between each toe, lifting one foot then the next to do the sole. I had to hold on to him as he did this, his skin still damp from the shower.
“Oh, wow,” he rumbled. “You’re still very wet here.” He moved the towel between my thighs, and I giggled as it tickled and stimulated me beautifully. “I don’t think that’s water, though.”
He slipped a finger between my thighs and up between my womanly folds. I gasped as he drew past my clit and moaned as he took his finger to his lips and sucked.
“No, definitely not water. Much tastier.” He growled and threw the towel to the floor.
He pulled me on top of him, and I felt his clammy skin beneath my breasts. He kissed me, and I rubbed harder against him.
“You’re still wet,” I gasped as he pulled his lips from mine.
“Never mind. I’ll soon dry.” And with a wink, he moved his body violently to the left and threw me onto the bed. I squeaked as the mattress broke my fall. Before I could move or rearrange my limbs, he was on top of me, pressing me down again, his towel gone, his wet skin slipping sensually against me.
“You’re gorgeous,” he breathed as he looked down into my face. His thighs rested between mine, and the hairs there prickled so erotically along my skin. I shook my head, just slightly. I couldn’t believe that this wonderful chunk of a man actually thought I was good looking. I lifted my hand to run it down his strong chest. It was hard and haired, and his nipples begged me to play with them. He patiently held still for me as I explored the flat planes of his chest. I smelled the shower gel, the shampoo, the linen and even over that I could detect a special, warm scent that was all his own. It excited me.
I skimmed my fingers lower, over his stomach, and he shifted away from me, as if uncomfortable. I wrinkled my brow, but as his lips came down and swept along the sensitive incline of my neck, all questions and wondering dissipated. I concentrated once more on the tingling anticipation that coursed through my veins.
He was not gentle with his caress. The lips kissed, but his teeth nipped and his mouth bruised me in his intensity. I didn’t care. I didn’t want it to stop. The pain wasn’t real pain. It was deeper pleasure that coursed through my blood and demanded I lay still and take whatever my Master wanted to give me.
Already I saw him as my Master. I was his toy, and it felt good. My stomach knotted as I wondered what John would have thought of such an unbalanced relationship, but I forgot it all a moment later as Jack’s teeth fixed around my nipple and bit. I screamed and arched my back. He let go, and my nipple throbbed in time with the pulse of desire in my cunt. I wanted him. I needed him. I was close to begging him to fuck me, to relieve the pressure inside.
“Fuck,” he groaned as I shivered beneath him, not just from the dampness of his skin, which was beginning to dry, but from the arousal that had me firmly in its claws. “I want to do so many wicked things to you. I want to tie you, I want to whip you, I want to test you, but right now, Emma, I need to fuck you. I have to fuck you. I need to have you right now.”
His words felt like intimate caresses to my ears, as he gently nudged my thighs to make me move further up the bed. My head hung over the other side by the time he stopped. All the blood ran there as he ran his hard and thick penis up and down my soaked slit.
“Please fuck me,” I moaned, softly.
“Pardon?” He rubbed his cock against my clit, and I mewled in frustrated pleasure.
“Please fuck me,” I begged, louder.
“Hmm, maybe.” He continued to press himself up and down my slit. His balls snuggled up to my arse, tight and hard as his hot length slipped between my puffed up lips.
“Please, Jack, please,” I begged, mad now with need, desperate to feel him inside of me again. I needed to grasp him firmly with my pussy and feel him using me for his pleasure.
“Do you want my cock, Emma? Ask me for it. Beg me for it.”
“Please can I have your cock,” I begged as he thrust harder between my lips, repeatedly stimulating my clit.
“Where do you want it?” He was cruel, and I wanted to sob with frustration, but I knew it would be fucking good in the end. Jack would satisfy his desires and mine in his own good time.
“In my cunt,” I said, without hesitation. I was completely wanton, completely overtaken by lust.
“Pardon?”
I wasn’t sure what he wanted.
“Please.” My head ached from my prone position. I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was smiling.
“No, that’s not what I wanted to hear. You know what I want to hear, Emma. Ask me again.”
“Please fuck me with your hard cock. Please fuck my cunt. Please, Master, please.”
I had said the magic word. He’d needed to hear my submission. He’d needed to know I knew my position. I saw him as my Master, and he needed to know that.
He thrust into me, and I screamed my delight. My neck hurt from my position, but I no longer cared as he filled me. He gripped my hips tightly in his hands as he dragged himself into me. He powered forward and back to create a pleasurable rhythm that made me buck and shake as my pussy contracted around him.
He pushed me further and further off the bed. As my shoulders hung in thin air, he swore with frustration and pulled out of me.
“On your knees,” he commanded, and showing his true, gentlemanly nature, he offered me his hand whilst I hauled myself back up onto the bed. I turned over and pulled myself up onto my knees. I no longer cared that my breasts swung, that my stomach hung and that my cunt was on display between my large buttocks. I just wanted to please him and to please myself in the process.
“Move back,” he demanded and hauled me until my knees were on the edge of the bed. He stood behind me and thrust inside of me again.
I screamed out. He felt harder, wider, longer in that position with my arse upraised. He didn’t hold back, and as he thrust into me, I held onto his duvet for dear life. His scent enveloped me as I buried my face in the cover. I could smell him, his scent, his musk, his most intimate smells in his most intimate place. I was giddy with arousal, but even so, I stiffened as he pried a finger between my buttocks as he thrust.
“It’s okay,” he moaned. “I won’t hurt you.”
I relaxed a little as his finger pressed against my tight anal bud.
“I’ve never…” I started, but I finished the statement with a groan as his finger gently popped inside.
“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay,” he cooed. “Do you like that?’
“Yes,” I whimpered, and I did, much to my own surprise.
He slipped his finger deeper. “Do you like having my finger in your arse?”
“Yes, Master,” I gasped, and he rewarded me with more of his finger inside of me.
“Would you take my cock up there if I wanted you to, my sweet slut?”
“Yes, sir. Yes, Master. Anything for your pleasure.”
“Good answer,” he moaned and slipped the finger from my rear end. “And you’ll enjoy it too, you little minx. Not now, though. Now, I need to fill this tight cunt.”
His words aroused me as much as his actions, and as he thrust harder, I moaned in delight. The bed squeaked, my tits swayed almost painfully and my pussy contracted constantly, sucking him deeper inside and coaxing his hot cum from his cock.
He dug his nails into my hips as he came. He didn’t utter a sound, but I felt every explosion of cum inside of me. My pussy clamped down in delight.
“You’re so good,” he groaned and collapsed onto the bed beside me.
“So are you,” I replied. I rolled onto my side, and he pulled me into a tight embrace. I rubbed myself up and down his length. I had felt pleasure as he fucked me, mini-orgasmic tremors through me, but I still felt a major orgasm inside of me, eager to be released.
“Mmmm, does my sweet slut need to come?” he whispered seductively in my ear as he ran a hand down my stomach.
“Yes,” I hissed, the word sticking in the back of my throat.
“Oh, you do? Ask me nicely, and I might just let you.”
“Please make me come, Master,” I begged, and this time, he took mercy swiftly. He dropped his fingers down into my slit, and I moaned as he forced two inside me. He lubed them up with the mixture of our juices and trailed them back up to my clit.
I whimpered as he rubbed up and down over the sensitive nub. It wouldn’t take much more, and with Jack’s words, it took much less time that I thought.
“Oh my sweet slut,” he sighed. “Your cunt feels so good, around my fingers or my tongue or my dick. Your pussy is fucking amazing. I can’t get enough of this wet, hot cunt. I need to fuck it. I want to fuck it. Yes, yes baby, your cunt drives me wild with desire. You drive me wild with desire.”
I groaned and buried my head in his shoulder, my lips against his neck, kissing feverishly.
“Come for me, my love. Come all over these fingers. Explode for me, sweetheart. Let it all go, baby. That’s it. Oh fuck yes. That’s it. Come for me, Emma. Now. Come for me.”
And with a yelp, a shudder and a rush of liquid, I did. I came all over his fingers with my face buried in his neck. As I stopped shaking, he wrapped both arms around me and held me tightly as I recovered from the aftershocks of the most powerful orgasm I had ever felt.
His strong fingers stroked down my back as I gulped and gasped in air. It was infused with the scent of our fucking, that heady scent was enough to make me dizzy with need again. I was shaken by how powerfully I reacted to him.
“Are you okay?” he asked, probably responding to the wet patches of tears pressing against his chest.
“Yes,” I snuffled. “I’m fine.” I didn’t want him to know I’d been shaken to the core.
“Okay.” He dropped a kiss on the top of my head and reluctantly let me out of his embrace.
“Oh, hell, is that the time?” I looked at the clock and started my escape. I had to get away from his distractingly sexy body so I could think. “I’ll have to go, Jack.”
“Okay, Emma, if you have to.”
I looked into his eyes, and I knew he knew I didn’t need to go. He knew I was running away. There was a sadness in his eyes, and impulsively, I leant in to kiss his lips. I had enjoyed myself very much, maybe too much.
“You were wonderful,” I whispered. I didn’t want him to feel as if he’d driven me off. I really didn’t want him to feel bad at all.
“You were fucking fantastic,” he enthused. “I’ll not be able to sleep tonight for thinking of you.”
I blushed and got dressed. He pulled on his trousers and T-shirt then led me downstairs to a different door at the back of his kitchen that led out into the side street.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Yeah.” I smiled, my cheeks flushed and I felt overwhelmed by the moment. It demanded words and actions, and I didn’t have them. I just needed to get home, to think. He leant in and kissed me. He was so tender I nearly broke into sobs, but I sucking in a breath, smiled and walked away.
I didn’t let myself cry until I’d passed the shop window. I was a mass of confused emotions, and I did not know how to deal with them. On the one hand, I knew I had just experienced something special, something I had wanted for a long, long time. On the other hand, I remembered what John had said about
it being dysfunctional…and I remembered John.
That was the seat of the problem. I felt guilty. It felt as if I had cheated on John, which was stupid, really stupid, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d really disappointed him. It was not that I had had sex with someone else—even when alive John was not a jealous person, and he would point out good-looking men for me and tell me when guys were flirting with me. No, it was that I’d had such kinky, dirty, submissive sex. John would not approve.
I went home and climbed into my bed. It was still early, but I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t concentrate on the TV or a book. I hoped, if I lay there long enough, I’d fall asleep.
It didn’t happen.
I just kept thinking and thinking. I upset myself more with every thought. It didn’t help that every time I moved I caught Jack’s scent on me and remembered his hands rubbing in the masculine soap, massaging my scalp with the minty shampoo and tenderly drying me with his towel.
Those memories were good, achingly good, and as I replayed the scenes back in my mind, I felt good, adored, worshipped. I didn’t feel used or abused or dysfunctional. John must have been wrong. How could something that felt so right, that made me feel so good, be so wrong?
And each time I came to that conclusion, I felt guiltier, but I could not bear to wash Jack’s scent off my skin. It felt wrong to even think of it. I liked being marked as his. I loved the way he had called me his sweet slut. John would never have said such a thing. He’d barely ever called me a pet name. He hadn’t really believed in them, and he’d thought them derogative.
I battled with myself into the small hours, wavering from one extreme to the other until, finally, I slept out of sheer exhaustion.
The next day, I rang Jack.
“Hello, Jacques. How may I help you?”
His voice was like a velvet caress to my body.
“Hiya, Jack. It’s Emma.”
“Oh, hey, sweetheart. You all right?”
He’d picked it up in my voice, I’m sure. I was nervous, and tears ran down my cheeks.
Night of the Senses Page 23
