But even that sense of power she felt was swept aside by the awareness of the soft skin of his penis in her hand. Little spikes, the myriad of small hooks along his length, scraped her palm in an erotic caress. She had known they would be there.
"Will they hurt?" There was no fear in her at her own question, only curiosity.
"Possibly. A little." His voice was hushed. It made her smile, though she did not quite know why. Her fingers closer around his length, felt the pressure of the wafer-fine hooks against her skin. It was an intriguing sensation, not painful per se -- just different. A pearl of liquid appeared on the head. Her finger stroked over it drawing a purr-like growl from his throat. The drop was clear and viscous, warm as his skin. For a moment she wanted to taste it, smell it but before she could raise her hand to her mouth she realised something more intriguing. The fluid was not just excreted at the slit of his penis but covered the whole length of him with a thin layer.
Her eyes jumped to his and she saw the gentle amusement with which he watched her; but she also saw the tightly controlled need, the urgency of a man being pushed to his limits. She closed her hand around his penis again, feeling the liquid heat of lubrication of the silk of his skin, the teasing scrape of the fine spines. She tested the pressure and stroked once up and down. His sharp teeth bared in what was close to a snarl but no sound escaped him.
Reschkar's eyes were fixed on hers, warning and challenge to equal parts shining through the haze of passion. She wanted to stroke again, to see how far she could push him, but before she could repeat the motion, his hand clasped hers, held her in place. She felt the restrained power in his grip, in the way he was so careful to hold her without hurting her. His voice gave no hint of the turmoil in him, its smooth warmth surrounding her.
"I promise to let you play -- later. Now, I want you to reach for the headboard and hold on. Do not let go."
There was provocation in the way she reached up and a healthy dose of playfulness. She liked the way his eyes sparked as her back arched, her breasts on prominent display. And there was predatory intent in the way his tongue wet his lips. It was the intent of a man who knew what he saw was his to play with. She was more than happy to oblige. All that mattered was that look in his eyes, that smile, his touch.
When his large hands cupped her breasts she arched into the touch, the coolness of his skin a counterpoint in the heated room.
"They are beautiful." No one who heard his voice when he said it would could have doubted him. Nor could she when he looked at her and said: "You are beautiful."
And she was. Here and now she felt it, saw it in his eyes, knew it because there was only him and her and truth between them.
His hands were gentle on her breasts, at first. The rough skin of his work hardened hands a massage on its own as he stroked lightly across her ribcage, along the side of her breasts, up to her collar bone and back again. But with each pass his touch firmed a little more, his nails drawing lines of pressure along her breasts, between them -- but never coming close to her aureoles. It was as if he wound a spring with each cycle, a spring of want and anticipation. Her skin began to tingle where he did not touch, and burn. She felt her heartbeat under his hands, in her ears, its speed seeming to urge him on.
Instead, those half-lidded eyes grinned at her and he sat back, the weight of his body resting on her upper thighs, immobilising her, as his hands stroked down her flanks, their thumbs playing over her prominent hipbones. At the fleeting stroke her hands cramped around the wooden slats in the headboard, her ability to hold still for him already taxed. Was she the same woman who had only an hour ago claimed she would be able to hold still for him even without the outward restraints? She almost wished he would bind her again though for the moment the insubstantial bindings of his will were still enough. For the moment, she was glad of that. Her own restraint lay in tatters.
"Please." His knuckles grazed along the dip below the bone, along the curve of her waist but it was not what she wanted. She wanted his hands, his lips on her breasts, on her mouth. She wanted him in her, wanted to belong to him. But the only word that made it past her lips was another "Please". She could not ask for more, what she wanted mattered little in this moment, not even to herself. All that mattered now was to be enough for him.
"I like that sound. I think I will like it even more when you scream it for me."
It was his words just as much as his hands slipping over her breasts again, kneading them with nothing of his earlier restraint, which bowed her back. Everything crashed, the sudden fulfilment of the need to have her breasts touched, her skin stroked with possession, was too much for her. The rudderless floating of her mind became a maelstrom taking over. She was pushed back into the state of pure sensation she had entered during the punishment. When he rolled her nipples between his fingers she felt it like electricity across her whole body, lines of awareness, not pleasure, not pain but something more, which reached from her breasts to every nerve ending in her being.
Elena could feel the tension in her aureoles, the bunched nerves screaming. She had never thought it possible for her body to actually feel her nipples, but now they were not anymore an extension of her chest, but had an awareness of their own. She could have wept when his lips bend to her, his mouth opening to engulf them with the heat of his breath. His tongue was rough and soft at the same time as it lapped lazily against her breasts. Heat and pressure, pleasure that did not satisfy but aggravated. Her instincts were to arch into him, to force the contact to deepen, to demand, but his hands were firm on her, keeping her on the bed.
She only realised she had let go of the headboard when his mouth lifted from her breast and he snarled:
"Hands!"
Her fingers itched so desperate was she to touch him. But there was no molecule in her which could resist his order. Before he had even finished the word, her fingers were already entwined over the slats of the headboard again, her grip almost violent.
He held her gaze, his breath stroking over the moist skin of her nipple making her skin prickle with thousands of unseen little needles, sensitised as she was to his touch. She wanted to feel the warmth of his mouth against her skin again, wanted the soothing pressure of his tongue over the burn of her need. He did not give it to her, waiting, the second stretching, imprinting on her at a primal level the knowledge that whatever would happen was his choice, his will alone. She sank into that knowledge, a mental calm spreading into her, around her. Only then did his lips return, their caress a reward.
He took his time, first with one, then with the other breast, suckling gently, swirling his mobile tongue over the hard pearls where so many nerve-endings waited for his touch. When his mouth returned to the nipple he had begun with, actions which had been arousing turned into slow torture. He kept on teasing her nipple into painful hardness, just to abandon it for the other, an interminable alternation of sensation and cessation. It was impossible to remain still, all she could do was hold onto the headboard with all her might, while her body writhed on the sheets under him, the pain from her back interweaving with the pleasure of his lips.
Then, without warning, his fingers caught her nipples, rolled them, tightening their grip, pinching and holding. His mouth caught her screams as he plundered and took, drank her whimpers when he let go and the blood returned to her nipples. For a moment, she thought she would come, her body tightening under the onslaught of orgasm, she felt her own moisture pooling, her body wet enough to allow for trickles to tease her own skin, but without any stimulation at her vagina she could not take that last step. And he was not giving her the touch she needed so acutely.
She tried to raise her hips searching for some friction, tried to rub her own thighs together. His weight on her, his knees holding her absolutely still, kept her even from the smallest movement and without the stimulation she so wanted. The only action open to feed from his lips, take all he was giving her, the sensation all-consuming through the need riding her body.
He let
her, their tongues duelling, tasting, caressing whilst she hovered on the precipice of orgasm without ever being able to step over. He took his time, waiting for her body to retreat just that minute step. That one step which was enough to stall the hovering orgasm but kept her body burning with the need to complete, with the demand for satisfaction. It was near impossible to breathe without the touch of his mouth by the time his lips left hers to stroke over her jawbone, along the delicate swirls of her ear, her sensitive neck.
"You're almost there, little one. Almost ready."
Elena had no idea what he meant, did not care for anything but him, her mouth following the move of his head, trying to recapture his taste. His chuckle vibrated along her body. He captured her mouth in a deep kiss, too short to satisfy her but his grin said that this would be all she would be getting for the moment. Only when his hands unwound her arms from his neck did she realise she had been holding onto him, had anchored herself against him against the battering pleasure. There was an evil glimmer in the yellow depth of his eyes as he wrapped her fingers around the headboard again, the pressure gentle but the intent more than clear. Right, her hands were supposed to remain there.
She could not help glancing up, seeing his large hands wrapped around hers in an erotic parody of restraints. His teeth nipped at her exposed chin, then her throat. A reprimand? Or just for his pleasure? She did not know and cared even less. All that mattered was that he wanted to do it.
His mouth was hotter even than her burning body, his tongue painting a line of pleasure along her collar bone, his teeth interspersing the caress with little nips. But he was not done, had a definite goal in mind. Slow, open-mouthed kisses travelled across her sternum, between her breasts, careful to avoid touching the mounts that had become so sensitive that his lips would now have pushed her past pleasure into pain. He seemed to develop a strange fascination with her belly button, his prehensile tongue ticking the corners, delving in before biting the soft flesh of her belly. She saw the predator in him then -- and it aroused her only further.
Elena was too replete, too lost in his touch to make any move. Her body was burning with need, with wanting, but her muscles rested utterly relaxed under his hands. His firm hands found no resistance as they spanned her thighs and opened them for his pleasure. He spread her wide with his hands, with his body as he came to rest between her legs, his shoulders broad enough to leave her fully exposed to him, to his mouth.
And then he waited, his eyes holding her gaze over the length of her body, over her heaving chest which seemed barely able to contain her pounding heart anymore. There did not seem to be enough oxygen in the room, had not been since his lips left hers. She could not fight it, could not fight him. Her eyes closed and her head fell back onto the mattress in defeat. It was then that the heat of his mouth engulfed her clitoris.
It was not an orgasm, or not like any orgasm she had ever experienced before, it was too absolute, too complete. His teeth scraped along the sides of the enlarged bundle of nerves, a sensation close to pain, just to be laved away by the sure stroked of his mobile tongue, first along one side, then the other, then over the top with devastating pressure. Then he began to suck, sure and even pulls. She screamed until her voice broke, her body thrashing across the bed. She was not sure if she was trying to escape his touch or her own mind, but he held her firm, his hands under her buttocks raising her to his mouth, narrowing her world to him. In her mind, in her body, along all her sensations and emotions, he was all there was.
When the pulls of his mouth slowed, softened before being replaced with the gentle licking of his tongue, she had no voice left, no mind, no will. She was utterly lost -- and found again with each of his touches. His mouth forced her to ride out each wave of pleasure, even the last contraction, the last spasm, leaving her devastated and shaking. She could feel the tears, the heated moisture that had drenched her cheeks. Her skin was burning, a clear indication that her tears had abraded it for some time, but she could not care or stop. Elena felt the bed shift under his weight, felt his body covering hers and she relished the solace it brought. If she could have, she would have disappeared into him.
The tip of his penis slipped into her with ease, even though her body was still tight from her orgasm. It was not just the moisture coating her labia, her upper thighs, but the way her body opened in instinctive trust to him, her very core soft to receive him. Not even the slow stretch as he pushed into her could disturb her serenity. He was in her, around her, buffering her from the world. Fully seated his touch reached deep, the tip of his penis touching her cervix. She had never felt pressure that deep before.
Then he withdrew and it was as if hot velvet was rubbed against her channel. Whilst he had pushed into her inch by inch, she had not felt the little spines lining his cock, but when he withdrew they were a soft scrape against her sheath. It woke ever centimetre, made her feel every inch. He pushed in again, this time with more strength. His hand found her thigh and hitched it up to his waist. At the deepest point he ground against her, her clitoris still swollen and tightening again for another orgasm. She felt the touch of his testicle against her skin, close enough to her anus to wake tingling nerve endings.
She had no time to accommodate the sensation with her mind before it was replaces with the scrape of his penis sliding out of her. It became a dance of constant change, the powerful thrust into her, coupled with pressure on her cervix, the touch of his testicles, and then the scrape of his retreat. With each thrust, with each slide of his body over her clitoris, she tightened more, her body winding around his cock, deepening the scrape of the spines against her channel. And with every shift of his body he shifted the pressure, touched her somewhere else, stroked over new nerves in her.
Elena was consumed by him and would not have wanted to be anywhere else. Her eyes opened to him, the need to see him too overwhelming. She fell into his gaze, into the victory there and she realised that she felt him not only in her body, but in her mind. He was there. Everywhere. In the kiss they shared she did not know where he began and she ended.
In her mind she could feel the urgency of his need, the way his body was clamouring for completion, pushing at his reigns. She expected him to let go, to push them into another orgasm -- and there was no question that she would follow him when he let go, her body ready, primed. He took his time, savouring each touch, each stroke, prolonging the intimacy, the closeness.
This orgasm, when it sneaked up on her, was softer, though not any less consuming for it. It swirled through her body, viscous and heavy, slow pleasure to fill her. She let it and as it took her she felt his restraint break. His arm lifted her shoulders off the bed, crushing her against his chest. His movements lost their controlled harmony, became erratic and almost violent as he pounded into her. Her arms held onto him, her face searching refuge against his neck. She felt the growls in his throat, her tongue laving the strands of muscles as they went rigid. She felt the heat of his pleasure fill her, the pressure of his cock twitching in her as it emptied its seed into her. It was that feeling, the sensation of being filled by him, of being possessed on a basic level, marked and branded by his touch, which brought her again.
It seemed like hours later when he loosened his grip on her, unwinding her arms from the death grip she had around his neck, to bed her carefully on the soft pelts. In truth, she knew it had not been hours, but it had been a considerable time since they had stopped moving. For a long while he had just held her, as if loathe to break the connection, to let her go. Not even as his softening penis had slipped from her body had he moved, only shifted her a little to make it more comfortable for them both.
But the fire died and soon the warmth of the room was only a fond memory, his body's warmth not enough anymore to shield her from the cold draft. Her back was beginning to remind her of the rough treatment it had received. Still she would not have been able to move, would not have wanted to break the connection, if not for him. It was the low-key shiver shaking her frame that b
roke their absorption with each other. Reschkar pressed a gentle kiss on her brow and rose.
She watched him, watched how he threw a thick blanket over her before feeding the dying glow of the fire with new wood. Then he filled some water into a bowl before placing the carafe before the rejuvenated flames in the hearth. Her eyes followed his every move has he cleaned himself, his movements quick and economic. The whole time she marvelled at the bond that linked her to him.
Elena felt the power flowing through her, not a power of violence or force, though it could be used for that purpose, she suspected, but a softer power, a power based on loyalty and family, on protection and belonging. She was not in his mind, did not feel his emotions or knew his thoughts, but she felt herself through him, felt the warmth of the ErGer bond, that sensation of unlimited fellowship others felt because of their link to her -- and through him she felt it too. Through him she was home.
"What are you thinking, Lena?" His voice was a little hoarser than normal, almost hushed as it reached her across the room. In her mind she stroked over the cord of pure him that seemed to link them like an umbilical cord.
"That."
She wondered if he would feel her mental touch. He smiled as her picked up the carafe from the fire and crossed to her.
"That." He answered her. Then she felt something along that cord, a tightening, a touch, an invasion. A few hours ago it would have frightened her -- now she just opened to him. Then she realised what he had been doing.
"You could have just asked."
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he pushed the blanket from her body, baring her to the warming air of the room. She was not cold, he had ascertained that with his little foray into her mind.
By My Side ... (A Valentine's Day Story) Page 12
