by JR King
Elena Anderson
The Fourth Week
Another week passed without much event, except for Alexander intriguing me with the sinful exploration of seduction and forbidden love. Imagine that. Me finding being blindfolded and tied-up very captivating and wildly passionate. Me giving him a blowjob and loving the feel of him running his hands through my hair and move my head up and down or move his hips so he was fucking my mouth. Me loving feeling helpless when he held my arms down while rubbing his cock-head against my wet slit before making me beg for it. Shoulder biting, hair pulling, and bottom spanking during doggy style became a must. If he didn’t do this of his own accord, I ended up asking for it. Not just a sex-addict, I was both into sadism and masochism. Surely that’s why he’d sequestered me in Weston, to tutor me in the sensual delights of the body and the raptures of S&M.
One day he said to me, “I hope you like playing with me.” He looked laidback and relaxed in a white linen shirt open at the neck, a broad, unguarded smile on his face. “I love playing with you.”
With moral resolve that was totally shaken, I struggled and couldn’t assemble enough strength to respond intelligently. So I smiled sheepishly, remembering the pleasurable things he’d said and done in the past days.
“In addition to your being sensitive to cold, your nipples become so hard as they pucker and wrinkle when you get turned on. I think all I want to do is spend the night sucking them.” I bit my lip hard when his tongue slid over a nipple. “Hm.” His mouth left my left breast and adroitly traveled over to the other one. “I think I like this one better. Tastes better.” I desperately hoped he would pinch it, as it felt heavy and hypersensitive. “The other one doesn’t quite taste right.” I whimpered while his lips flirted expertly with the nipple, his tongue lapping at the aureole. “Or maybe I have to taste it again.” I wanted to bury my fingers in his thick black hair. Wanted to grind my breast shamelessly against his mouth when I felt him press the flat of his tongue directly against my left nipple for the hundredth time. No doubt he was breastfed. “What do you think, my pet? Should I taste them again to make sure?” I nodded and gave him a mute, wide-eyed plea to continue. As he reburied his face in my chest, his hands reached up to take hold of both breasts. I closed my eyes in gratitude.
Would it always be like this?
On the face of it, his fuck-hot kneel-before-Zod stare was persuasive, but I had a weak spot for his shiver-inducing mind games. Like this one right here. While fucking me, he pulled out all but the tip of his penis and just paused there, looking at me expectantly. He smiled a little and said, “Say it.”
I smiled back at him and resisted, because reluctance made it fun. I made him—lightly—smack my cheek, which is something I never thought I’d allow anyone to do to me except for Jax, but whenever Alexander did this it made me crazy with want.
“Elena,” he growled, “say it!” He smacked my face again, grabbed my chin and commanded me to say it, stroking my jawline. “Answer me, babe, or else I’ll stop and make you suck me off instead.” What made it all the hotter was that he stared into my eyes the whole time.
“Please,” I murmured, bestirring his psyche infinitely. “Please, Alex.”
He rammed into me hard and at the same time he said, “Good girl.”
These two words thrilled my soul each time he used them on me, sending me over the edge. Additionally, he was absolutely amazing at dirty talk; his words were heartfelt and genuine. I’d had guys talk to me in bed before, but it was usually porn lingo that ended up sounding canned: Take that big cock and Ride that shit. Obviously unplanned and honest, Alexander said the most vulgar yet beautiful things. Felt beyond wonderful. I never thought I would enjoy being called a slut, let alone little slut, but nothing made me melt more than when he called me his precious little slut.
A second favorite was when he used the priestly repeat after me format for dirty talk. Out of the ordinary, perhaps, the way he made me pledge my body, heart, and soul to him. Better yet, by making me say things back, he was teaching me. I was absolutely awful at dirty talk. Even if I gave it my all, it felt fake to me. Left to my own devices, all I could do is produce sexy little gasping and moaning noises and say things like Oh God and curse. Remaining vocal with growling and grunting, Alexander asked me yes or no questions, and sometimes he made me repeat the question back with my answer.
“Elena?” He held my neck while he fucked me. Most of the time this was addictively painful, but today there was just a gentle pressure that reminded me who was in charge. Pulling me up to kiss him, he whispered, “You’re mine.”
I melted. A full-body shiver ran through me at the simple words murmured so close to my mouth.
At Stanford, I’d fallen for a solitary Bobby Ewing type. A rich Texas oil person, a different breed, altogether. It took him two years to teach me how to trust guys again, and then he showed me rough foreplay. He’d pull my hair, smack my face, bite my neck, pinch my nipples and slap my breasts, and spank my bottom really hard. I loved it when he called me ‘a good little fucking girl’ during these rare sessions. Being called ‘a good girl’ got me the same way ‘you’re mine’ did.
“Tell me you like this, Elena,” Alexander prompted.
I did.
*
It was Saturday night when something bizarre happened. Normally when we shared a meal, or just drinks and hung out together, Alexander tended to avoid talking about our pasts, lest I instigated a related subject. The evening was going pretty well. I’d made margaritas and we relaxed, watching a sitcom. It was one of those new ones that had jackass jokes and tried to shock viewers with revolting mannerisms and pop culture gobbledygook. Lines like my love for you is like diarrhea, I can’t keep it in always made me cringe, and not in the good way. Hiring beautiful actors and actresses to compensate for the pathetic jokes helped not canceling the show because the eye candy drew in young viewers. We were having a good time, slightly buzzed, laughing at the confusing plot.
Whenever a young girl on the screen came out dressed in a skimpy outfit, Alexander jokingly cheered, “More fake T&A, bottoms up!”
Emboldened, I returned the favor whenever the hot guys came out bare-chested, and it was no big deal. At some point he even asked me which guy I thought was the best looking. I told him—knowing it was a big deal—that they looked too young for my taste. I liked older men, which was the truth. “But…wait. But, but, but, Mr. Turner,” I slurred, “the tall, dark, blue-eyed guy has potential. He’s a hottie.”
There was a lull in the discussion before he snorted derisively. “Blue eyes? That’s what girls like?”
“Blue eyes,” I started chanting. “Baby’s got blue eyesss…like a deep blue sea…on a blue, blue day!”
“Elton is gay.” His laugh was a happy bark. “And this fucker is probably wearing contact lenses.”
On one such occasion, it felt like we were a couple very much in love. We kept talking about nothing in particular, and yet it felt like something. I’m not sure how we ended up on the rug, but I found myself on it, my hands frantically tearing at Alexander’s thick, silky hair as he rained down hot kisses on my stomach.
Then, “Tell me about your blue-eyed oil prince, Elena,” he tentatively suggested.
There was a brief but pregnant silence.
I wetted my lips. Looking straight at him was like looking into the sun; scorching hot and dangerous. “Not much to say. He was a senior at Stanford, we dated, and he went back to Dallas.”
“Were you in love?” I heard him ask, as if from far away. “I’ll allow you to interrogate me afterward.”
“You sure are big on making deals,” I wondered aloud.
He looked stumped. “Stipulating claims are part of my job. Do we have a deal or not, Elena?”
Completely out of my depth, I was floundering. Biting my lower lip in indecision, I agreed. “Sure, we have a deal.”
“Did you love him?”
“It wasn’t about love.” I looked back at him, a
nd his eyes were shut. How vulnerable he looked whenever he gave himself a break. My fingers trailed through his hair, over his forehead and the thick slant of his eyebrow, down the slope of his perfectly pointed aquiline nose, across his soft lips. I gave him an impulsive kiss and he murmured something. It was adorable. I realized that when his eyes were closed, I was the captor and he belonged to me. “Mainly, it was about feeling safe. Jax…he was sweet and soft with me.”
“Well,” he picked up huskily, opening his eyes. “Let’s see what I can do about that.” His fingernails scraped down the side of my neck, and then his palm was cupping my breast, a steady, warm pressure. His other hand slid down between my legs and he deftly removed my panties, his eyes fixed on mine. “You’re mine now.” He pressed a soft kiss to my throat.
I made a halfhearted attempt to shift, to catch his lips and return the kiss, but in the end, he seemed happy to do all the work, and I was more than happy to let him.
When his hand slid off my breast, a complaining little whine escaped me. It was hard to keep myself together as he started kissing down my belly, his strong hands tugging my knees apart. His breath was warm on my inner thighs, making me shiver deliciously as the moisture evaporated, and I let out a few unconscious sounds, somewhere between pleasure and anxiety. He didn’t stop; lips and fingers trailed over my sodden flesh, his breath hot on the wet trail of open-mouthed kisses. Stifling my moans as best as I could, I squirmed softly under his ministrations, torn between the instinctive cry for release and the sheer wonder of carnal sensations. Sweat was starting to bead between my breasts and I struggled to keep some semblance of composure.
“Talk to me.” He pulled away, standing between my legs as he slipped off his trousers. “I need to hear it.” I looked up at him through unfocused eyes. I was thrown, uncontrolled, and in the hazy edge my arousal gave to everything he looked like an angel.
I whispered his name through widely parted lips, reaching up for him. He lowered himself onto me. His legs locked to either side of my hips and his erection pressed against the base of sex.
“Is this what you want?” He looked down at me with a smile. As he reached out to pinch one nipple between thumb and forefinger, making me gasp and arch at the sudden pain, it was with the detached air of the businessman, as though I were a product whose quality he had to check. The objectification, impersonal and dehumanizing as it was, shouldn’t be hot, but God, it was. “Like?” he continued in a low whisper, rolling my hard nipple between his fingers and leaning down so that his breath wafted against my face. “Am I being sweet and soft enough?” His mouth found my other breast, sucking it, his teeth just barely scraping the tingling skin of my areola, his tongue describing tight circles around the taut nub. I realized he’d asked me an important question, but I couldn’t help shivering under his gentle, charged touch. Because I hadn’t reacted, he pinched my right nipple harder, at the same time biting down on the left one.
I let out a moan of agonized pleasure.
“I’ve asked you something.” He raised his head to admonish me, his hand taking the place of his mouth.
“You’re an expert,” I whimpered.
He smiled, laying a remarkably gentle kiss on the curve of my jawline. “Lie still.”
His fingers played deftly over my nipples, leaving the faintest trace of sensation, pressing, rubbing, and twisting. He watched me, and I was aware that the face I pulled most likely looked like a juvenile canvas, but I didn’t care. Eventually I closed my eyes, mouth dry from panting, and tipped my head back as he kept playing with my breasts. I had no idea how much time had passed, but the more my nipples ached and tingled, the more I longed for his cock. There were no words to the complaint I moaned as he pulled away.
“What was that?” He let out one of those low laughs.
In the grip of a near-orgasm, I snapped, “Would it kill you to be less arrogant?”
I received another laugh, heavy and thick with lust. “Yes, it would.” Although I couldn’t see from the angle, I felt his forefinger tracing over my swollen flesh. He let out a low whistle. “Look at you.” He changed from my sight again, pushing my knees up to my chest. I could feel my inner walls stretching, welcoming the fullness and the heat of him inside me. He moved slowly but unalterably, and my body responded to the familiar feel with a jolt of satisfaction.
“Faster, Alex. And harder. I’m not a doll.”
He obliged, speeding up, and now I could hear the wet sound of him pistoning into me. “You love that, don’t you? Fucking come with me.” I was struggling to keep my legs up, so he anchored them to his sides. “Together, baby.”
In his neck, I watched the tendons standing out taut, and my toes curled, my head flying backward as we came together. A shocking anticlimax arose; I was sick with jealousy. Because of the way Alexander tried to erase Jax’s memory, I knew he’d loved someone.
We sat on the rug forever, him rocking me, me whimpering. I could feel him watching me, even if I couldn’t see his face. Unbearably envious, I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled his head down to mine. As our lips met, I put everything I had into the kiss. I kept hoping those grey eyes would see through me and know that this was special.
Alexander Turner
The Valerie Variable
To rival mine, she’d made her own sex playlist. Marvin Gaye, Jodeci, R.Kelly, Keith Sweat; all great R&B choices for a playroom, but Khia’s My Neck, My Back made me chuckle. “Are you trying to tell me something¸ baby girl?”
She nodded.
“I better listen carefully to Ms. Khia’s words.”
I ate Elena out, as instructed.
Flavor aside, watching her come was a delight in itself. Typically, she made unintelligible noises, but when she was close she just cried please over and over again, as if too scared I’d deny her.
“Fuck. I like the taste of your pussy.”
“What…do I taste like?” Her eyes shot away from me. “Is it okay?”
“Yours tastes like good pussy. Some pussy tastes like a pine-fest, others like a sea-breeze-horror. Pussy shouldn’t smell like Airwick. Men eat it because we like its authenticity. If I wanted to taste pine and sea breezes, I’d purchase a whole lotta edible air freshener.”
That being said, as a fruit and vegetables lover, I knew that strawberry, pineapple, and cantaloupe were fruits that regulated and improved the taste of pussy, and cock. In the mid-aughts, I dated this girl for a short time, and she smelled like ripe cheese even though she didn’t consume processed foods, had excellent hygiene, and maintained a healthy diet. Needless to say, we didn’t date long. The only time I liked ripe cheese was after a fantastic gastronomic meal.
Elena’s immature giggling earned her grave punishment…for almost an hour. Subsequently, I slapped her palms shut and wrapped the tonal dot teal Charvet tie around her wrists in a figure-eight pattern, tightening the silk, cinching a simple knot in between. I left a few millimeters of slack. “Just to be clear,” I shoved two fingers all the way inside her, pinching her clit with my thumb and forefinger, “this is mine.”
Elena’s throbbing throat caused little sobs.
“Stop crying,” I quietly voiced my steeled menace, punctuating my staccato words with little bites on her shoulder.
She relaxed, offering a small, “I’m sorry, sir,” with a shrill voice. I’d edged her over and over again in the hour that came before. More than that, she was exquisitely pliant, and with no release, she was near her breaking point.
“Eyes on me.”
Her eyes were clouded with frustration and mine weighted down by emotion. Picture a woman fixing the most damnably blue eyes on a man. Eyes that danced with a liveliness that could hardly be contained by a delicate visage. I wanted to scream out loud, laugh even. None of that happened. I watched her in dead silence. Most of the time a cloud of doubt hovered over me. It strangely felt like I hadn’t deserved any of this, like I had cheated life and gotten my way.
Tying her up—and having her at my
mercy—was incredibly arousing and intense, but, for a man with only one mouth, two hands, and one cock, it was also a bit of a challenge. I had to decompartmentalize for the kissing, spanking, pulling hair, caressing, sucking, and biting. Not to worry, I was naturally ambidextrous. All the while, I talked up how nice penetration was going to feel and as she was in the middle of nodding and biting her lip, giving me those begging eyes that made me chuckle, I plunged into her.
Because I was a bastard and a sadist, I slid out at the moment she was about to climax and asked, “Do you deserve my cock, little slut?”
The look on her surprised, overwhelmed face was fucking hot. She whimpered a bit and replied, “Yes, sir. Please, I’ve been so good.”
I frigging loved it whenever she looked back at me with a mixture of desire, frustration, and eagerness. To prolong her torture, I corrected her, “Good isn’t good enough. I need you to be exemplary.” Since she’d allegedly underperformed, I spanked her, thoroughly enjoying how her pussy squeezed around my cock. “God, you’re so tight. And wet,” I grunted. Let’s steal a pause for those who’re complaining about my uninspiring use of the word tight here. No man or woman wants to hear you’re so loose or you’re so big and wide. You know what they say about Christmas recipes, right? Go for the classics? Dirty talk is similar. Hence, even if the girl isn’t tight—a lot weren’t, I should know, I’d fucked a rather large number of women—you must claim she is. To my good fortune, Elena was tight. “Does my nasty little whore like that?”
She buried her face in my chest. “Don’t stop.”
