Chapter Text
“One more, baby. C’mon, you can give me another. I know you can”
Said nearly two hours ago, when he had his hand to the back of your neck, shoving your face onto the tabletop stroking your cock with a cruel little vibrator. A tormenting thing that left you wrecked before you even came. Till he withdrew the bullet altogether and instead employed his hand, gloves and all. Drew pleasure out slow and languid. Torturous. Till you came, and screamed, and he didn’t fucking stop.
One more.
Said half an hour ago, when he had you on your back, his cock buried deep in your ass, and a thumb hooked meanly in your cunt. Slow, careful thrusts, yet still somehow enough to make your abdomen swell slightly each time he filled you.
One more. Said forty, twenty, two minutes ago, as you tremble in his lap, arms bound behind your back, eyes and mouth graced by scraps of cloth, your cunt properly full as you fail to best gravity. He guides you, holding you hostage by your hips, lifting you, then letting go, letting you find your own pleasure as your thighs tremble, unable to keep yourself steady.
You’ve lost track of how many times you’ve come, and how many ways he’s played your body to ecstasy and agony. There are only the beats.
One more. One more. One more.
It’s fucking impossible now. You’re completely sore, stretched out and soaked, your cock numb from the vibrator, from his tongue and teeth, from the harsh sting of his striking palm, from the false balm of more tongue. You can’t come on his cock, alone. With all you’ve learned from his diligent ministrations, that dawning horror sits center stage as you rock and squirm atop his now damp thighs. But he keeps saying it. Keeps demanding, encouraging, guiding.
Till… oh, God.
Yes. Yes, there.
The crescendo of heat you hadn’t even realized was building.
One more, baby, just one, I promise.
Yet you never want this one to end, your cock throbbing even without touch, your whole body trembling, sticky sweet caramel warmth fizzling from your core out to every limb, up the back of your throat, down the arch of your feet, making them curl and cramp as you seize up, suspended in bliss, so unaware of anything that isn’t the agony of your pleasure, you almost don’t feel him come, too. Warm and pulsing and so fucking much, dripping and spilling and staining.
When next you’re lucid enough to recall you have a body beyond the flutter and fire of orgasm, you find yourself no longer sat in his lap, but instead free of your bindings—arms, mouth, eyes—and staring up at him through unshed tears.
He’s saying something, as if through several tons of water and cement, the syllables buried and unclear. Two manage to eke out, through a low, baritone hum of smug, cruel adoration–
“Good boy.”
–before lips crash to yours, and you yield to the heat of his mouth, deliberate and unhurried and hungry. He brushes a hand down your stomach, your inner thigh—
And you’re suddenly being thrown sideways, pinned back on your chest, your thighs pried apart, and his tongue, burning and ravenous, drags over your cunt.
And he growls, “Didn’t think we were done yet, did you, sweetheart?”
And what else can you do? What can you do against the assault of his teeth, his smile, his fingers, as he plays your body back to life. Sinks back into you with his cock hot and throbbing, still slick with your shame, with his cum.
What else can you do but give him what he wants—what he knows you want, too.
Just one more, right?
And hell, maybe this time he means it.