Page 8 of Our Elliana

As I thumb those beaded nubs through the fabric, I detect a hardness that could only be metallic in nature. Are her nipples pierced, as well?

Though not unheard of, these aren’t the type of piercings I’ve encountered often, especially not the combination of nipples, navel, and clit. The pale silver stands out against the dark velveteen of her skin, and I catch a whiff of her fragrance again.

It’s rich and sweet but more complex than other perfumes I’ve come across. It reminds me of molasses with hints of something floral, and I want to envelope myself in it, in her.

I peer down into her amber-brown eyes, and as she stares back I feel something shift between us. A crackling connection beyond the physical that I would never have predicted.

Or I think I do. Maybe I’m insane.

Inwardly, I shut down this idiocy. I have to please her, to prove my sexual prowess to her. Overthinking and losing this lone chance to secure a better future cannot happen. I must succeed at this.

Refocusing, I direct the length of my shaft against her slickness in a rhythm similar to the one I stripped to.

“See how delicious I can make you feel?” I growl at her, my voice rough as I take charge. Most women enjoy a firm hand. I can’t leave her as anything but completely satisfied, and this is the most dependable recipe. Almost drunkenly, she nods, and I hover further over her, pressing my advantage. “Ready to take this cock?”

“Absolutely,” she gusts out.

Once I’ve thoroughly coated myself in her one more time, I slip past those crotchless panties to go halfway inside in a single plunge. I hadn’t intended to insert myself so far so fast, but her arousal makes sinking into her way too easy.

“Oh, Jesus fuck,” she cries out at the intrusion, but her expression tells me her exclamation isn’t derived of pain.

The length of me hits the back of her before I’m fully seated, so I don’t go any farther. Instead, I revolve my hips in a clockwise motion as I pump in and out of her.

Her eyelids contract into slits as she makes these little mewls and cries, the kind that pitch up at the end as if asking for more. So, keeping our gazes connected, I drop one of my hands to her clit, feeling the softness of her in tandem with the unyielding sphere of the pearl.

Lightly pinching that delicate flesh against her piercing, I track the faint wrinkle creasing into her forehead as I exert more and more pressure. Her inhales and exhales saw out of her as I do, then all at once, she breaks contact by scrunching her eyes shut. Her gasp has me releasing the pinch, and the second her blood flows freely to that area again, I feel her constrict around me.

“Too much?” I pant, needing to make sure, but she shakes her head.

“Just enough.”

I repeat this procedure twice more. Three times. And finally, on pass number four, the pulses of her climax clench down on me with lovely force. She wails in divine euphoria, the noise of it reverberating through the room, and her hips buck with mine as her body finds its pleasure.

I’ve been staving off my own release for what feels like forever, and just as I’m about to let go, she scoots back on the bed, pulling us apart as she wrenches herself away from me.

“No,” she pants, throwing a hand up like a stop sign. “Don’t come yet.”

This feels downright brutal, and I’m so close that this requires me to grab my cock and squeeze my crown hard enough to hurt. But I obey.

My state of blue balls has me looking away from her to the canvas painting suspended above the vertical wrought iron bars of her filigreed headboard, something I barely noticed. Now I see that the artwork is of flowers that seem excessively vag-like, which is the opposite of helpful.

I think of raw ground beef and pork squishing through my fingers—my least favorite part of preparing meatloaf—and though my dick remains as solid as fucking concrete, I quit being in imminent danger of going off like a geyser in front of her.

“Tristan...” I whip my gaze back to hers at the sound of my name on her lips. What man doesn’t like that? “You can jerk yourself off now.”

“Excuse me?” I ask, not certain I heard her correctly.

“Jerk yourself off,” she annunciates distinctly. “Do it while you’re standing there. I want to watch.”

Swallowing, I do what she says. Since I’m so on edge anyway, it only takes two and a half strokes to spurt all over my hand, stomach, and chest from the amount of sheer torque behind it. My breaths shudder unevenly out of my lungs, and Elliana studies me, lifting her chin inscrutably.

When she lowers it all at once as if making a decision, a spasm of anxiety trills through my gut.

“All right, go,” she says. “And send in Jackson. The one with long hair.”

Blinking at her lack of a verdict—I can’t tell if she’s keeping me or not—I collect my scattered clothing and back out of the room, still bare-assed. Feeling far more tension than a man who’s just gotten off should, I pivot in place with nothing but my bundle of garments to cover myself. Uncertain of anything at all, I depart.

Once out of her sight, I hurriedly dress, doing my best not to overthink things. She’ll inform me soon. She’ll have to. After lumbering down the stairway, I glimpse the other two men, one performing pushups and the other flicking something against the stucco half wall separating her dining room table and kitchen from the rest of her living space. I address the latter.

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