Page 51 of Crossing the Top Line

Oliver: Eli can be quite the brat when the mood strikes him.

Oliver: And something tells me you could give him a run for his money.

Oliver: Would you be a good girl for me, princess? Or would I have to punish you, too?

I giggle like a fucking schoolgirl, smile widening. I’d never really put much thought into pet names, but right now, it’s easy for me to admit that Ireallylike it when Oliver calls me his princess and a good girl. It’s not condescending, or demeaning, at least not in a way I dislike. And it’s like every feminist, girl boss, bad bitch thing I’d learned over the years disappears, leaving a melty puddle, panting slightly with need.

Me: I could be good for you, Oliver.

Oliver: Sir.

Me: ???

Oliver: My good girl will call me ‘sir’ when I ask her a question.

Oh,fuck me. I roll onto my back, holding my phone in one hand as my other drifts down my stomach, pressing down slightly just below the waistband of my sleep shorts. My skin prickles with goosebumps at the sensation, but the walls of my pussy flutter, desperate to be filled. Before I can stop myself, my fingers slip beneath the elastic and over my well-groomed curls and beyond. I gasp as I brush a single digit over my soaked entrance, gathering my slick to help my finger glide feather-light over my clit.

Oliver: Are you touching yourself, princess?

Me: Yes, sir.

I expect another text, but instead a photo pops up and my jaw drops. The angle of the camera makes it appear like I’m looking down Oli’s body from his point of view. He’s on his back in bed, naked as the day he was born. There’s plenty of natural light spilling over the bright white sheets, contrasting the olive tone of his skin. But the highlight of the picture is his massive, rock-hard cock and the hand that holds it loosely around the base. I am intimately familiar with how big Oli’s hands are, having felt them wrapped around my not-insignificant thigh not that long ago, so it’s easy for me to appreciate how well-endowed he is. It’s hard to make a true comparison, but I think he might be longer than Eli, but not quite as girthy.

We’ll have to get some hands-on experience with it, then.

Oliver: Look what you do to me, princess.

Oliver: I’m throbbing in my hand just thinking about all the things I’d do to you if you were here with me.

Oliver: Would you like to know what I’m thinking about?

Me: Tell me, sir.

As my finger circles my clit in slow circles, I watch him typing his reply. I picture him rubbing his cock, my mouth watering as I imagine what his pre-cum would taste like on my tongue. Would it be sweet, like the raspberries in his scent?

Oliver: I’d have you on your knees, your wrists cuffed to your ankles so your ass sticks up in the air, that pretty cunt on display for me to feast on.

Oliver: I would make you come on my tongue, as many times as it takes to get you to beg for my cock. Only once you’re delirious from the pleasure would I finally fuck you.

Oliver: Your pussy would take me so good, wouldn’t it, princess?

At the filthy messages, my eyes go wide, every part of my mind short circuiting as I take in the words. My intrusive thoughts are even quiet as I conjure the image he’s describing. A strange peace settles over my body as I think about how it would be to be bound and at his mercy, my instincts knowing without question that this alpha would take care of me.

I don’t have time to sit with that realization for long as my phone vibrates with an incoming call from Oliver. My thumb swipes before I can think better of it, and I hold it to my ear.

“Hello?” I rasp, my mouth drier than I’d realized.

“I want to hear you, princess. I need to hear you fall apart for me,” Oliver growls, his already deep voice dropped to a pitch I didn’t think was possible.

I shiver as I pull my hand away and shimmy out of my shorts, balancing my phone on my shoulder to allow for use of both of my hands. I continue to circle my clit as I reach for my bedside table and extract one of my knotted dildos. It’s not as big as Oli’s, but it’ll have to do for now.

“How wet are you?” Oliver purrs, and I can hear a rhythmic slap of flesh in the background.

I circle the head of the dildo around my entrance, moaning at the easy slide of its blunt head as I tease myself. “Soaked, sir. I’m so fucking wet,” I gasp.

“Good girl. Do you want to hear more about the games I’ve imagined us playing?” he replies, words silky smooth as they slide right into my hindbrain.

I can only whimper again as I press the tip of the dildo into my entrance, letting out a slow breath as I let it fill the hollow ache in my belly one inch at a time.

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