Page 29 of The Cartographer

His nose wrinkles, biceps flexing as if he’s deciding whether to leave his hands where they are. “Of course not.”

“It’s a sign of respect, Hart. That’s all I ask.”Cute, Walter. As if you’re not going to wheedle everything you can out of him.“This is how I do things, and if you’d like to do them with me, then you’ll follow my rules. Up to you.”

Hart’s mind might be uncertain about this, but his cock is very much in favor. It’s so hard it’s angled significantly off those hard, tatted abs of his.

I make a point not to use my clients’ bodies as weapons against them—I’d never try to talk them into something merely because their body was aroused by it. The connection between mind and body is sometimes a tenuous thing, and if someone’s brain and mouth says no, they fucking mean no. Unless, of course, you’ve made arrangements otherwise.

In this moment, though, I want to take Hart’s arousal as proof that, on some level, animal though it might be, he wants me. That I was right about him. That the sense I pride myself on and have spent years honing hasn’t led me astray. I would never take that choice from him, though. Or the confirmation away from myself. I want to enjoy this, not fret I’ve coerced him in an unacceptable way.

His gaze is boring into me, but with a sweep up and down my clothed form, he grinds out, “Yes, sir.”

There’s a goddamn tickertape parade within my brain, but I only allow an upward curl of the corner of my mouth without. “Good.”

Striding over, I take delight in the way he stays still, his eyes the only things that move. That and an eager bob of his impressive erection. I sit on the edge of the bed and reach out a hand, stopping shy of grazing his abdominals with my fingertips.

“May I touch you, Hart?”

It’s possible he suspects I’m asking so I can hear him call me sir again, which would explain the dark look on his face and his vexed tone. “Yes, sir.”

Or perhaps it’s only frustration that I’m putting anything more between us. When I finally touch his skin, it’s extraordinary. I’ve been in contact with so many people, in far more intimate ways than this, and yet few things have affected me as profoundly.

I run a single fingertip from just above his navel up the center seam of his abdominals, all the way to his suprasternal notch. As I trace his collarbones, and the designs and words etched into his skin there, he snorts, his breath hot on my hand.

“Yes, Hart?” I don’t look at his face, but continue to study the areas where my fingers roam, itching to ask him what it all means but feeling as though it’s none of my business. Not yet.

“Aren’t you supposed to be sucking my dick?”

“All in good time. You want the blowjob of your life? Doesn’t come easy. It’s also possible I’m a bit of a control freak in all things. So relax, you’re going to be here a while.”Longer than you’re expecting if I have anything to say about it.

Though I’m not looking at him straight on, I still catch the roll of his eyes, and if he were mine to do with how I please, I’d pinch him for his insolence. As it is, I make a note to take even longer than I’d planned before we get to the main event.

Despite his grumpiness about it, he takes my words to heart and does, in fact, relax. Allows me to touch him all over, as much and however I’d like. Mostly I caress him, softly, slowly, learning the curves, planes, angles, and textures of him, so while I’m no doubt bringing myself off tonight, I’ll remember precisely what he feels like. When my fingertips have had their fill, I lean over and follow their trails with my mouth, slicking over his tattoos with my tongue.

Hart startles underneath me, but I stroke him and murmur kind truths about what he’s doing to me by affording me access. He smells and tastes as good as he looks, and I even enjoy the sound of his breathing. My Hart is a feast for the senses, and I intend to devour him whole.

One of my favorite things about kink is that it forces people to take their goddamn time. So often when couples come to me, it’s because they’re bored with their sex life. They want to “spice things up.” While BDSM can certainly add quite a kick, what happens more often is it forces them to pay attention to each other, not rush through a perfunctory and routine obligation. Some of them end up discovering that’s what they want more than pain, bondage, humiliation, or any of the other infinite kinks I can offer them. Which can lead to the dissolution of some relationships, but far more often to the strengthening of the ones that survive. I’ll take it.

I spoil Allie and myself until he’s a dreamy puddle. He’s not hard anymore, but I suspect, given a few carefully placed touches, that could change in a second. What’s the rush, though? Who knows when I’ll be afforded this opportunity again, so I take full advantage, bringing him back from so relaxed I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d started snoring to tingling with sensual awareness and, yes, a thickening of his cock. It’s almost as if I’ve hypnotized him. Some of the submissives I’ve played with find their headspace this way, being petted and spoiled until they’re clay merely shaped as their former selves, and then you get to mold them however you’d like.

At the moment, I’d like to mold Allie into a squirming, gasping, and yes, eventually shouting and overflowing ball of carnal energy. Turning more of my energies to the places likely to turn him on—earlobes, sides of his neck, inner thighs, backs of knees, insides of wrists—I work him up slowly until I’m centering my attentions in the obvious places.

When I finally lay my mouth on his cock for the first time, he lets out this noise that’s half-gasp and half-sigh. It sounds like a job well done, but this particular “job” is far from over. Job makes it sound like a chore, though, and while it certainly takes concentration and effort, it’s far from unpleasant. No, not unpleasant at all. I’m finding a great deal of satisfaction in toying with the brawny man I’ve managed to get back in my house, if not quite to my bed.

I lick from the base to the tip, swirl my tongue around the crown, paying special attention to that sensitive area on the underside. The point is not to bring him off as quickly as possible, but to turn him into a writhing mass of pleading beforehand, so I tend to him with patience and an eye to figuring out what makes him arch his back and what elicits the most desperate noises.

It’s another hour of touching, licking, sucking, teasing, until he’s begging, and for someone who’s new to all this, he does it very prettily.

“Please. Rey, please let me come. I can’t take it anymore. I’m going to die if you don’t let me—”

I grip the base of him hard while stroking his sac and the tiny strip of skin behind it that’s deliciously sensitive. “Then you know what you need to say. I can keep this up for… Well, frankly forever, because your body is a delight.”

He makes a choked sound, frustrated and so very horny, but I’m pleased he thinks about it. He hasn’t been rendered so senseless he merely babbles whatever he thinks I’d like to hear. It’s far more gratifying to me to have this powerful man give himself over to me with a bit of struggle than with mindless abandon.

With a breath so deep it swells his belly, he clutches the pillow he’s been resting against between his long fingers. “Then please, please,sir, I need…I’m begging you to please, sir, let me come.”

Victory is sweet.

I swallow him down whole, stroking with my tongue and then with rhythmic pulls of suction. Added to a gentle squeezing and rolling of his sac, it’s then I’m given my other reward for my patience. He gives me a warning I don’t need that he’s about to come, and then his release is coating my throat while he hollers. Curse words and blasphemies, sure, but also, he says sir. It guts me—he hasn’t reverted to my name, hasn’t rescinded the respect I had to earn so grudgingly, but gives it to me in this moment of abandon. Worth. It.

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