Page 2 of Sinner's Vows

I toe off my shoes and strip my socks, then start to unbutton my shirt as I pad over to the foot end of the bed. Dropping my shirt to the floor, I however keep myself contained, belt buckled, willpower harnessed. Then I reach for the edge of the sheet and slowly drag it off her, exposing her beauty inch by inch, her body lifting into the erotic glide of satin flowing over skin.

She’s a beautiful canvas on which I’m going to draw with my tongue, my lips, my fingertips, then maybe with more, depending on how I feel.

As I drop the sheet to the floor, I kneel onto the bed and move on my hands and knees until I’m hovering over her body. We’re not touching, but she’s pushed her hips up to mine, seeking connection. I dip my head, my mouth at her temple, my lips soft as I inch them over her delicate skin to her ear, where I run them along the shell and down to the lobe.

She’s exquisite, so soft, with the faint scent of lilies clinging to her skin, but it’s the helpless moan escaping from her that only hardens me more.

“I’m slow, baby, so bear with me,” I murmur, my warm breath popping a rush of goosebumps down her neck and beyond.

She moans again, and now, I’m completely into it, sinking into the moment, my blood thrumming with the beat. My lips press to her skin, tasting her, licking and nibbling and placing open-mouthed kisses on every inch of her, sucking and teasing her nipples, then going down until I’ve reached her lower belly, where I pause.

I’m still perched over her, touching her with nothing but my lips and tongue, but now, I shift my weight so I can press my palm to her pelvic bone. She quivers, and when I massage her there with just the right amount of pressure, her breathing becomes strained.

“No. Not yet,” I instruct, lifting my hand, leaving only my fingertips connected to her skin. She’d cry out in protest if she could, but it’s too soon to remove the gag.

For a minute I wait, allowing her pending orgasm to retreat. I get off the bed and pad over to the console, my gaze roaming over the selection on display. Nothing here will inflict pain, because I don’t do that shit outside of office hours, but sexual torture is real. The only difference is that sublime pleasure is the ultimate outcome, and women will endure everything I do to them, knowing I’m getting them there with a helluva bang.

I pick up a peacock feather and make my way back to the bed.

By the time I deem her ready for me, I’ve worked through several props, and she’s soaked the sheets, but still she hasn’t come. Her scent overpowers every candle in the room, and my cock is begging me to make it end. I strip my belt and pants, and when I fist my cock, need ripples through my body. I want that tight pussy now, and with trembling hands, I rip open the condom and roll it on. She’s gone quiet, maybe sensing freedom and release are seconds away.

I unhook her legs, one after the other, and she pulls her knees up, opening as wide for me as she possibly can. I’m on her in seconds and force myself to ease into her with slow thrusts. She comes on the third one, and her whole body trembles, her thighs shaking as I drive in and out, maxing her orgasm to the deep beats of the music which set this rhythm in the first place.

And still she comes. I don’t stop pounding into her, my own release stalling. I haven’t earned this.

Her cheeks are wet, and I curse softly. I reach for the gag and unclip it, and it falls to the side.

“Shh, baby girl,” I try to soothe her, but she’s full-on sobbing now.

“Harder,” she pleads as if she knows exactly what I need. “Fuck me harder. Please.”

And it’s the only way I’m going to get there. I slam into her, thankful that nothing about her is fragile, that her body can take mine, that she is ready for my need. By the time my release rockets out of me, I feel another orgasm hugging my own. She cries out, her feet hooking over my thighs, pressing me as deep into her as I can go as we peak together.

It’s intense. Powerful. Our bodies one. All tension seeps out of me as I press into her, acknowledging again that I’ve waited too long for this, for my antidote. For my own sanity, I need to do this more often.

When her legs go slack, I adjust my weight, lifting off her inch by inch. She slides her feet down my calves, trapping me.

“Baby—”

“Let me touch you,” she whispers. “Let’s me see you.”

I lower my head to kiss her, finally connecting our lips and forcing her to be quiet. It’s a slow, deep, and erotic kiss, aimed to distract her, because none of that’s happening. With us kissing, my cock stirs afresh where it’s still lodged in her body. Fuck. I can just start again. I bet she’d be there for it all. We can probably go the whole night.

With a last soft sweep of my tongue, I close off the kiss and slip from her body. “I’ve got to go.”

“Why? Please stay.”

I know she needs aftercare, somebody to hold her and talk to if she wants this. It isn’t going to be me. It’s never me. “I’ve a funeral in the morning.”

She stills. “What? I’m sorry…whose funeral?”

“My dad.” And the only way I’d be able to get through tomorrow is by fucking a stranger tonight.

I deal with the condom as she says nothing, probably digesting my words and fucked-up attitude. Her arms are still tied and she’s still blindfolded, but she’s relaxed now, sinking into the mattress with a sated afterglow. I stop the backgroundmusic, find my clothes, and get dressed. My head is shifting away from the space of release, back to reality.

“Who are you?” she asks.

Somebody you don’t want to know in real life.

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