Page 26 of Possession

“I can—” I try as we reach the bathroom entrance, but he makes a sound of denial.

He keeps glancing at the guardroom door. I think he’s afraid to let me out of his sight.

There’s no hot water, but he soaks a corner of the blanket. I try to take it from him.

He bends me over forcefully. I catch myself against the sink.

“Oh my god,” I mutter, mortified when he starts cleaning between my ass cheeks. “I can do that my—”

A growl cuts me off this time, and the hand on my lower back says he’s going to do this whether I like it or not.

At first, I don’t like it at all. It’s embarrassing as hell.

I’m not sure why that changes. Maybe because there’s very little light in here and no mirror. Without visuals, all I have is sensation and sound.

Warmth begins to move through my body as he sweeps the cloth against my sensitive skin. His hand is heavy and sure on my lower back. He’s making deep, rumbling sounds of something like pleasure.

When the cloth moves between my spread legs and grazes my balls, my breath catches. He crouches behind me, continuingwith his gentle cleansing—then his tongue strokes across my hole. I gasp at the unfamiliar sensation. He murmurs wordlessly and licks me again.

As he continues to tease my rim, my cock stiffens. My hands clench on the sink.

“Fuck,” I breathe. “Jesus.”

Why the hell does that feel so good? Why didn’t I know that feels good?

I can’t believe how unfamiliar I am with my own body. I can’t believe how it responds to him. To his touch. His dominance.

When his tongue pushes past the tight ring of muscle, I let out a needy little sound that I don’t recognize.

I like this. I like it so much.

His hands move to my ass cheeks, roaming down my thighs and back up, squeezing and massaging. All the while, he keeps licking me. My cock hardens, twitching upward.

I reach down and grip myself, moaning at the doubled pleasure of my hand’s glide and his tongue on my hole. He rumbles against me like he’s pleased, and the vibration has me stroking harder.

I feel like I’m in another world, another reality. My experience here with him is wholly outside what I know of myself. It’s something about this place. The isolation, the bareness. It’s him too, of course. His silence and physicality and dominance.

It’s like everything is stripped away, exposing my raw, unfiltered self. I don’t think. I don’t decide. I just experience the erotic lathing of his tongue against my hole and the delicious kneading of his hands over my ass and legs. I listen to his rumbling and my own soft moans. I stroke myself like I’m entitled to this kind of pleasure.

My balls draw up taut and full and I come with a sharp cry, gripping myself through my release, letting my cock spurt intothe darkness. It’s strange to come so easily, like there was never anything wrong with my body, like I simply didn’t know what it needed.

I’m left trembling and gasping, leaning against the sink. He murmurs against me. His tongue strokes one last time, then he tugs at me, turning me until my ass is against the sink.

I cry out as his tongue sweeps across my sensitive cockhead, sweeping away any traces of my release. There’s so little light in here that he’s a vague shape, huge and powerful as he rises. He grunts at me and puts his hand on my sternum. Stay, I think it means, because he walks out of the bathroom.

I peer around the empty doorframe and watch him move through the cell. He’s stiff, not moving very well, clearly in pain—and no fucking wonder. There’s a burn mark on his back from the taser, one of many reminders of what just happened to him.

It’s clearly nothing new for him. He’s scarred from every angle. With the awful lash marks, his back is almost the worst. His pain tolerance is obviously high, so when he turns to crouch by the mattress, giving me a side view, I’m not totally surprised to see his cock partially hard. I think most men’s wouldn’t be after what he just went through.

But I’m pleased to see it because it means he enjoyed rimming me. I’m pleased to see it because it’s beautiful.

Reaching inside the mattress where there must be a hole, he pulls out a toothbrush. Longing unfurls inside me. God, I’d love to brush my teeth. Maybe he’ll give me the worn out one by the sink? I almost used it earlier but didn’t. I didn’t know how he’d react if I did that.

He returns to the bathroom—and hands me the toothbrush that he just retrieved. I can tell from the bristles that it’s new. I can tell from the fact that it was hidden inside the mattress that he was saving it.

“Are you … giving this to me?”

He grunts. I can’t see his face in the dimness, but I can make out his movements. He picks up the other toothbrush, the old one, and puts a little toothpaste on it. As he starts brushing his teeth, he hands the tube to me.

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