Page 4 of Billion Dollar Love: Manlove Edition

He collapses my chest and head to the cold marble floor. His pelvis grinds against my ass, and he pulses forward, driving deeper.Every muscle in my body screams to fight off this violence, the sudden pain, and the smothering weight, but if someone could take a picture of me under this hood, they’d catch a stupidly satisfied grin. I’m glad I don’t have to hide.

He tortures me with his insistent thrust, then kisses the nape of my neck, gentle as a drop of rain. This unworldly juxtaposition unleashes a flood of lust in me, and my body betrays me, pushing back—not to buck him—but to bring him deeper.

He only withdraws an instant, so he can slam back in. I yelp—yes, shamefully high-pitched and one airy breath away from a swear word. Then bury my head in my arms to stifle the sound.

“Let me hear you.”

He pummels in short, staccato thrusts, and I can’t help but yelp again. Not when Mr. Ito enjoys it. I’ve surrendered everything. All control over my body, my voice, myself. And he takes advantage, abusing the tender flesh in his care with a series of bites and hard gropes. I’ll be bruised all over in the morning—my spin-class students will get a good dirty chuckle about that—but I don’t give a damn.

His sex reduces me to a stifled curl. I am nothing but the small, bony thing for him to fuck. God, I can’t get enough of him. He wants me so bad it hurts him, and I love it. My forehead presses to the floor, my mouth to my arm. No sound and no movement from me, in case it makes his grip tighten, and his teeth worry my neck again.

Then soft fabric loops around my neck. His tie? It pulls gently back in his hand, tight around my throat.

“Okay?” His voice is husky with lust, deep and animal. He’s losing control, and he wants to leash me.

I nod. Who am I to tell Mr. Ito what to do with his toy?

He pulls the tie tight, and the pressure forces me to arch my back and extend my arms. My mind flashes insanely to yoga class. This is cow pose. Spine extended, not compressed. Gaze up. Shoulders relaxed down. Fingers spread.

Fuck.

I’ll never sink into this pose again without thinking of Mr. Ito. Of his cock buried to the hilt. Of his hand clawing at my chest. Of his tie tight on my throat. Going to make beginners’ yoga class more challenging.

My breath comes in gasps and wheezes, too little air passing through the silk and into my lungs. Will he stop fucking me when I pass out? Even such a broken toy warrants that much regard.

Mr. Ito jerks me up, crushing me against his body. The tie loosens when my hands leave the floor. Oh, I’ve been strangling myself? Fucking hell…

He slides the tie over my shoulders and forearms, pulling the leash around my torso now. Dangerously close to breaking one of my rules—no bondage at the same time as blindfolding—but I’m so dangerously close to losing control I don’t care.

Then he strokes my cock.

“Oh, fuck yeah.” I don’t realize until it’s slipped out. Vulgar. Unprofessional. Jersey. Not the sort of thing Mr. Ito’s pretty little toy should be moaning.

Mr. Ito laughs, low and ominous in my ear. “Omocha enjoys himself?”

I nod this time, flushed with embarrassment, which makes me lightheaded. My brain boils from too much heat, too much sensation. I’d explode if I could see more than the blackness inside the hood.

“Should I make you come?”

“Yes, please.” My body is already begging, humping his hand, and ruining the rhythm of his thrusts.

He corrects to match my pace, a powerful symmetry of his cock and his hand. As if I’m not in between them. And really, I’m not. I’m just the toy in his self-play.

Except … Christ, he’s hardly started, and I’m already coming.

Someone told me once orgasm is a dance with death. That a person’s heart is in danger of exploding when it happens. I’d been far too young to hear this. Probably at some cast party when the adults forgot there was a kid in the show. It was the most frightening thing about puberty for me, the constant desire for pleasure, the endless fear I would accidentally kill myself seeking it.

The shattering still scares me as much as it relieves me, and when I come it’s with a whispered wail barely recognizable as my own voice. A kind of death on its own. But it feels so good, so damned fine. I can’t even be self-conscious about the sounds I’m making, about the unbridled desperation, about how shameless I must appear.

Mr. Ito pauses in his attack to caress my chest, to move the tie back to my neck. While his cock throbs inside me, thrashing for its own release, his hands tie the fabric gently around my throat. I collapse back into his arms, trusting entirely in his strength to support me.

How foolish to trust him.

Once he’s had his joke and dressed me in his tie, Mr. Ito pushes me forward. I fall flat on my face, too surprised to catch myself.

My pleasure was a personal duty accomplished for his own pride. Having fulfilled this obligation, Mr. Ito tends to his own release with ruthless efficiency. He allows me to uncurl, spreads my legs wide, and pounds me so hard and so fast that if we’d been in my apartment, he might have broken the floor with the force of his lust. I moan with joy beneath him, longing to see him, to taste his skin while he uses me.

He’s quick and violent. Before I can recover from my own orgasm, he pulls out. He cuts all contact between our bodies, until the drops of his lust rain on the curve of my ass. They drip forward into the bend of my lower back. That’s the last touch for now.

---