Page 47 of Atlas

He kisses me, cutting off the word. “Hold that thought,” he says, backing away and grinning deviously. His cock is a steel rod in his jeans, the outline of it absolutely clear. “I’ll be right back.”

I have no idea where he’s going unless it’s to get whatever other part of this surprise he has planned.

I turn my head up to study the bonds again, tightened around my wrists, but soft and non-abrasive. The hooks gleam in the fluorescent lighting. They make me wonder if other hookscould go up there. Hooks for a swing or something that involves lots of knots. I’ve never tried it, but I have seen photos.

I want Atlas to get back in here and tear my clothes off. I’m not just aching for him. I can feel my hammering pulse echoed in my groin. My panties are soaked under my jeans.

The door opens and closes fast. “Sorry I took so long.” Atlas’ beautiful face is pinched with desire. He holds up a jug of orange juice. “I thought you’d have more in the fridge. Why didn’t you tell me that groceries were a must before we came back here?”

“You’re going to pour that on me and lick it off?” I sound skeptical, but the idea grows on me by the time the words are out.

The floor is concrete back here. I have a shower and a great mop bin. Even if I turn into a sticky mess, it’ll be fine.

He sets the juice down and sheds his jacket, carefully setting it on the workbench at the far side of the room, then shucks his t-shirt and works his belt open.

“I didn’t bring a change of clothes. It was a vast oversight.”

“That’s okay. I much prefer you without.”

He toes off his boots and strips his jeans and boxers off with easy grace. I’m captivated by the ripple of his muscles under his bronzed skin, by the slight tan lines he’s developed already this year, by the swirling trail of blond hair that brackets his belly button and trails down to bisect that prominent V of muscle.

His cock stands out, long and thick, moisture dribbling and trickling down from the tip.

Oh yeah, I’d so go down on my knees right now.

I haven’t taken him inside of me yet, and the frustration of not being able to do that over these past few days practically unspools me. I tug at the bindings, eager to go to him.

He comes to me instead. He helps me remove my shoes, since they’re not easy to wash. He takes his time stripping me down, every second more torture than I can bear.

He works my jeans off, leaving my black lace panties in place. His hands are maddening, touching me everywhere except where I need him most. Which is buried at least three fingers deep inside of me. Four? I think that might be biting off more than I can chew. Or take.

It’s a ridiculous time to giggle, but I can’t help it.

“Are you partial to this shirt?”

It’s a plain black sleeve cotton long sleeve. “I’m not partial to it at all.”

“Good. I’ve already secured your wrists and I didn’t think about taking it off before.”

“Tear it off of me.”

“I was going to cut it like a gentleman, but if you want the beast, you can have him.”

“I want the beast,” I pant. “I want your thick cock inside me right now.”

He tsks, chiding me, but the massive iron rod that passes for his dick bobs and pulses. I know he wants it too.

He starts at the bottom of my shirt, taking it in his huge hands and tearing the thin cotton easily. It rends all the wayup, and a second tear takes care of everything but the sleeves. He studies them, considering, and then he goes and gets the scissors. They’re wicked looking things, and very, very sharp.

He’s so careful, pulling the fabric up and away from me before he cuts.

It’s weirdly erotic. I never knew that scissors could be sexy.

In under a minute, the shirt falls away, useless tattered fabric. He looks at my bra and at the scissors.

“Cut it.” It was expensive, but if I don’t have his mouth on me, on every part of me immediately, I’m not going to recover.

He does, snipping the straps and undoing the clasp.

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