Page 85 of Kept in the Dark
Yes. Yes, he is so big. Even in the near-darkness.
I couldn’t begin to guess the length or girth, but it’s definitely among the biggest I’ve ever seen. And I suppose it’s proportional to the size of the rest of him, but… I’m a medical professional. I’ve seen a lot of penises.
None quite like this.
Uncut, it hangs, slightly tipped down from its own goddamn weight. He looks even bigger, too, since he’s hard, and veins stand out against his pale skin, weaving up from the thatch of dark hair all the way to a purple-red head, which glistens at the very tip. It’s not pretty—show me a cock that is—but it’s… raw and powerful, like him.
Urgent heat pounds between my legs, reminding me of just how achingly empty I am. I’m desperate to taste that perfect, pearly drop of his desire.
“Certain positions might be uncomfortable for you,” he says, almost chagrined. “You should not be on top, for example. The gravity and full weight of your body may pull you down too much, and it will be too deep and cause pain.”
It’s difficult, but I manage to look away from the one-eyed monster between his legs. Were it not for the totally grave expression on his face, I would laugh. But he obviously means it, so I clear it from my throat instead. “Yeah, that’s not happening. I enjoy being on top. It’s easier for me to come.”
“In the past, perhaps,” he inclines his head. “But I assume that is because it is easier for women to take care of themselves when they are on top. You think I will not take care of you, my med?”
My breath catches. Okay, I need him desperately. Now. However he wants to do it. “Yeah, okay, fingers first,” I say, nodding my encouragement. “I don’t care, just touch me. I need you.”
I scooch back further toward the middle of the mattress and lie back down. Nerves of anticipation flutter around in my stomach as he comes down on the bed.
He fills the space, hovering just over me on his side. Face to face like this, it’s almost unbelievably intimate as he strokes my cheek. He traces my lower lip with his thumb, and I rake my teeth against the pad. I feel the rumble of his groan through his chest. His lips twitch.
“Are you wet for me, Nicole?”
The question makes my legs tremble, the implication that my body’s responses arehis, something for him. I nod, though I don’t know how to gauge my answer. I get wet, sure—and I think for me I am very wet, but I don’t know what he wants or expects. It doesn’t, like, drip down my leg or anything. Lube is my friend.
His hand traces a path down my body, leaving goosebumps in its gentle wake, and he guides my legs apart. It opens me up, exposing me to the cool air and making me shiver with the temperature change. Our eyes are locked as his fingertips brush against my clit. I inhale sharply, my face warping with the rush of sensations. Every muscle in my stomach quivers with anticipation.
“Fuck,” he growls. A flurry of Russian words spills from his lips.“Tvoye telo prekrasno, ono gotovitsya ko mne. Ty tak khorosho menya primesh’.”
I ache to know what he’s saying, because whatever it is, it soundsreverent. Poetry. A prayer. An ode to the silky wetness of my body and the way it feels to him.
And for my part, my pussy clenches around nothing, feeling so deeply empty that I’m half-insane with it. The movement that muscle spasm causes creates friction against the fingers he holds still, but it’s not enough, and it’s not in the right place. I roll my hips, trying to help him find that spot on my clit where I desperately need him.
“Is that where you like it?” he asks, switching back over to English. “There?”
His blunt fingertips strum against the hard little bump of my clitoris, and my body jerks against his hand. A breathy noise escapes me, mostly blowing out my nose, and I search his gaze as he searches mine. I nod.
“Yes, you like that,” he whispers, almost more to himself. The rasp of his skin against the most sensitive part of me is a tactile feast for my nerves.
Those fingers start moving down, exploring further until I have to spread my thighs to make room so he can find the entrance he’s looking for. “What about here?”
I whimper and nod again, my head bobbing without a single thought other thanyes, more.
“Do you want me inside here?” he asks. His stare is hypnotizing.
“So bad,” I moan.
I feel one finger swirling around, collecting moisture, before it plunges inside me. His thumb settles against my clit, applying pressure firmly. My hips buck against him as my lower belly spasms.
Of course, he’d touch me like this—confidently and intentionally. I shudder.
When I whine a moan, the pressure of his thumb gentles. “Are you sensitive?”
“Not that sensitive. More,” I whisper the demand.
Maybe because I’m not that sensitive, I’ve always been a girl who likes a little pain with her pleasure—it centers me, helps me focus, works in synchronization with the good feelings to make everything feel more intense.
His hands are so big, with fingers long enough to stroke deeper inside of me than some of my previous partners could have hoped to reach. I make throaty noises as he finds a rhythm, stroking and pumping. Thefirm pressure on those hypersensitive nerve endings almost hurts because it feels so good, and my eyes drift shut at the pleasure of it.
