Page 167 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
My eyes bug out of my head. “Hux!”
“Shh. Good girls stay quiet until they’re told to speak.”
Hunter slides his fingers into my pussy, shallow at first, then deeper, but never enough to satisfy. He moves in and out, gentle and then rough, never quite giving me what I want. I try not to lean into his touch, but I can’t help it.
“I really want to come,” I murmur, gripping the sheets.
“You will.” He pulls out and circles my ass with his thumb. “Relax, baby.”
I force myself to breathe, to unclench.
He works his finger into my ass, slow and patient, until I’m gasping. “That’s it. Take it. You’re so fucking tight, Juliet.”
He works both holes, alternating pressure, keeping me just on the edge of pain and pleasure. My clit is throbbing, desperate for contact, but he never touches it.
I reach back, desperate to finish myself, but he grabs my wrist, pinning it to the small of my back. “Stop.”
I whimper. “I can’t. Please, Hunter, please.”
He ignores me. Releasing my wrist, he flips me onto my back, and lies down with his cock in hand. He starts by playing with his piercing, lightly tugging it and gasping. “Mmm.”
“Can I–”
“Watch,” he says. “Eyes on my cock, baby.”
He strokes himself, slow and deliberate.
I can’t look away. His cock is thick and perfect, flushed and hard. I want to wrap my lips around it, but he keeps me at arm’s length.
“You want it?” he asks, voice low.
“Yes,” I breathe. “God, yes.”
“Not yet.”
He jerks himself off, keeping his eyes on me the whole time. I lick my lips. I feel like I’m going to explode just from the intensity of his stare.
He lets me get close again, lets my hand drift between my legs, but stops me just before I can come.
“Not yet,” he repeats, voice rough. “I’ll tell you when you can come.”
He pulls me down, spoons my body with his, and holds me tight, his thick cock pressed against my ass, his mouth buried in my hair. I can feel his dick twitching where it’s pressed against my skin. My lips feel dry.
I’m shaking with need, sweat cooling on my skin, every inch of me unsatisfied.
He kisses my neck, bites down just enough to leave a mark, and murmurs, “Be patient, Monroe.”
I make it maybe five minutes before I’m writhing and whimpering. I pretend I’m annoyed, that it’s all performative, but it isn’t. My whole body aches with need, every cell tuned to the absence of his touch. I grind my ass against him, searching for friction. It gets me nothing except a rough, warning slap to my ass and a muttered, “Not yet. Unless you’re ready to say your safe word, I own your greedy little pussy.”
There’s no give in him, not when he wants something. He buries his face in my hair, breathes in slow and steady, like he’s feeding off the pulse of my desperation.
After another three minutes of torture, my personal, unending hell, I twist in his arms so I can see him.
“I need it,” I say. “Please, Hunter.”
He kisses my neck, soft and possessive. “I know you do, baby.”
He holds me tighter, hands splaying wide over my ribs, fingers tracing circles on my skin. But he doesn’t go near my tits, and he definitely doesn’t touch my pussy.
