Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Okay, I could survive this. I’d sucked a lot of cocks, all sizes. I’d had a lot of men shove deep into my throat in the throes of passion. It happened all the time, but I wasn’t usually blindfolded and bound.
Still, in some sick way I wanted to please him. I wanted to make it good for him, and I swear to God, I usually don’t care that much. I mean, I care about getting the client off, because that means we’re finished, but I don’t usually care.
He didn’t say anything, and I wasn’t physically capable of saying anything. I felt powerless in a way I’d never experienced before. I got the feeling he wasn’t fucking my face because it felt good for him, but because it felt scary for me. He yanked my hair when I tried to lean away from him, pulled it so hard I yelled, at which point he shoved his cock right back into my open mouth. He was so badass, so good at this. My throat hurt. My hair hurt. My nipples were killing me.
I wondered what he looked like. I wondered so hard.
I started to drool and imagined it dripping down onto my cut-open blouse. I couldn’t stop the drooling any more than I could stop the tears leaking out of my eyes behind the leather mask.
When I was sure I couldn’t bear for him to drive into my throat one more time, he pulled out. I felt his shoulders against my knees as he crouched to free my ankles. Snip, snip, goodbye zip ties. Okay, fuck me now. Please be quick.
But I knew he wouldn’t be quick. He liked playing with women. He enjoyed tormenting them. I’d learned over the years to read clients like books. The title of W’s book was Take It, Bitch.
He removed the clamps next, then grabbed my thighs, yanked my legs apart, and tilted me back in the chair. While my previously-numb nipples came alive with the biting pain of re-invigoration, he drove inside me balls deep.
And I can’t say how, or why, but after he drove into me two or three times, I experienced the most powerful orgasm of my life. It was a shaking, twisting, sobbing, protesting orgasm, because there was no way I enjoyed this. There was no way that pain and pleasure could mix so exquisitely, while he filled me up with his rough, thick cock. No way. Oh God, yessss…
His mocking laughter barely registered as I gritted my teeth and rode out the aftershocks. I was lifted out of the chair and carried, still impaled, still orgasming, across the room. He pushed me back and I braced to hit the floor, but I landed on the bed. He came over me, driving my bound hands down into the mattress. I fought to escape him; my pussy felt too hot and sensitive to have him inside. But the more I fought him, the more powerfully he fucked me.
“I want you to come again,” he said.
I shook my head. I was still recuperating from the previous orgasm, still trying to deny the scintillating pleasure lighting up every nerve.
“Yes,” he said in his commanding voice. “Again. This isn’t over until you do what I want.”
“I can’t come again.”
“Why not? You like pain. You like force. You like getting your throat fucked.”
“No!”
He was wrong. I didn’t like those things. I was Miss Kitty. Meow. I liked being petted. I liked pretty things. I liked calm, sensual encounters where sex-starved men worshipped me and eased their cocks into me and contentedly got off.
Unlike them, he was intense. Demanding. His cock invaded me while his fingers played over my clit. I may have mentioned this earlier...he knew his way around a clit. He used the perfect touch, not too hard—because I was still sensitive—but not too soft. I threw my head back and shook it back and forth. Meow, motherfucker. This is not me.
But that didn’t matter, because I was going to come again. My pussy felt like a living, blooming thing, like it had been dead all these years and he’d just now brought it to life. He was the Resurrection Man. Or the Erection Man.
I writhed on the bed, trying to fight him, because when I fought him, it felt that much more exciting.
“Come on. Come again, damn it.” He slapped me, a firm, stinging crack across my cheek. It hurt way more than the first time he’d slapped my face. It also made my second orgasm explode.
I think I cried nooo, but he said yes, and kept a grip on my shaking thighs. It occurred to me that I was experiencing the most powerful climax of my life, and I still had no idea who was inside me, or what he looked like, or why the hell he found it necessary to slap my face.