1. Other Colors -- Ch.16


    Date: 12/23/2014, Categories: BDSM, Author: mascodagama, Rating: 3, Source: LushStories

    my thighs as they would reach. And when his palm dipped just half a centimeter closer, I lost control. My knees quaked, my thighs quivered. I felt a flash of terror as each fiber of muscle that I'd held so still for so long began to unravel around me. “Come.” He whispered it, and drew the length of his long finger across my clitoris. He did it just once. And I came. I fell forward against him, groaning, gasping, and grinding myself against his hand. The tension he’d pent up inside me; it was too much, and with every convulsion I feared the next might snap me in two. And while the waves themselves were strong, I knew even in midst of it that the strain had left me weak. After the last contraction left me, I would’ve toppled right to the floor had he not held me upright. He kept me there, clasping my cheek against his chest, and ran his hand through my hair, gently extricating the French barrette with which I'd pinned it back that morning. I huddled into him, shivering, and slipped my arms beneath his suit jacket. I was happy, at long last, to be held by him, but I couldn't help feeling a bit timid about it. This kind of affection, all gentle, and attentive, and benign; it was something I'd only ever received when he was truly through with me. But if by no other laws than those of binomial algebra, I knew we couldn’t possibly be finished. He was still made of stone. I could feel him, almost pointing himself in my direction. J'accuse... I bit my lip. Euclid always allowed for a ...
    remainder, but I knew precisely how to balance this equation. I let my knees go limp for him, and began to kneel. But midway down, he stopped me, and guided me down onto the daybed instead. I opened my eyes, stunned. “That won't be necessary…” he took a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, and dried off his still-glistening fingertips. “I’ve traumatized you enough for tonight, Miss Foster. Now,” he turned, and lifted my folded flannels from his desk. “let's get you ready for bed.” I didn't know what to say. He was undoubtedly the only man I'd ever encountered to stop me from going down on him. He’d done it twice now, and I think part of me was almost offended. Not that it was something I enjoyed, or that I took any particular pride in my ‘talents’. But having had ample practice with my ex, the truth was, I was good at it—really good, and perhaps even exceptional. And just once, it might have been nice to call upon those degrading and painstakingly cultivated skills for someone who seemed to deserve it. But tonight was not that night. He knelt next to me with the thin and threadbare shirt, slipping my arms into its sleeves before he buttoned it from the bottom up. He stood, and patted the edge of his desk. “Hop up, little girl.” I had no energy to resist him. I had no energy even to resent the infantilizing epithet. In my exhaustion, and only in my exhaustion, I confess that I almost liked it. So I did as he told me, letting him thread my legs through the flannel bottoms, ...
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