E l y s e eave it,” he orders me as he helps me to my feet. My knees scream as I get up from the hard floor, but my pussy is screaming more: further evidence that Katrin knows my kinks better than I know them myself, because that was hot as hell. It wasn’t just how insanely, unthinkably beautiful he is, standing before me in his bronzed, majestic glory, but the way he put me to work. Being ordered to my knees, being ordered to suck his enormous dick, and then being commanded to stay still so he could brand me with his cum like some whore was so demeaning and so liberating that I want to float away. I want him to order me about and treat me like his little fuck toy until an overdose of arousal poisons me from the inside out and I die of happiness. Speaking of arousal, his is dripping down my breasts and off my nipples and dribbling down my stomach. I want to wipe it off, because it tickles, but I also want to wallow in it like a pig in mud. Most of all, I want him to look at me the way he’s looking at me now, with hooded, delirious eyes, as his entire body shakes with huge pants. I did that. It takes about a second to ascertain why he wants me to “leave it.” He starts swirling his fingertips through his own cum, drawing patterns on my stomach before he rubs his arousal into my nipples, pinching and plucking at them, his fingertips slippery as he bends to kiss me hotly, which has me moaning into his mouth and my legs threatening to buckle. “Chair,” he orders me against my mouth, gripping my bic eps and frogmarching me backward until my thighs hit the chair. I was low-key amused when I saw it earlier—guys are so predictable—but I can’t deny there was a twinge of apprehension. It’s not like I’ve ever had a moment in a chair like that that wasn’t unpleasant, uncomfortable, and awkward as hell. Now, though, there’s nothing but hunger for whatever games Sinclair wants to play. I am greedy, greedy, greedy. Let’s be honest here: I don’t even need the stirrups. I would ke ep my legs open so wide for this guy, give him all the access he could ever desire. But that blowjob, and the way he used my body, really got my newly found kinky side going, and I put up zero resistance when he gently but firmly maneuvers me down. I’m feeling too cavalier—and too turned on—to even care about the huge red flag that is the steel table standing next to the chair. It’s just like the ones you get in the doctor’s office, only instead of speculums and whatever else they use, there’s an assortment of what look like sleek, allblack vibrators. The chair itself is a regular ob-gyn one: a bit like a dentist chair, made from steel and black leather, exc ept that the seat part is very shallow and doesn’t allow me to get much more than my butt on it. I shuffle back as far as I can as Sinclair kneels before me, pulling out the stirrups so he can lay one leg and then another onto them. Once I’m in, my heels and calves secured firmly, he wraps Velcro straps around my ankles. Holy shit. I’m pretty sure those restraints do not come as standard for any doctor who adheres to his or her Hippocratic Oath. I consider it a win that he doesn’t do the same to my wrists. When he’s satisfied I’m not getting out of this thing, he pushes the stirrups farther and farther apart until my legs are spread as wide as possible for him. Even naked and kneeling before me, there is no doubt at all that Sinclair is the one pulling the strings. He gets to his feet, looking awfully pleased with himself, and his eyes rake all over my body. I must look quite a sight, with all my private parts fully on display and his cum
growing sticky on my chest. The pillory thing was mortifying, but this is just as intense—more so, possibly, because I’m so open and because I can see every bit of him: his body, his reactions to me, his apparently-hardening-again cock, and, worst of all, the wolfish smile with which he considers just how best to take advantage of his sex-prisoner. He is, without a shadow of a doubt, the hottest guy I’ve ever been with. It seems unfair that he has not only billions of dollars and all the privilege that his social status affords but that he looks like this. For chrissakes, share the blessings around a little, dude. I take him in: the dark hair now mussed up and falling over his forehead; the lean muscularity of his body that must be a combination of world-class genetics and a commitment to looking after himself very well; the face that I’ve googled to distraction and which is so freaking gorgeous up front. All of this and he’s some kind of alpha sex king, to boot. I’m no star fucker, but I realize just how many women would kill to trade places with me right now and put themselves in Sinclair Voss’s diabolical hands. He pulls over a little stool on wheels and perches on it, seemingly unbothered by his nakedness but very interested in mine. He scoots into the chasm between my legs and puts his hands on my inner thighs. “You’re so beautiful. In every fucking position, you’re perfect. But this may be my favorite one so far.” The sincerity in his voice, the intensity on his face, takes me aback. He looks as though he wants to devour me. He drags his palms up my thighs, his splayed fingers skirting the very parts I need him to touch, and up my sticky stomach, over my equally sticky breasts. “Wait here,” he says unnecessarily. Then he’s disappearing into the en suite—small, high-end, and incredibly porno with its dim lighting and large mirrors and black marble—and returning with a wet washcloth. Back on his stool, he wipes me with it. Over my stomach it goes. Around my breasts, the rough pile chafing my nipples. Even cleanup feels like for eplay with this guy. As a final touch, he drags it lower, lower, not taking his eyes off my face. I watch him, entranced, as he brushes it over my clit for not even a full second and then throws it on the floor. “Nooo,” I whimper, and he grins evilly. “Just getting you nice and clean so I can dirty you up again.” I like the sound of that. “How,” he says, reaching up to fondle my nipples with those long, clever fingers, “am I supposed to decide where the hell to start?” “I have some ideas,” I say, and he chuckles. “I bet you do, you little beauty.” His fingers linger there as he scoots even farther forward and, ducking his head, presses a kiss to my breastbone. His hair tickles my skin in a tortuous way as he trails lower, p eppering my stomach with kisses and playing with my breasts far too casually and teasingly for my liking. I’m in such a state that I want him grabbing and pinching and chafing, not brushing and gliding, for fuck’s sake. Presumably, he left my hands unbound for a reason. I dig my fingers into his dark, messed-up hair, grabbing thick clumps, and he makes a pleased grunt against my navel. Newfound courage has me sliding my hands
lower, enjoying the huge bulk of his shoulders, the velvety softness of the skin at the back of his neck. Still, he moves lower. Then lower. When his face is mere inches above my exposed pussy, he looks up at me. His eyes are all pupil, his face completely feral. “Watch,” he says. Believe me, I’m watching. His dark head dips, he pushes his stool back slightly, and then he’s full-on sniffing me, turning his head this way and that as he does. He takes in my scent with great, animalistic inhales, and I’m both mortified and aroused beyond measure. Forget bending over for him last week, the business end of our arrangement hidden from view by that freaking pillory. This is the most intense thing in the world. He drops his hands from my breasts and palms my inner thighs again, just in case these stirrups aren’t pushing the boundaries of my range of motion down there. I’m practically doing the splits. The very tip of his nose brushes my clit, and I cry out, so sensitized am I. “I would have paid ten grand just for this,” he mutters, glancing up at me again. “Just for the indescribable pleasure of being able to smell you.” He sounds as tortured as he looks, and I’m kind of glad I’m not the only one suffering here. The fingers of one hand drag absently over my thigh. “I have spent a week trying to conjure up how you smell—like fucking crack. If I could transport you and this godforsaken chair to my office and sit you just like this all day long, then I would. Believe me.” I thought Sinclair was done shocking me, but apparently not. It’s the most outrageous thing I’ve ever heard. Demeaning and objectifying... and worshipful and obsessive. Oh, Jesus. In my current state, it hits almost as romantic. All I can do is choke out a scandalized little laugh. It seems he’s broken my brain again. “I’m serious,” he assures me with another dark, hazy look. “I guess all I can do is coat myself in you. At least I’ll be able to smell you for the rest of the night.” He’s as good as his word, dipping his head again and proceeding to feast on me, fingers flexing on my inner thighs as he does, as if he’s terrified I’ll conquer the stirrups and deny him access. He kisses and licks and sucks, rubbing his nose over my clit again, this time intentionally, and it feels as though he’s covering every square millimeter of where I need him. It’s the most decadent, delicious sensation in the world, and I sit in my chair, using my voice and my hands to spur him on, urging him to give me more, more, more. He stops suddenly, peering up at my face before homing back in on my pussy, his brow furrowed in the sexiest kind of concentration. Then he’s taking two fingers and sliding them de ep inside me. He crooks them, and I moan. My clit is screaming for attention. “Can’t let you come just yet, baby,” he says, the softness of his words belying the evilness of his words. “I need to have a little more fun with you before I do.” “Orgasm denial is a hard limit,” I spit out, disgusted with this turn of events, and he gives me his lovely, throaty chuckle. “I know, I know. This will make it even better for you. Besides, I wanna take my time playing with you. This insistence you have on coming is very unreasonable.” “Unbelievable,” I huff, but he’s sitting upright and busying himself with the array of vibrators on the table. I can see now that his erection has reached epic levels, jutting stiffly out, its crown red and angry and we eping
precum. “I don’t think I’m the only person who needs to come,” I tell him. He grins as he picks up a thin wand and assesses it. “Touché. But only one of us has any self-control.” “Only one of us has already had an orgasm,” I retort, dragging my hands uselessly over the armrests. My skin is hot. Everywhere tingles. I feel actually feverish. This need for release is a full-body sensation, make no mistake. “I never thought the sweet little ingenue I propositioned would be so mouthy once I got her worked up.” He holds up two vibrators—the thin wand and a monstrous-looking dildo. “Best fucking surprise I’ve had in a long time. Now, let’s play a little more. I know you’ll like this.” When I was living in Manhattan, I had a vibrator, but it was nowhere near the size of this thing. These days, it sle eps in my underwear drawer, carefully hidden inside a sock. Sle eping a yard away from your sister doesn’t work so well with electronic date nights. Sinclair works my chair’s foot pedal, and I ratchet upward until my pussy area is on a level with his dick. Next, he presses a button that reclines my chair until I’m lying farther back. He’s improved the angle between us, I realize. I watch with fascination as he squirts some lube onto the dildo. Positioning it at my entrance, he turns it on. The cold of the lube and the vibrations of the device are joint shocks, and when he drags it through my folds to my clit rather than pushing it in, I nearly pass out from the sheer pleasure of it. “Oh my God,” I manage. “So good. Oh God, ke ep going.” That’s a surefire way to get him to stop, obviously. With no hesitation, he finds my entrance again and pushes it in hard. It’s cold where the real thing would be hot as hell, but shit, does it feel incredible. I stare up at him, gripping the armrests for dear life, as if this is an ejector chair and he’s about to catapult me into outer space. Not a bad analogy, surely, for how he’s making me feel. Still standing, he surveys me as he feeds the dildo into me. Sex king is right. This man could rule the underworld. Casual as you like, he flicks the little wand on. “Tell me if it’s too much.” He touches it to my left nipple for the briefest moment, and it’s like a lightning bolt in the best possible way. I jolt in the chair as if he’s defibrillating me—and he kind of is, I guess. “How is that?” “So good,” I manage, which I think is pretty articulate. He smiles, the proud instructor enjoying how far his pupil has come. “What a very good girl you are.” And the wand taps my other nipple. He continues to fuck me slowly, almost lazily, with the dildo as he alternates the wand between my nipples for a few moments before turning it off and throwing it onto the table. He crouches over me and kisses me just as slowly and lazily before he works his way down my body, pulling one nipple into his mouth and doing something devastating with his tongue before r epeating the exact same move on the other side. He’s nothing if not democratic. With herculean effort, I raise a hand to tug hard on his hair, and he groans against my breast.
And then, somehow, he’s backing away and bending farther, tilting his head so he can lavish my clit with more decadent licks as he ke eps feeding me his toy. It’s so much—it’s so completely and utterly insane that I might die from it. My nervous system is playing a symphony right now; everything is as it should be as he licks and sucks, as he fucks me, and I start to tremble. “Oh shit,” I say, unable to withstand any more. I’m flying now, soaring like a bird over Manhattan. “I —” “Wait,” he barks, straightening up. “No. Wait. You come on my cock or nothing. Fuck.” He pulls the dildo out and turns it off. With record speed, he rips open a condom from the table and pinches the end, working it over his length with anguish written all over himself as I lie here uselessly, suspended in some fucked-up limbo created by my arrested orgasm. But then it’s on, and he’s lining himself up with me and, miracle of miracles, pushing inside me with the patience of a man who has been taken to the brink of sanity. As he does, I appreciate how insanely d epraved and diabolically perfect this position is. I’m prone, at exactly the right height, and spread so fucking open for him that he couldn’t have designed his access any better. The man is a master architect of sex... and this time, I have a front-row seat to his expertise. He’s halfway in when he lets go of his dick and grips my hips. The stirrups don’t give me much to work with, but they don’t need to. He’s got this. He snags his full lower lip with his teeth as he pushes in, his eyes fixed on the pornographic sight of his dick entering my body. For someone who seems like a cold jackass when he’s out in the world, his face is super expressive when he’s fucking, and once again, I marvel that this private show is for me and me alone. He bottoms out, and we both let out groans at how amazing it feels. Sure, the dildo was a great toy, but his dick is the real deal, and the fullness I feel like this is right on the brink of what’s bearable. Tearing his gaze away from where we join, he glances up at me. “Touch your tits for me. I want to see you playing with those nipples. Want this to feel as intense as possible for you.” Touching myself in front of guys is not something I’m super comfortable with, but he’s paying for this, so he calls the shots. Besides, I am apparently a ho for intensity this evening. Self-consciously, I stop whiteknuckling the armrest and let my hands trail up over my stomach until they find my breasts. I give my nipples a little pinch, and pleasure shoots through me. Oh yeah, that’s good. “God, yes,” he groans, his voice trembling so much that I guess it’s costing him a lot to stay still inside of me. “I love that. And let’s try this.” This is the great Sinclair Voss spitting on his thumb and rolling it over my clit. I let out some loud, shaky wail, but I can’t help it. The size of his dick has everything down there stretched out so fully. My pussy is a taut canvas for this man’s art. My response seems to flip something in him. He pulls almost the whole way out and slams back in, still gripping one of my hips as his thumb drags over me in firm circles. I rub my nipples feverishly between my fingers as he does. He’s going for it, thrusting into me over and over like he has zero fucks left to give about anything that isn’t shooting his load. As he does, our eyes stay locked on each other. His hair is now totally messed up and falling everywhere, his face is contorted with the effort of holding himself off, and his abs and
pecs flex gloriously with every thrust. I love his tan skin. I love the soft, manly dusting of dark hair across his chest. He really is a sight for sore eyes. I’m not even self-conscious anymore about how I look touching myself, about what he thinks. Like him, I’m chasing one thing and one thing only. So when he grits out, “I will take this sight to my fucking grave,” it’s like he’s burying me in diamonds and has thrown one more on top of the pile. His thumb drags over me so hard it’s painful, and his dick is battering my internal walls, my fingers on my nipples completing this celestial circuit. I’m sweating, writhing, meeting him as best I can every time he slams into me. “I’m gonna—” I choke out, and then this chair really does turn into an ejector seat. My orgasm crests and reality explodes into nothingness as I shatter, body and soul. “Oh, thank fuck,” I hear through the ringing in my ears, and then he’s fucking me through my orgasm with jagged, disorderly thrusts that milk me and milk me as my body convulses for him and around him. With a roar, he comes, shunting and shunting as my hands drop from my breasts and I sink into a human pool of what feels like warm molasses. He lets out a long, shuddering gasp before sagging forward until his face hits my shoulder. With whatever tiny traces of energy I have left, I sink my fingers into his thick hair. His breath is warm on my shoulder. He kisses it. “Jesus fuck,” he mutters against my skin, and I laugh a little. “Right?” With seeming difficulty, he raises his head and kisses me. We linger here for a moment, our tongues swirling lazily against each other. “Give me a sec,” he says, straightening up. As he removes and ties off the condom, he shakes his head at me, amused. “That was fucking insane.” I smile at him. Turning, he drops the condom in the trash before ripping off the Velcro and gently lifting one leg out of its stirrup with a firm grip around my ankle. He does the same with the other, and I wince. “You okay?” “Yeah. A little stiff.” Understatement. My hip flexors are stiff as fuck. I might need to borrow Sylvie’s wheelchair tomorrow due to sex-related arthritis. “Take it slowly,” he says, sliding both arms around my back and hoisting me up. When I’m upright—and wincing again at my swollen pussy —he picks me up with his hands under my ass. I wrap my legs and arms around him like a sex-drunk chimpanzee and allow him to walk me over to the bed, reveling in the deliciousness of having my skin plastered to his, of the soft brush of his chest hair against my stomach. He lays me down and comes to lie beside me, tugging me against him so we’re chest to chest again. “Seriously, you doing okay?” he asks.
“I’m doin’ a lot better than okay.” I think I mumble it. I’m struggling to form words. “You did great. That was a lot.” He’s running his fingertips up and down my spine, and it’s delicious. There is an extremely high chance I will pass out in the next thirty seconds. I need to splash some cold water on my face, quick. I do not need him throwing a strong, warm, hairy leg over mine like he’s doing, because that will have me going under even sooner. “How do you get home?” he asks me. “PATH,” I mumble. “Light railway.” It’s not like I’m disclosing private information. I already had to share my legal address when I signed the NDA. “Yeah, that’s not happening,” he says in my ear, his hand moving lower and smoothing over my ass. “My driver will take you home.” I try to sit up, horrified. “No way. You paid me enough money already.” A warm chuckle against my ear. “Elyse, that’s fucking irrelevant. No way on earth am I letting you get public transport in this state. I know I may not have acted like it tonight, but I am actually a gentleman.” I give a little snort at that, because my filter has vacated the room. But also: that’s really nice. “I’ll just call an Uber,” I lie. “No way. I won’t be happy unless I know you’ve been delivered to your door by someone I trust. End of discussion.” I sigh. “Okay,” I say, mainly because I’m too exhausted to argue, and the conc ept of walking to the station right now feels physically impossible. I yawn against his very nice shoulder. “If you’re sure your driver won’t mind? That’s super kind of you, thank you.” “He won’t mind. This is an early night for him.” His hand smooths over my ass one more time. “And for your information, these past two times with you have been the best money I’ve ever, ever spent.”