Sixteen Hours (pt 3)

Start at the Beginning

We crossed through the park and down the remaining two blocks in a flash.

My mum, who was from Latvia, had always said, “Elise, whenever you leave the house, look your best. A rich man will fall in love with you when you least expect it. Be ready. Marriage is misery, but misery with a diamond necklace, on a boat, in silk pajamas, is better than misery on a lumpy mattress with your father.”

My dad, an Australian, was even more pragmatic. “Never leave the house wearing shoes you wouldn’t be comfortable running a mile in if you absolutely had to.”

I looked down at my flapping dress, thin tan legs, and brilliantly white trainers as we crossed the park, thanking God for Dad’s advice, and the strange blessings of chronic commitment avoidance, the unintended consequence of Mum’s heirloom of wisdom.

My mind filled with other thoughts: a splashing cocktail of sweat, grunts, movements, and moans.

Then suddenly, we stopped.

I peered up at him standing at the top of the stairs of his beautiful townhome.

He looked nervously up and down the street, fumbling with his keys, failing at his first few attempts to insert the big one into the lock.

I ached to help but waited, patient on the surface while hiding a monster.

Once inside, he practically slammed the door shut with my body.

My heart beat a mile a minute.

I watched him for a moment, intentionally mindful.

Palms pressed flat against the door, chiseled arms framing my view.

“It’s never too late to change your mind…but Jesus, I hope you don’t.”

I examined the tiny sliver of space left for my escape and chuckled to myself.

My mouth moved, but it was my eyes that really answered.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

I grabbed his waist, pulling him in, as his body collapsed around me.

Then I whispered in his ear.

“Not until you show me exactly what you’ve been planning.”

He held me, breathless.

“Honestly, I’ve got no plan. I didn’t think we’d actually make it this far.”

Radical honesty? Yeah right…

He kissed me like he was surrendering his soul, and I melted into him, clawing at his shirt.

“Stop pretending. I’m already here.”

His hands moved over my body, filling his palms with my breasts.

I wanted him to have them.

To be pleased with them.

To rush with the thrill of a pirate fondling gold coins in a treasure chest.

To crave them like a box of Switzerland’s finest chocolates that he couldn’t help putting in his mouth.

Like a living tribute to Angela Anaïs Juana Antolina Rosa Edelmira Nin y Culmell.

Did I mention that I read? A LOT.

Some of it good, but most of it not so much…

He slid one of the straps off my shoulder, and it tickled its way down my arm, the cold air prickling my exposed skin, my tiny pink nipple ready for inspection.

His satisfaction at the view stood in direct counterbalance to the frustrating need I was feeling.

“Are you going to keep staring, or are you going to taste the appetizer?”

Appetizer??? Ugh, where was this shit coming from?

Apparently he was too distracted to notice.

“FUCK.”

Was all he said.

And without another word I felt his tongue on my neck, traveling down to my collar, my shoulder, the teardrop curve of my tit, until it finally enveloped the tip with the wet warmth of his mouth.

“FUCK.”

My response to his call.

His tongue unleashed impulses through my body that threatened my sanity.

“Oh God, Elias…please don’t stop. Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted someone to worship me like this?”

Like a good boy, he didn’t rush himself answering stupid questions.

I let out a loud, uncontrolled moan, my head thumping back against the door as I arched my spine with the control of a woman raised by a Baltic mother.

“Oh yeah, what else do you want, Elise?”

I let out a ragged, desperate laugh, my eyes closed in unadulterated desire.

“I want you to strip me bare. I want you to kneel between my legs and make me shake like a timid whore.”

Instantly, my dress dropped to the floor, and he knelt before me, fucking me senseless with his eyes.

I felt exposed, and trembled as I artfully stepped out of the last remaining bit of fabric on my body, revealing myself to him—pink, trimmed, but unshaven.

He inhaled deeply, which felt strange in a way that activated something primitive.

Then he looked up at me with a hideous smirk.

“What’s next, Elise? You want me to eat your pretty cunt?”

I choked out a desperate sob of a laugh, my hand gripping the edge of a nearby table for support, which shook just a bit.

“Dear God, man, are you going to make me beg for it?”

He paused in thought, actually considering it.

“I’d like to hear you beg…should I make you beg?”

I seethed with a number of different emotions, all of them red-hot.

“You’re a cruel menace. Please…”

He lingered close but unmoved, lined up in my view between my heaving tits.

“Tell me what you want, Elise. Use your words.”

I let out a jagged, helpless whimper, my hips twitching uncontrollably.

The elusive slut I had always been answered for me.

“I want you to taste me… I want your tongue everywhere. Buried in it. Please, Elias, just fucking do it.”

He licked just to the right of my slit, then to the left, teasing, torturing.

I let out a sharp, frustrated cry, my hands white-knuckling as I gripped the table.

A picture frame tipped forward, landing face down.

“Do it, you fucking asshole!”

He bit his lip, the smug bastard, then buried his face in the grave of my self-imposed celibacy, resurrecting me right there in his wife’s foyer.

I dripped down the sides of his face, leaving innocuous traces of my pleasure on the slate-tiled floor.

The next thirty minutes were like traveling through patches of blur from one mind-bending orgasm to the next.

My weight sinking into the couch, sweat sticking to leather, legs spread wide, propped on my shoulders as my core tightened, allowing myself a killer view of his drenched fingers and cardinal face as he devoured me…orgasm number two.

Being lifted from the couch and drifting down a hall lined with blurred memories as the faint light of the master bedroom and the enlarging view of a four-post bed filled with pillows occupied my line of sight…

Looking up at him from the same bed as he uncovered his black-and-silver-haired chest and released his belt from around his waist…

The painful, agonizingly satisfying sensation of him filling me for the first time, his body compressing into mine, eyes shifting between the terra-cotta painted ceiling and the fireworks behind my own eyelids…

The sweet music of his groans as I clenched around him…

The famished look in his eyes as he studied the way my tits shook with each teeth-rattling thrust…

The frightening strength in his grip as he pinned my arms above my head, establishing both his rhythm and dominance, my nostrils filled with the feminine scent of vanilla and lavender…numbers three and four.

I was helpless, profane, reckless, corrupt, savage, feral, and ferocious.

“Do you like what you see?” I called to him.

“Fuck yes…” he answered.

“Take it all, Elias. Take it all.”

“I’m gonna come.” His tone was regretful and apologetic.

I surged with satisfaction that despite all of his power, he was still built to worship, still at the mercy of my pleasure.

My legs wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him deeper, holding him prisoner with a frantic strength.

“I want it all. Give it to me.”

His body locked, and a series of pulses pushed against the walls that only pleasure and sound had ever seen.

I felt like I was suffocating, thrashing arms, ripping at the duvet, submerged in a pit of ruffled pillows that had no practical purpose.

Climax number five ripped through my body.

And I was sure the neighbors heard the pronouncement.

We panted in a silence I could have died in.

A thrill of perfection, cut short by a rugged voice and a casual observation.

“We should probably get that coffee before she comes home.”

And I laughed.

A naked, wet, sweaty mess…I laughed.

He joined me.

In hysterics.

(To be continued)

If you thought this was hot, you might enjoy one of these twisted stories by me or one of my friends…