“Don’t move, girl.”
It’s his voice that always undoes me. I melt. I squeal. I comply. But he never makes it easy. Lying flat on my back, thighs spread a little, he ran his finger over my slit, across my swollen mound, before circling my clit. I jumped and yelped. He grinned. Each time I relaxed, his hand would drop between my legs. The barest touch of this sweet punishment made me shiver and tremble.
“I said ‘Don’t move’ girl.”
Making him repeat himself is always unintentional, but the punishment is so sweet. He pushed my legs open and back. Hiding from his touch, no matter how sweetly torturous would be impossible.
Flicks. Strokes. Swipes. Circles. No touch was the same twice. I couldn’t guess his next move. That was the point. As my body began to respond, writhing and bucking, demanding more, he stopped. “Hold my hands, Daddy,” I teased. As long as his hands were in mine, he couldn’t make me crazy with his touch. He smirked. “Okay.” I should have known.
Grabbing my wrists, he pressed my hands into the bed. He went down on his knees, leaned forward, and buried his face between my thighs. Now I was trapped. He lapped and lathed at my clitoris and slit, licking, sucking and nipping. My head thrashed wildly as the first orgasm loomed in the background, galloping closer and closer with each swipe of his tongue.
I writhed on the bed, unable to control my body’s reactions to the sweet punishment. He held my hands down in a bruising grip. Each attempt to pull away tightened his hold. My body reacted as much to his control as it did to his tongue. The tip of his tongue flicked back and forth over my clit, each time a little harder, a little faster. My thighs clamped together. He squeezed my wrists until I released him. He pressed the flat of his tongue against me, swiping back and forth until the orgasm slammed into me.
I heard a quiet laugh before he slid his tongue inside my pussy.
Dreaming of sweet punishment. Image: Angrylambie via Flickr.com CC BY 2.0 license
My body throbbed and convulsed as he thrust in and out. My heels pressed into the bed. I pushed forward, wanting him deeper. His grip on my wrists, nearly forgotten, tightened. Warmth flooded my centre. My body was on fire. The orgasms, usually fast and furious, were slow to build. It made his touch a teasing torture. I wanted more but worried I couldn’t take it. My brain couldn’t focus. The tongue on my clit or the fierce grip on my wrists. Both were painful in their own way.
His use of force over me melted my very bones. I fought because I wanted his hands to tighten. I pulled away because I knew he’d win. He always does. Even his tongue followed me. Clamping my thighs down over his head only brought him closer. Bucking my hips earned my flesh a nip of his teeth. The harder I fought, the more force he used, the more intense the orgasms. Which, of course, was the entire point of his sweet punishment.
Kayla Lords is a freelance writer, sex blogger, and a masochistic babygirl living the 24/7 D/s life.
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