come as hard as I’ve come for him, so many times. To make him feel like he’s made me feel.
But I need him to come to me.
I run my lips along the coarse fabric of his hood, navigating in the dark until I find his skin. Both of us frozen, and yet on fire, afraid to move, breathing together in the dark.
I kiss his forehead, and he plunges into me.
He buries himself deep, deep inside me, straining and stretching me almost to the point of pain. I’ve learned to love that with him, riding the knife’s edge between pleasure and its counterpart. He lifts me and pulls out nearly all the way only to drive in again, my pussy opening to take him in further. I yell out in triumph, and it spurs him on, driving his dick deeper and deeper, pistoning his hips in an ever increasing rhythm. My back arches and my breasts reach out to him even as I crash my hips forward, and I pull on my restraints, forgetting I’ve given up the use of my arms. I nearly lift myself, with a strength I didn’t know I had. The Doctor’s iron fingers dig into my soft skin, his cock straining to hit my cervix, filling me to the balancing brim, and the reminder that I am physically under his control, that I’ve willingly submitted and am his, his, his , sends me spilling over the edge.
He feels it. He fucks me like a mad man, like he can’t stop, like nothing in the physical world could compel him to stop. My lips go numb, my legs tingle, and my entire being distills down to one ferocious, animal coil of muscle that grabs onto him like a vise.
I lose my damn mind.
I’m sure I’m loud. It almost hurts. I am overwhelmed, and there’s a part of me that wants it to stop, that is still frightened of losing control completely. It’s the part of me that used to rule my mind, and now, because of the Doctor, I can ignore it and ride him to the most powerful orgasm of my life. I bite his shoulder like a feral animal, and he comes hard inside me.
Somehow, he recovers first. I’m not fully back in my own head as he holds me up with one arm while undoing my restraints with the other, and I’m not totally able to form words as he carries me across the darkened stage, up the back stairs, and into a small, comfortable dressing room. I’m not even sure what I would say, if I could. But by the time he sets me down on a soft, cotton couch, kneeling in front of it gingerly, cradling my naked body with care, I’m ready to talk it out.
I reach for his face, still covered in hooded shadow in this dimly lit room.
He balks, his head dodging to the side.
I don’t know what to say, or do. In this moment so many things clamor for attention in my overheated brain. That I’ve crossed many boundaries in one night; that perhaps he doesn’t yet possess the strength to be vulnerable, the same strength he’s given me; that if I love him, I have to let him choose to be open with me – or not. I feel wizened, and aware, and so grateful to him for helping me to become this person.
I just wish I could help him.
Instead, I put my outstretched hand on his bare chest. Impulsively, I dart forward and kiss him there, resting my forehead briefly against his warm skin. I feel lips on the top of my head, and then he rises and is quietly gone.
There are clothes, neatly folded in a pile, at the end of the dark red couch. A bathroom off to one side, a plush bathrobe that I gratefully snuggle into. My coat, hanging on a hook. I suspect there will be a back entrance, and a car waiting to take me home, whenever I’m ready. Just like all the other times – this is how appointments end.
What I cannot find, no matter how hard I look, is a little black card telling me when my next appointment will take place.
I wonder if this is it. If he really has cut me off, if there will be no more appointments. I want to march back into his home proper, to demand...I don’t know, resolution, of some sort. It’s this weird conquering instinct I didn’t even know I had, and while I like it – I
But I need him to come to me.
I run my lips along the coarse fabric of his hood, navigating in the dark until I find his skin. Both of us frozen, and yet on fire, afraid to move, breathing together in the dark.
I kiss his forehead, and he plunges into me.
He buries himself deep, deep inside me, straining and stretching me almost to the point of pain. I’ve learned to love that with him, riding the knife’s edge between pleasure and its counterpart. He lifts me and pulls out nearly all the way only to drive in again, my pussy opening to take him in further. I yell out in triumph, and it spurs him on, driving his dick deeper and deeper, pistoning his hips in an ever increasing rhythm. My back arches and my breasts reach out to him even as I crash my hips forward, and I pull on my restraints, forgetting I’ve given up the use of my arms. I nearly lift myself, with a strength I didn’t know I had. The Doctor’s iron fingers dig into my soft skin, his cock straining to hit my cervix, filling me to the balancing brim, and the reminder that I am physically under his control, that I’ve willingly submitted and am his, his, his , sends me spilling over the edge.
He feels it. He fucks me like a mad man, like he can’t stop, like nothing in the physical world could compel him to stop. My lips go numb, my legs tingle, and my entire being distills down to one ferocious, animal coil of muscle that grabs onto him like a vise.
I lose my damn mind.
I’m sure I’m loud. It almost hurts. I am overwhelmed, and there’s a part of me that wants it to stop, that is still frightened of losing control completely. It’s the part of me that used to rule my mind, and now, because of the Doctor, I can ignore it and ride him to the most powerful orgasm of my life. I bite his shoulder like a feral animal, and he comes hard inside me.
Somehow, he recovers first. I’m not fully back in my own head as he holds me up with one arm while undoing my restraints with the other, and I’m not totally able to form words as he carries me across the darkened stage, up the back stairs, and into a small, comfortable dressing room. I’m not even sure what I would say, if I could. But by the time he sets me down on a soft, cotton couch, kneeling in front of it gingerly, cradling my naked body with care, I’m ready to talk it out.
I reach for his face, still covered in hooded shadow in this dimly lit room.
He balks, his head dodging to the side.
I don’t know what to say, or do. In this moment so many things clamor for attention in my overheated brain. That I’ve crossed many boundaries in one night; that perhaps he doesn’t yet possess the strength to be vulnerable, the same strength he’s given me; that if I love him, I have to let him choose to be open with me – or not. I feel wizened, and aware, and so grateful to him for helping me to become this person.
I just wish I could help him.
Instead, I put my outstretched hand on his bare chest. Impulsively, I dart forward and kiss him there, resting my forehead briefly against his warm skin. I feel lips on the top of my head, and then he rises and is quietly gone.
There are clothes, neatly folded in a pile, at the end of the dark red couch. A bathroom off to one side, a plush bathrobe that I gratefully snuggle into. My coat, hanging on a hook. I suspect there will be a back entrance, and a car waiting to take me home, whenever I’m ready. Just like all the other times – this is how appointments end.
What I cannot find, no matter how hard I look, is a little black card telling me when my next appointment will take place.
I wonder if this is it. If he really has cut me off, if there will be no more appointments. I want to march back into his home proper, to demand...I don’t know, resolution, of some sort. It’s this weird conquering instinct I didn’t even know I had, and while I like it – I
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