car. He didn’t know if he was
aided by his otherworldly
surroundings, but he called on the
same discipline he’d used to keep
himself from jacking off and clung to
it grimly, even as his body
shuddered. He wanted her to go first.
He wanted to know he’d brought her
to that pinnacle while buried deep
inside her. He wanted to believe he’d
given it to her with an intensity no
other man had. She was his. His.
The thoughts were astonishing, but
they flowed from his mind with the
blurting, tumbling clumsiness of a
man discovering prayer.
Jesus, it was Heaven and Hell both.
As she rose and fell, he learned her
preferred cadence, keeping his
strokes steady, taking her deeper with
the strength in his hands. It gave him
an unexpected humble gratitude, the
ability to offer her something she
didn’t have herself. Vibrators could
bring sensation, but they couldn’t
duplicate the feel of a man’s hands,
demanding, desiring her, cherishing
her skin so she’d know being with
her was better to him than a
widescreen TV, a sports car or front-
row tickets to the Superbowl.
Her breasts moved before him,
swaying, wobbling. He couldn’t help
his mouth.
“You’ve got the most beautiful
breasts I’ve ever seen.”
He wanted to bury his face in them,
suckle them. Be smothered in them.
As if she heard the cry of his heart
she pressed them to his face, curling
her arms around his head as he drew
up his now free legs to press his
thighs against her ass and raised his
hips to accommodate the new angle.
His adjustment earned him a soft cry
from her lips, brushing his ear. He
clutched a generous handful of each
buttock and plunged in harder,
increasing his stroke length even as
his mouth found a nipple, latched on
and suckled with ferocity. God, if she
didn’t go over, he was going to
explode. He’d almost welcome that
damn cock harness now to make sure
he stayed in check just long enough.
52
Mistress of Redemption
Her cheek pressed against his bare
crown, her breath coming hard. She
was strong, lithe, matching him
movement for movement. The
pleasure was almost as unbearable as
the pain had been.
“If this is Hell, I want to stay
forever,” he groaned.
At the words, she shattered, bowing
back, putting her breast deeper into
his mouth.
Tugging, tormenting, he kept up the
stimulation as the pressure of her
fingers increased against his head.
He wondered if she was wishing that
she’d left him his hair so she could
yank on it. He missed it too, a
woman’s way of using his hair to
communicate her urgency, affection
or nurturing… Her cunt convulsed
against him, clutching at his cock
with squeezing, excoriating pressure
as she climaxed, making him groan.
Don’t come. Don’t come until she
says you can. That’s the way it
works. Her hand whispered across
his scalp, making him think of her
stroking it when it had hair. He
seized on the image to steady him,
imagined himself with her in a park,
his head in her lap as she petted him,
read a book. Slowly, lazily tangling
her fingers in the locks.
Putting him to sleep, even as his cock
stirred, thinking of her touch moving
down…
Up until now he’d never thought of
his hair or any feature of his body as
anything more than an indication of
how well he was doing at giving his
Mistress the kind of pleasure she
wouldn’t want to do without. No
matter how often he dangled it before
her and drew it away. A delicate
game of cat and mouse he’d played
where the Mistress eventually
became an emotionally dependent
slave. Now there was only Dona and
the pleasure he’d created for her, the
cries coming from her throat, the bite
of her nails and the soft slap of her
slick body against his. Though she’d
said where the finish line was, he
wanted her permission to let go. If he
came inside her, it would be the
height of intimacy, an avenue into her
soul, a way to connect she couldn’t
deny.
aided by his otherworldly
surroundings, but he called on the
same discipline he’d used to keep
himself from jacking off and clung to
it grimly, even as his body
shuddered. He wanted her to go first.
He wanted to know he’d brought her
to that pinnacle while buried deep
inside her. He wanted to believe he’d
given it to her with an intensity no
other man had. She was his. His.
The thoughts were astonishing, but
they flowed from his mind with the
blurting, tumbling clumsiness of a
man discovering prayer.
Jesus, it was Heaven and Hell both.
As she rose and fell, he learned her
preferred cadence, keeping his
strokes steady, taking her deeper with
the strength in his hands. It gave him
an unexpected humble gratitude, the
ability to offer her something she
didn’t have herself. Vibrators could
bring sensation, but they couldn’t
duplicate the feel of a man’s hands,
demanding, desiring her, cherishing
her skin so she’d know being with
her was better to him than a
widescreen TV, a sports car or front-
row tickets to the Superbowl.
Her breasts moved before him,
swaying, wobbling. He couldn’t help
his mouth.
“You’ve got the most beautiful
breasts I’ve ever seen.”
He wanted to bury his face in them,
suckle them. Be smothered in them.
As if she heard the cry of his heart
she pressed them to his face, curling
her arms around his head as he drew
up his now free legs to press his
thighs against her ass and raised his
hips to accommodate the new angle.
His adjustment earned him a soft cry
from her lips, brushing his ear. He
clutched a generous handful of each
buttock and plunged in harder,
increasing his stroke length even as
his mouth found a nipple, latched on
and suckled with ferocity. God, if she
didn’t go over, he was going to
explode. He’d almost welcome that
damn cock harness now to make sure
he stayed in check just long enough.
52
Mistress of Redemption
Her cheek pressed against his bare
crown, her breath coming hard. She
was strong, lithe, matching him
movement for movement. The
pleasure was almost as unbearable as
the pain had been.
“If this is Hell, I want to stay
forever,” he groaned.
At the words, she shattered, bowing
back, putting her breast deeper into
his mouth.
Tugging, tormenting, he kept up the
stimulation as the pressure of her
fingers increased against his head.
He wondered if she was wishing that
she’d left him his hair so she could
yank on it. He missed it too, a
woman’s way of using his hair to
communicate her urgency, affection
or nurturing… Her cunt convulsed
against him, clutching at his cock
with squeezing, excoriating pressure
as she climaxed, making him groan.
Don’t come. Don’t come until she
says you can. That’s the way it
works. Her hand whispered across
his scalp, making him think of her
stroking it when it had hair. He
seized on the image to steady him,
imagined himself with her in a park,
his head in her lap as she petted him,
read a book. Slowly, lazily tangling
her fingers in the locks.
Putting him to sleep, even as his cock
stirred, thinking of her touch moving
down…
Up until now he’d never thought of
his hair or any feature of his body as
anything more than an indication of
how well he was doing at giving his
Mistress the kind of pleasure she
wouldn’t want to do without. No
matter how often he dangled it before
her and drew it away. A delicate
game of cat and mouse he’d played
where the Mistress eventually
became an emotionally dependent
slave. Now there was only Dona and
the pleasure he’d created for her, the
cries coming from her throat, the bite
of her nails and the soft slap of her
slick body against his. Though she’d
said where the finish line was, he
wanted her permission to let go. If he
came inside her, it would be the
height of intimacy, an avenue into her
soul, a way to connect she couldn’t
deny.
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