Page 24 of Our Sadie

When she gasps, though, I slam on the brakes.

“That hurt?”

“No, it feels... exquisite.”

Nice to know.

Now that I can move forward with what works for her, I switch to her uninjured nipple, using the same force.

“Go back,” she whispers, and I catch her eye. “Go back to the other side. The left one is more sensitive.”

Keeping that in the back of my brain, I lightly suckle her, working my tongue right along the outside of that misshapen nipple, and when I hear her expel a breathy mewl it makes all my blood drain south.

Once I have her throwing her head back with passion, I bring her other nipple between my finger and thumb, pinching it until her brows knit before backing off on the pressure again. I discovered just how vital this particular erogenous zone is through trial and error.

Fondling and manipulating a woman’s tits for extended amounts of time often turns out to be more than effective at turning her on. In fact, playing with them for long enough can have her nearly to climax before you even take her pants off. Another method that works is speaking the right language.

And by language, I mean not backing off on the dirty talk.

“You wet yet, Sadie?”

“Yes,” she purrs like a kitten.

“I bet you are,” I tell her, letting my voice lower into a growl. So many women love it when I sound more feral and animalistic. “I bet that pussy of yours is just begging for my attention. I bet it’s drenched and aching for me, isn’t it?”

The second I finish speaking, I return to suckling her left nipple while tweaking the other one.

“Unnng, fuck,” she mutters. “Fuck, yes.”

This is music to my ears. Especially as her hips flex toward me as if needing to hump something. Like her internal muscles are clenching on emptiness and pleading to be filled. The nails of her good hand are digging into my shoulder while her twisted hand is essentially ignored, neglected at her side.

I can’t have that.

Besides, whipping a woman into a frenzy by touching as much of her as possible has always proven to be a successful strategy for me. Retreating from those B-cups of hers, I take Sadie’s left arm in my hand and lift it to my mouth, kissing along the angular shape.

“You feel that?”

She shakes her head. “Too much nerve damage.”

Despite her answer, I kiss along every inch of it, testing whatever spots I can reach for any signs of sensation. But there’s nothing. I massage it, using all my skills as a masseuse, but receive the same result. The hand is frozen, completely paralyzed, and so is her wrist. It takes me grazing along the inside of her forearm halfway to her elbow before she feels anything at all.

I feel awful that this happened to her, awful for her sake, but I also know it’s none of my business. If she wanted to share with me, she would’ve done it.

Now’s not the time, anyway.

I glide the yoga pants and tiny bikini panties she’s wearing to her knees, then after removing her socks and shoes, fold it all in half and set it in the nearby chair. It’s as I turn back and take in the rest of her body that I notice there are more burns on her left thigh and hip.

The scar tissue winds along the top of her leg in a long rectangular patch that reminds me of a grid of some sort. It flows all the way down to her kneecap.

No wonder she walks with a limp sometimes.

I purposely don’t linger over these imperfections on her skin since it’s not where I need to be. This woman is craving some sexual gratification, and if there’s one thing I know how to deliver, it’s that.

I do monitor her for any signs of discomfort, though, as I trade places with her, freeing up my spot on her mattress. We may get more rambunctious later on, but the first time out isn’t the best for pushing boundaries. Now is about getting her to where she needs to go and learning her preferences along the trip.

Urging my thumb into the arch of her foot, I nudge her leg until she takes the hint and reclines across her bed linens. It’s an interesting image, her draped over that baby blue throw blanket. It rests on top of some sort of cover or comforter thing in a striped pattern of cream and a slightly darker shade of blue.

If I was the artistic type, I’d want to paint her. Or to at least take a snapshot of her.

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