Page 28 of A New Year's Toy

“Yes.” The word erupts in a breathy sigh.

I flick the handle of the clamp. It dangles back and forth on my palm, swinging like a pendulum. I match the rolls of my hips to its beat, the whole unit of us swaying in tandem.

She stills briefly, her lips parting wider, her intake of breath shorter. She’s about to come.

With my fingers curled around the handle of the clit clamp, I growl, “Do it.”

The way her ass clenches on my cock nearly sends me over the edge, myself. But only after I give her what she needs.

I release the hold of the toy on her clit as the orgasm rips through her, her eyes closing on a throaty moan. She breaks into shivers, the fresh flow of blood to the area heightening her arousal.

It evolves and grows inside her. Having her scream my name with more urgency than ever before gives her away.

And I am not fucking done.

The dangling chain is my next target. Before Nola’s tremors reach their end, I make sure she has an encore. Both the clamps rip off her nipples at once, and she shakes so badly I have to get rid of them to envelop her body with my arms and pull her back to my chest.

“Your ass is milking me, Nola.” I rise, pounding her harder, faster. Squeezing either side of her waist, I tell her, “Gonna finish inside you, baby. Gonna give you my cum for being my good, obedient girl.”

Murmurs of yes and please and God surround me in the symphony of our bodies slapping together. My orgasm starts at my lungs, whooshing to my stomach, coiling at my balls.

I let go, shoot my load, and keep thrusting until I’m spent. I come so hard, my orgasm drips from her even before I pull out. I take my cock out, spreading myself around her rim, massaging her buttocks.

It’s selfish of me to marvel at her while she needs my care. But the relaxed smile on her face allows me another single moment in time to admire my woman, the wonder of her.

“My baby.”

I kiss the small of her back, then pick her up to take her to the bathroom. Carefully, I lay her down on the pillows of the long bench they have there, running the hot water in the bath.

“You please me.” My forehead presses to hers, my hand stroking her damp cheek. “Every day, sweetheart. Every minute. You always please me.”

There’s so much more to it. However, this isn’t the moment for her to hear it, to truly understand the complexity of my emotions, to answer what I’m keen to ask her today instead of tomorrow.

It isn’t, since this right here, it isn’t about me. It’s about the woman who offered me her body and soul to bend to my will. I’m indebted to her, for the gracious gift she grants me daily.

Tomorrow will be the day for declarations.

Tonight, the best I can and will do for her is let her process it with my silent care and affection.

“Thank you.” Her palm grazes my stubbled cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” I cover her hand, drawing it to my lips and kissing each of her knuckles. “Would you like me to tie your hair up?”

I did it the first time she showered at my place. I didn’t know what the love of a woman was back then, not to have it tear my insides, nor to have it doted on me. I knew what aftercare was, yet somehow, with Nola, it wasn’t the same as the others before her. It was personal. It was something I wanted to last, even back then.

When I pinned her hair to keep it dry in the bath I ran for her, I felt like it was right. My gut sent me the memo long before my head could piece it together.

I’ve been a stubborn bastard for the longest time. And I intend to rectify it for the rest of my life.

“Yes, please.” Her lips curl up by some.

I go to the bath, check the water temperature. It’s hot. A little too hot. I close the tap, heading for my second mission.

The hair pins and the ribbon are in Nola’s toiletry bag. I carry them to where she’s reclined, placing them on a washcloth on the floor. Both my hands slip beneath her back and legs.

“Hold on to me,” I say, and she does.

In measured movements, we descend to the floor. My feet press together, my legs resting in a diamond shape. My back leans on the bench, while Nola’s is bare to me, other than her mane cascading down it.

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