Page 38 of Trapped for Her Blood
I lower my bound arms and reach for him.
“Don’t touch me.” His voice is tight and urgent.
My arms stop in shock.
“I can’t control…” He looks into my eyes. “Not if you touch me.”
I nod. Is this not touching thing a kink of his?
In a blink, he repositions us both.
I gasp. Somehow I’m on all fours, my bound hands in front of me now and under my forehead. It takes another moment to realize I’m straddling him, but it’s not his pelvis I’m over, it’s his face.
His breath is hot against the damp skin of my sex and I feel every inhale and exhale as if he’s breathing me in, stimulating me by softly blowing along the same path his finger traveled.
His hands take my body, pulling me lower and then his finger parts my folds. But it can’t be his finger, because his hands are both firmly on my hips.
It’s his tongue that’s running through my folds, that appendage firmer and more forceful than I ever would have guessed it could be, not to mention hot and damp as it explores and tastes me.
As he continues, his tongue stiffens further, like it’s getting erect, and then it tightens to form a tight tip that he flicks and circles over my opening. Its impossible to keep my hips still.
But they are still. I have no choice in that.
His hands’ tight hold on me keeps me from bucking and circling like my hips want to, and I strain against him, as he keeps me motionless, just where he wants, as his tongue brushes across and then circles my entrance, over and over in torturous passes that make me jerk in his tight hold.
Then just as I’m getting used to that stimulation, his hands pull me down more firmly and his tongue penetrates me, pushing inside. It might only be an inch or two, but it’s the best inch, the most sensitive inch, and his curled tongue circles inside me, and then wags, and while it’s nothing like the full feeling of Ryker’s cock, Zuben’s tongue feels so good inside me I cry out in pleasure.
But instead of taking that encouragement as guidance to continue, he slips his tongue from inside me. I’m about to object, but then it travels forward and grazes my clit.
I suck in a ragged breath as he concentrates his efforts there now, alternating circling and flicking again, and my climax builds up inside me. But every time I feel sure I’m about to explode, he backs off.
It’s as if he’s so in tune with my body he can tell when I’m about to come. In fact, he’s completely and totally in charge of my pleasure; his tongue alone commanding my every action and reaction.
Not only am I physically bound by him—my hands by his tie, and the rest of me stilled by his vise grip on my hips—his tongue and breath and lips are controlling every sensation inside of me.
But instead of fighting it, I yield completely. Trying to move is futile, so I let myself enjoy the waves, the endless crests and dips, the crescendos of the music that his body is playing using mine as his instrument.
And, once again, just as I start to get used to this new stimulation, just as it starts to feel like this intermittent stimulation of my clit is my new normal, he changes it up.
His tongue lands firmly over my sensitive nub and rubs hard. And at the same time one of his fingers presses inside me.
I shout into the fur, feeling my orgasm draw even nearer, my body so sensitive to his touch that the pleasure almost turns into pain. I need a release. I’m trapped in this never ending cycle of pleasure that lifts me higher each round. If his composition doesn’t reach its climax soon I’ll implode.
His tongue mercifully leaves my clit for a moment, but then the entire orchestra of movements shifts to his long finger plunging inside me. It penetrates quickly and drags back slowly, but then shifts to the opposite pattern, like he’s switched to a jazz improvisation, surprising my body with each beat and bar.
A second finger joins the first. They plunge in together and then twist against each other to stroke my insides, their knuckles and tips stimulating new parts of me, making sure no nerve ending is neglected for more than a second.
And just as I’m getting used to this new kind of pleasure, as much as it’s possible to get used to the constant variations, his tongue returns to my clit.
I gasp, and then his entire mouth latches around my sensitive bud, creating powerful suction as his fingers pump deep inside me.
My body detonates.
Face still pressed down against my bound hands, I cry out, but the sound ends quickly as I lose my breath. Wave after wave of contractions squeeze his fingers, as my entire body pulses and rages against the gratification that’s almost too much to bear.
The crashing waves start to subside, leaving me lightheaded from a lack of oxygen—I’ve forgotten how to breathe—and still my insides contract slowly around his fingers, like they’re offering a massage of gratitude.
And then the pulsing builds inside me again, making me feel like I might reach another climax soon. I’ve become some kind of perpetual motion machine, the aftershocks of my first orgasm working to build me toward a second.
