Read Coming Together: With Pride Online
Authors: Alessia Brio
"Yes, Sir." She was pressing back against him. His cock was hard against ass cheeks. She wanted it inside her so bad. "Please, Sir."
"I'll be right there, baby." He pulled away, and Cynthia heard the wrapper on a condom tear and was eternally grateful he was thinking when she had not been able to put two words together. He returned before she had a second thought about that and tugged her back with the makeshift collar. He was right. It didn't choke, but gave him control of her posture.
He arched her back and kicked the inside of one of her feet. "Spread 'em." His voice had deepened. She followed his instructions. "Open those eyes. Look in the mirror."
She hesitated. Was she ready for what she was about to see?
"Open them."
Slowly she peeked out from under her lashes and into the mirror. Afraid she'd be shocked by her appearance, she focused on his body pressed against hers. He jerked on the collar. She made eye contact with him. Those steel-blue eyes seemed to glow with passion.
"Don't look at me, Red. Look at the beauty that you make all tied up and ready to be fucked. Look at what a fabulous slut you are."
Cynthia looked. He was right. In her lust-filled state, with her back arched, her legs spread and this gorgeous man pressed against her ass, she looked fabulous. She felt fabulous, and she wanted him inside her instead of against her.
"Please, Sir," she pleaded, this time her eyes locked with his in the mirror.
He leaned back just a bit and slid his cock into her wet, waiting pussy. She screamed in pleasure for the first time ever as his thick cock entered her and then stopped.
He kept eye contact as he pulled back slowly, gripping her hips with his strong fingers as he did. His face was tight with his own pleasure. "Oh yeah, you are so hot. So good." He plunged in again, lifting Cynthia off her toes and pressing her breasts into the wall.
She said something in response that she didn't even understand. His self-affirming chuckle was the only warning she got before he started to thrust hard and fast. He held her hip with one hand and kept her movements controlled with other hand tight on his belt around her neck as he fucked her, watching her in the mirror.
His attention shifted to her ass as he lifted one hand and traced the angry red marks from his spanking as he stroked. Cynthia felt another orgasm coming fast. The satisfaction on his face was more than she could take.
"Again, Sir?" was all she could manage to say.
His eyes snapped from her backside to her reflection in the mirror. "Already?"
She was embarrassed, but orgasmic. "Yes, Sir."
Re-doubling his efforts, he nodded, "Yes, baby, come for me." He watched her face, and as she came, he stopped, letting her muscles grip him and stroke his cock. "You are so hot. Your face is so expressive when you come."
Cynthia blushed, but didn't have long to be shy. His face turned stern again and lifted her tied hands off the hook, spun her around and bent her over the sparking white marble of the bathroom counter. "Brace yourself against the mirror."
She did. Her face was a foot from the mirror. She could see her makeup was smudged from her eyes tearing, her neck adorned with this belt, her garter belt twisted and one stocking loose and hanging around her knee. Seeing herself this way was the sexiest thing she had ever experienced.
She was his slut—and it was so freeing.
He'd not broken contact as they repositioned, and he quickly gained stride again. He watched her in the mirror as they fucked. She wondered what he was thinking. He looked very serious, very sexy. She lost concentration on his thoughts as he tugged the collar.
"Your job is to feel, Red. That's it. The rest is my responsibility. Quit analyzing and feel me." He pulled her head up with the leash and used his other hand to push her lower back to the counter. The action arched her further, lifted her ass higher, opening her up to his strokes. He groaned as he pushed deeper. She had to press harder against the mirror to steady herself and she closed her eyes.
"That's it. Just experience it."
And she did. And it was so good. Her legs no longer quivered from being bent over, and her back didn't care that it was arched. The counter felt good, the hair on his legs felt good as it brushed the inside of her thighs, the tug on the collar felt good as he thrust, and the press of his cock inside her felt like paradise. She was going to come again.
"Sir?"
"Not yet." It was a strained response. Cynthia looked up in the mirror. He was getting close. His face was tight, his eyes almost closed.
She strained, trying not come before him. He slowed his strokes, and she felt him swelling insider. "Sir?" she was so close and not sure she could hold it.
"No!"
She whined and watched his eyes close and felt his swell. He was coming and not letting her come with him.
She felt his throbbing as his orgasm washed over him. He gripped her harder and grunted his pleasure. Her muscles strained as she fought not to come. She was gritting her teeth. "Sir?" It was close to a scream.
He opened his eyes. The blue was even more brilliant in the bright counter lighting and his post-release state. He reached around and pinched her clit, pushing himself as far in as his softening cock would go. "Now, baby. Come now, so I can feel those muscles."
She rocked back and let the sensation roll over her. She watched his face as she came. His pleasure that she had held it until given permission showed in his eyes. The excitement of feeling her pussy contract around his ultra-sensitive cock showed in the grimace on his lips. His expressions and his pleasure with her added to the intensity of her release. Her entire body shook, and she gripped the glass of the mirror to try to steady herself—unsuccessfully. Her legs gave way, and she collapsed onto the counter.
He scooped her up and carried her to the bed, laying her gently on her side. He pulled the comforter over her and returned to the bathroom. He returned a moment later with a warm wet cloth and a glass of water.
Cynthia started to thank him but he kissed her like a lover before she could speak. His lips gently brushing hers. She closed her eyes as his tongue searched her lips, then entered and explored her mouth while his hands held her head.
He pulled away and gave her a drink, then toweled her silently with the damp cloth. His eyes sparkled as he concentrated on his actions. He looked as if he was cleaning up his favorite toy. Cynthia could only watch and feel the softness of the towel. There were no words to describe, no way to express her thanks to his man for showing how wonderful submission could be.
He put the cloth on the nightstand and snuggled up behind her. Her hands were still tied, but she felt no urge to have them free. He held her for a while without words, but just as soon as she thought he was asleep, he spoke.
"Where you from, Red?" His voice sounded lulled and content.
"Charlotte." She felt him stiffen at her answer. "What's wrong?"
He chuckled softly. "Nothing's wrong. I live in Raleigh."
It was her turn to stiffen. "That's only a three hour drive."
He kissed her neck and rolled her onto her stomach, his big body wrapped completely around hers. His weight felt wonderful, and she trembled. "Yes, it is." He gripped her hair, pulled her lips to his, and kissed her soundly.
Thick fingers found their way back to her still throbbing pussy and stroked her. Cynthia felt his cock stirring back to life against her hip.
"You ready to get started now, Red?"
©
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I do not know if I am on drugs this night. I cannot recall. I have plucked this memory from the back-dated storage of old memories in dying brain cells that turn into partial dreams, or nightmares maybe.
I am certain, however, that I am drunk. I am drunk as a sailor, skunk, or any other tapped-out expression that indicates excess, and, appropriately, I am standing in the woodsy setting of a Renaissance night time revel. I stand before you.
I stand by a bonfire where men and women in garb drink and speak in bad Eurocentric accents, pretending to be part of a history play after a long day of jousting and imbibing. Many wear clothes they have personally sewn or walk around in partial armor. My bodice is laced tight, breasts heaving above it. I wear this bodice, which is aqua and made from car upholstery fabric, a white blouse, and a long hunter skirt a pretty girl, seamstress made me. I smoke a cigarette for the first time since being strapped into this bodice, almost swooning as I finally understand this whole smelling salts/near fainting phenomenon; the bodice truncates the reach and expansion of my lungs. Any extreme emotion or bit of pollution will cut off my air.
Winded, I stub out the smoke and drink some more. I do not remember what I am drinking. For the sake of argument or discussion, let's say Black Sambuka.
I look down at my outfit which is appropriate for the function, but the skirt, unfortunately, shows my ankles. It was sewn that way by accident, I was told—but this means, I am informed, that I can be viewed as a loose woman. A hussy. This is possibly why I am not left alone this evening as man after man approaches me and attempts his come on. Take a number, I almost feel like saying—in fact, go there, yes, there, off of that cliff, to get your small white piece of paper pulled from the dispenser just beyond the drop—I'll wait.
All night I have been watching a singular man who slept with me the week before and has treated me repulsively ever since; he is Italian, with long black hair and blue eyes. His father owns a bakery. His face will launch a thousand ships (or crushes), but his alcoholism will sink him before the best glimmer of promise can surface. Though young, he is already a six-year drunk, I will discover soon, and beautiful and lethal behind the wheel. Later, much later, after I have lost his acquaintance like a bad phone number, he will die in a car crash. I will not miss him. I will never have known him. How can one mourn what one never knew? In some cases it is possible, but not in this one. He is a true dick. But that is another digression.
I return to this night as I watch him, still beautiful to me now, in that then, and my cheeks are flushed. A blond friend, a big, cheeky girl a foot taller than me, wearing an excess of blush, who has also slept with my Italian drunk boy, I later hear, leans towards me.
"That girl," she says, "—over there talking to that guy you brushed off—That girl has been asking about you."
"For what?" I ask, stupid and naïve. I am eighteen. "What does she want?" I ask.
"She likes you," my blond friend says, snickering. "But she's one of those."
"Sure," I say. "But why would a gay girl ask about me? I'm not gay."
My friend beside me shrugs. There are women dancing with dills by the fire. There are men attempting to couple with all female hangers-on. Some men are flirting with other men. These flirtations are more imaginative. As I stand with my tankard and ankles showing, more "knights" or "lords" approach. Most I ignore again or wave away. To some I say, "Walk away with your penis," or "I hate you lousy fuckers, men," as I've been saying all night, when blessed with the presence of their straight sex talk or rudeness and I must reply, briefly, outside of my otherwise anachronism for the plain sake of clarity. If they are decent and cute in their come on, "No, sirrah," I say, "I am otherwise engaged."
Some I just glare at, and they get my meaning. I have eyes only for the Italian.