He rubbed his rough palms up my sides, pronouncing me “ideal’niy.” It meant perfect, or, more specifically, unimprovable.
I sighed with pleasure. “I thought you didn’t like the way I look.”
He raised his face, all consternation. “When did I ever give you that impression, pet?”
“Far from your type? Ring a bell?”
“I meant that—literally. You are different from the women I’ve been with.” More to himself, he said, “Night and day.”
I imagined him with cool, statuesque beauties from the north, felt like a runt in comparison. That feeling was short-lived—because he moved his attention to my br**sts.
Cupping them from the bottom, he nearly circled them with his big hands. Avoiding my ni**les, he kneaded with a practiced touch that was just this side of rough. But I loved it, arching to him.
Again and again, he palmed me, plumping the mounds until the rest of my body begged for contact—which he seemed determined to withhold.
“What are you doing to me?”
“Sexually torturing you.” He tightened his grip on my br**sts.
They began to swell, the skin heating and reddening. My ni**les stiffened and distended, until the sight of them was lurid, turning me on even more. I looked from them to his transfixed gaze, then back. Still he massaged; still my flesh swelled.
When I felt his heavy breaths on the sensitive tips, I squirmed with a perfect mix of misery and delight. I noticed the sheets were damp beneath me and realized I was going to come like this. My eyes went wide with discovery. I could orgasm without a single touch on my neglected pu**y.
I thought I’d known what my body was capable of, yet now it was behaving in unfamiliar ways. He seemed to know what it could do better than I did.
Never lessening his grip, he leaned down, letting his breaths torment the peaks even more. Avoiding contact with them, he darted his tongue to flick kisses along the sides, all around the tips.
If he touched my ni**les I would scream. If he didn’t touch my ni**les I would scream. “Sevastyan, kiss them!” I was panting with distress, writhing from this excruciating arousal. I twined my fingers behind my neck, but I didn’t know how much longer I could last before I touched myself. “Do something.”
“Like this?” With a sinister look, he blew on one tip, then the other.
A cry broke from my lips, my back bowing to get me closer to that frustrating stimulation.
“Still.” He pinned me down, giving my br**sts an even harsher squeeze. “Submit to me.”
Just the word submit made me tremble, made my clitoris throb. Until I was helpless not to touch it. Releasing my hold at my neck, I trailed my hand down.
“Ah-ah.” He snatched my hip, shoving me to my side, baring my ass to him.
“What are you—”
With one of his callused hands caging my neck to hold me in place, he used his other to slap my bottom. With enough force to startle me. “If you don’t obey me, you’ll be punished. Understand?” Another harsh slap.
He’d told me I would fear him; with each swat, alarm began building inside me. I swallowed hard against the hand at my throat.
“Understand?” His palm cracked across my ass again.
“Ow!” That one hadn’t been a love tap either. “Yes!”
“Say, ‘I understand, Sevastyan.’”
“I-I understand, Sevastyan.” But I didn’t. His eyes were flashing with excitement, his chest heaving; the tip of his bulging c*ck had moistened the material of his pants. He got that turned on from whipping me?
Did I? Obedience was one thing, but this was corporal. Yet I was as wet as I’d ever been, my ass tingling so deliciously that I craved another slap.
Which couldn’t be right. How could I crave something I should fear?
Between breaths, he said, “Don’t like a man giving you a correction?”