I turned my head and looked over my shoulder.
I was up on my knees, facing the headboard I was tied to. Just my wrists. My legs were free.
This allowed me to spread them wide and rock my sex against Deacon’s mouth as he fed from me.
When I looked over my shoulder, though, I saw him on his back, knees cocked, feet in the bed, the hand he didn’t have clamped to my hip jacking his big cock.
“Baby,” I breathed, ground into his face, arched my back, and came hard.
I lost his mouth but didn’t mind since I was still coming.
“Tip,” he growled into my ear.
I tipped my hips.
He rammed his cock deep.
I cried out with sheer ecstasy.
He pounded deep, one hand going to my breast, fingers tugging my nipple, other hand going to my sex, finger to my clit, face in my neck.
“Again,” he demanded.
“Yes,” I panted.
He fucked me.
I took it. I loved it. I came for him again.
With it still burning deep, I felt my wrists released as he pulled out without joining me in a climax.
“My turn,” he growled into my ear.
Oh yes.
Yes.
Definitely.
I moved. Deacon moved. He grasped on to the headboard.
We’d learned he didn’t need restraints. He’d stay still for me. Sometimes it was a battle, but each time Deacon succeeded.
That said, on occasion, I used them. Because I wanted to. Because he let me. Because he wanted to. Because we both got off on it.
Mostly, though, I let him bind me.
We did vanilla all the time. It was magnificent.
But we also played.
Frequently.
I moved behind but slightly beside him, pressing into him, one hand reaching forward to wrap around his swollen cock, the other hand going to the plug I’d given him, blowing him as I did it, before we started.
I jacked him and fucked him but I didn’t need to do either. Deacon kept control by fucking my hand and thus mostly fucking himself.
“Yeah, baby,” he kept growling.