About To Be Devoured

"May I lay my head in your lap, Ma'am?"

As always, I suspected he wanted more of me than that.

He's not without good intentions–his want helps maintain my headspace and keeps me running hot. But his intent–is it good for me, or him? By now, I'm more than well-acquainted with the blurry line that separates maintenance from manipulation.

I had used him hard, hurt him well, and he requested only kindness. And so, I acquiesced. With his head in my lap, he nuzzled close and seemed to settle in. I relaxed around him, admiring the lovely contrast of his flushed face on my ivory thighs.

In just moments, with the slightest shift, his warm breath was on my cunt and my suspicions were confirmed. He hadn't curled into me simply to recover from being beaten, drained, and fucked. He had much more to give, but instead, he aimed to take.

With parted lips and a hungry mouth, he tasted my wetness and my wanting. I gave only momentary protest before I let him drown between my thighs. He lapped and lavished first, then found his rhythm and his pace. The rhythm wasn't mine, but in that state, I'm too easily convinced his cadence is my own.

My arms went weak and I leaned back, but only on my elbows. I hadn't given in yet, still poised to pull away. But, fuck, it felt so good. He felt good even as I remembered why I hated this–my stomach bare, my legs splayed–I was vulnerable and exposed. But he didn't seem to notice as he tasted me and teased.

My legs twitched in spasm and I couldn't manage to control them, nor him, but I wanted to. I wanted to hold on, to hold out, to have it my own way. I hate that I'm subject to my body and I hate that my body is subject to his.

I pushed back. I held his head between my palms and fucked against his face. I fought his rhythm, and I tried to find my own.

When pushing failed, I found I couldn't pull away. His arms locked around my hips. He held firm, but gently–I hadn't realized I was secured until I tried to move away. He held me to his mouth, picked up speed and pressure, and split me open with his tongue. It was wonderful and awful. The intrusion was too much and not enough, and all I wanted was…

"Stop!"

Instantly, he stopped. In his stillness and his silence, my sounds and movements filled the room. My moans were more like whimpers. What was left of me writhed beneath his grip.

Motionless, he waited, his lips still pressed against my cunt.

I collected myself, refocused, and looked to find his face. Past my own soft breasts, my stomach, and the roundness of my hips, I found him silent and unmoving. His eyes were stone and cool as ice–there was no sweetness in his stare.

In that moment, I remembered. I had seen those eyes, that look, that focus on his face. When we were new, on rare occasion, he stared with hungry eyes, intense and a little frightening. He looked like he was hunting, stalking, and I felt like I was prey.

His cold eyes warmed as we grew together, and the feeling faded from all but memory. Later, we both laughed when I explained my interpretation: "You looked like you were going to eat me."

As I emerged from memory, the feeling was familiar. I was about to be devoured.

He waited for my word–one breathless, desperate "please…"

I gave in and he took over, ripping the orgasm from me.

It was mine, but he deserved it. He wanted it more than I.

Republished with permission from Dumb Domme. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. See more photos like this at BodyParts.biz.