As I run my fingers over the black and purple bruises you left wrapped around my hip, my skin is swollen and aching, just like my pulsing cunt.
I remembered trading one cane stroke for five seconds of your tongue on my pussy. It wasn’t enough. I knew it, and you knew it. It was never going to be enough to push me over the edge, only enough to make me bow my spine and beg for more.
I love being on the edge for you.
I love being on that razor edge of pleasure, where my thoughts melt away. All the chaos in my brain distilled down to one repeating mantra: more. Anything for more.
The bruises, neat lines of purple and pink, are beautiful. And I love how hard you get when you put them there.
One cane stroke, five seconds of tongue.
Again and again.
Until you grabbed me by the hair and pushed your cock between my lips, my tears from the caning mixing with the tears of being brutally choked and gagged. You used my throat like a slick cunt, taking your pleasure while I writhed in your hand.
You came, and I didn’t. I’m still aching.
I can’t help but shiver, when I think of what I’m going to offer you next for the pleasure of your tongue.
Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy on Unsplash