Let's get on with it, shall we? *cracks knuckles*

Big thanks to the crew!

Isabella

I'm ecstatic. I'm terrified. I'm torn between the two, but my adrenaline soars—the drunk feeling in my head winning over rational thinking. I don't want to think right now; I want to feel and experience. I want to undergo—not control.

My neck strains a little because of my position, but the way the vein at the underside of Ginger's cock is screaming to be licked is hard to ignore. He got me to comply, got me to call him 'Sir' and has my pussy so wet the insides of my thighs feel slippery.

I know the robe is falling down my shoulders, but I let it. He's heard about the worst; he's seen the fierce and experienced the Domme that I built up with the ashes of what remained of me. It's about time I let him show me what he's made of. I crave to know what power he possesses; I'm desperate to feel it again—to enter that space in the back of my brain I know has been abandoned for all these years.

When our eyes meet again, I see it—how desperately Ginger needs this as well. It's all I feel mirrored in his green, green gaze. It's power and control that surges through his veins, aching to be set free. It's the sensation of being someone's anchor or leading them through whatever the fuck they want. Ginger has it. The natural dominance mixed with education and lust so strong it makes me want to give up and surrender—makes me want to trust a man I barely know with my body.

This, I can deal with. It's a cock in my mouth, my body free—safe to pull away and run if I need to. There's no ropes, no hooks, no stage or no Master. Just us, so I lean back even more and plead for more actions—less words.

My heart hammers up a storm when his hand splays over my cheek, thumb at my bottom lip before he guides his hard, glorious cock inside my mouth. Before he does, he glides his tip along my lips, and I feel how much he wants me—this. His precum coats my lips before he's more forceful and I recognize him again. He slams inside me, sliding down my throat while I gag around his length. My head hangs back, the angle so fucking deep. Ginger places his other hand under my jaw and he groans. I know he can feel himself slide up and down under my skin, and when I swallow and smile, he chuckles darkly.

"Motherfucking slut, I knew you'd love sucking my cock. Don't you, baby Havoc?"

I hum my response, growing wetter from his dirty mouth, resisting the urge to get him out of my mouth and spit on his dick. But he's been good to me, so I want to at least give him this. I can do this. The words echo through my mind the entire time, until his hand slides down and he cups my breast, clawing my skin as he continues to fuck my skull. The prickles of the slight pain, along with the spit that dribbles from my mouth and the way my eyes tear up, takes me back to other places, and I feel my throat get tighter. It has nothing to do with him, with his wonderful cock. It's me; it's the panic fighting to be let out as he gets lost in his pleasure, his hands grabbing and punishing although he's clearly not doing anything wrong.

Ginger gave me a way out, so I take it. Instead of tapping his thigh, my nails scratch his skin until I break it with my force. He hisses and lets go before I burst into tears and break down. I let myself slide off the couch, sobbing and fighting for breath as I tug and pull at the robe to get if off me—to get more air, to get the fuck out of this panic attack.

I'm hyperventilating, but he's down on his knees seconds later—dressed and eyes worried as he grasps my face. I scream. It's painful and ripped from my lungs, and I claw at his hands, hurt him, but he stays and holds my face tighter, forcing me to look at him. The terror in his eyes reflects the way I'm acting; on the way the anxiety and the panic overtakes me so much I'm trembling.

"Shh," he breathes. He lets go of my face, wrapping me in his arms. I'm naked, shaking and a fucking mess, but he's here and not judging. "It's gonna be okay, baby."

"I—" I start, but he brings me in even tighter.

"Focus on my breathing, on my heartbeat." He knows how to do this. He fucking knows how to help. I wonder why, as I feel the hard ridges of him against me.

"Count the blue things in the room," he urges me. "Tell me about them." His gentleness makes me cry harder, hot tears spilling from my eyes until I do exactly what he says.

It brings me a bit closer to who he is—tells me he's more than this superficial jerk. There's something there I want to explore. But my fear is holding me back, endlessly.