Passions Prologue
By Dana Keylits
Chapter Twelve: Hang On
You, Bette, I wanted you.
Surely, you knew that by now.
Couldn't you see by the way my body naturally tipped towards you, like a magnet to metal, a moth to flame, like there was something in me that used to be attached to something in you, and it was desperately trying to reassert itself?
It must be that we had been together in a previous life. Husband and wife, or forbidden lovers of the same gender, denied their right to be together by fear and oppressive mores, required to meet in secret, behind closed doors, hidden sanctuaries, our outers shells merely a façade of our truest authentic orientation.
But now, during this time, as our planet spun on its axis at a dizzying speed, hurling in an endless loop around the sun at an even greater dizzying speed, it didn't matter. Because, what I was feeling for you transcended all of the outer garments, fabric or flesh, that defined who we were. As people, as lovers, as ancient souls finding each other again.
And, I could only live for today. This moment. This time. This place.
Nothing else mattered.
Day Six
She rolled my nipple expertly between her thumb and forefinger and it immediately rose and stiffened, a reward of her expert ministrations. When she'd replaced her fingers with her mouth, I became a writhing mass of blood and flesh and bones and muscle, helpless and whimpering, my body practically convulsing with need, impatient and furious, her name roaring past my lips as she teased and tormented me.
As she waited.
She liked me like this.
Cuffed to her bed.
Bound by expensive leather and luxurious silk.
She captured my nipple between her teeth, her hands mapping my upper body, her thigh between my legs, and then she let go, pulling the nipple as far as it would go before releasing it, soothing the inevitable burn with her tongue.
She looked into my eyes. "You're too impatient, Kate," she accused, her voice like velvet, her tone reminding me of a purring indolent cat.
I bucked against her as she straddled me, my hips rising and falling against the firm mattress, the sheet below me already wet from my arousal. "God!" I finally screamed. "Bette!"
She smiled in that wicked, wicked, way she does, her teeth bright beneath crimson lips and her obsidian eyes danced with amusement. "Okay, Kate," she soothed. "Okay."
She crawled down my body, slinking like an exotic cat, her lips traveling a wet path from the column of my throat, to the harsh angles of my collarbone, to my breasts, my nipples, where she lingered, sucking and nibbling, swirling the rigid pink gumdrop around her tongue, to the soft space between my ribcage, the dip in my naval, until she reached the apex of my thighs and she stopped, looking up at me, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
I thought I might actually pass out.
I gazed at her with hazy, unfocused eyes. She was a blurry vision of sun-kissed flesh, midnight hair that fell in soft curls around her face, and her face, God, it was seductive and sultry and I was hypnotized.
With a flash of witchcraft, she smiled at me, looking at me from beneath the dark fan of lashes that framed her mischievous eyes, and then she dipped between my legs, her gaze never leaving mine, and stroked my inflamed sex with the tip of her tongue.
Needles of pleasure sliced through me, vulgar words spilling from my mouth as she slipped her tongue inside of me, lapping up my inner juices, and then withdrawing to stroke me again, rising up through my wet inner folds to the swollen nub, raw, aching, throbbing in anticipation of her dangerous intentions.
I thought I might break apart, shatter into a million sharp pieces, the pleasure, so sinfully painful, almost too much to bear. And, I fought against my restraints, my ankles tied with silk, my wrists with leather.
She moaned against me, and the vibration from her voice rippled through my sex like a cheap toy. She had flattened her tongue, quickly rotating it from side to side, and I soared. Higher and higher, circling like a majestic eagle, waiting, wanting, my hips bucking wildly, and she flattened one palm against the downy hair of my pelvis to hold me still.
And, then she stopped. And, looked at me.
I lifted my head, my eyelids heavy, and peered at her through narrowed slits. "Bette," I whispered. "Please!"
She knelt between my legs, rising up, her full naked breasts swelling, their dark berry nipples puckered and erect. She smiled in that impious way she does, and wagged one finger.
"Not yet, Kate."
I threw my head against the pillow, my breasts heaving, and rocked my hips back and forth, trying to make contact with her. The aching between my legs was unbearable. "Fuck! No. Bette, don't stop." I gasped. "Please!"
This was torture, sadistic, evil, sick torture.
And, she was loving it.
"Use your safe word, Kate. If you really can't take it. Use your safe word and I'll make you come right now."
Fuck! What was my safe word? I'd forgotten. Wait, it was a piece of fruit. Pears? Apples? No, it was Orange! I opened my mouth to shout at her, imagining the word, carried by longing and impatience, a scorching fire upon my tongue, exploding from my mouth, the sheer force of it blowing her backwards and off the bed, just like you'd see on Saturday morning cartoons.
If they were rated NC-17.
I glanced at her again, she was still staring at me, her mouth curved into a devilish smirk. My body was on fire, I was so ready to come, to shatter, to crash against her probing, luscious mouth, I just needed one more stroke, and I'd fly over that cliff.
The words rushed past my mouth like the Kingda Ka, and I roared.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!"
She laughed, her eyes luminous against the moonlight, her satanic, twisted enjoyment of my carnal agony dripping from her lips as she explained what was next.
And, then she reached behind her and grabbed a blindfold, holding it up.
"Do you trust me, Kate?"