Ooooh.
I’m a little nervous.
He is, after all, the King, and he can do whatever he wants. I am only his damsel in mock distress.
OK, I will be distressed if he doesn’t throw me on some bed and take me soon.
We finally stop. My shoes are perched upon deep, lush carpeting. I have no idea where I am.
“Where are we?”
“No peeking or I’ll have to tie you up,” he chastises. “Just enjoy the ride, sweetheart, wherever I’m taking you. Now keep very, very still. And don’t peek.”
I recall what he said about the hogtying and spanking, and a shudder passes through my groin. Alex has never tried the bondage and domination route before. At least not with me. An excited tingle flushes through my body as I envision being bent over his knee and spanked.
Oh! I don’t think I would mind being spanked by Alex at all!
I’m a statue as he starts to unbutton my blouse. My Moldavian designer blouse, the one with the gold Chanel-like buttons, only they are shaped like roses. The cool air caresses my skin as he peels my blouse off oh-so-slowly. I’m hyperaware of every sensation, every nuance in the charged air particles around us. I suck in my breath and hold it. My diaphragm beneath my ribs is tensed and ready.
He unsheathes my blouse, dragging the inverted sleeves off my hands. I’m wearing a pretty brassiere underneath with matching panties. La Perla. The only non-Moldavian pieces of clothing I have allowed myself since this whole Public Relations image-grooming thing started.
He rubs his thumb pads across my collarbones. His touch is so warm, so sensuous that a fresh gush of cream spills forth from my pu**y. He reaches behind me to unhook my brassiere. He’s purposefully prolonging this. Teasing me so that I will experience everything in magnification. I hear the plop of my brassiere as he drops it on the carpet. His warm thumbs and fingers latch on to my ni**les, already as hard as stones, and compresses my ultra-sensitive tips.
He scissors my nipple tips in between his fingers and thumbs, rubbing them back and forth. The sensations these movements evoke are exquisite and toe curling. Hell, they are clit curling. I moan with the erotic pleasure.
He takes this for a sign that I want more. (Damn right I do.) Next, I feel his tongue making increasingly moist circles around my right nipple and areola – laving the entire puckered flesh there, eliciting goose bumps around the area.
“Oh, Alex,” I cry.
My hands fly up to his shoulders, or where I think his shoulders are. My clit is throbbing and my ni**les are so, so hard.
He sucks at my right nipple so expansively that I can feel the blood under the surface pooling towards him. My toes flex and unflex. I grip his shoulders, which are at the level of my midriff, and his muscled arms. I picture him crouching or being slightly bent at the knees as he tortures my ni**les. His tongue becomes a wicked, probing tool of pleasure, slathering my nerve endings with almost unbearable stimulation.
Oh, oh, oh, oh!
He does this to my left nipple as well, seizing the protuberant tip with his mouth savagely. My fingers thread through his hair – his thick, luscious mane that falls so wonderfully from his scalp. I clasp his head to my breast as he suckles. I don’t want him to ever stop. Except that my crotch is soaking my panties and there’s a very hollow ache within – an empty vessel that must be invaded, occupied, swarmed and pounded in every crevice.
I desperately want (need) to feel Alex’s c**k in me once again.
His hands fumble at the waist of my skirt. It falls in a crumple, joining my blouse and brassiere. Then he rips my panties off in haste. His urgency mounts. Before I can beg him to f**k me, he grabs my back and thighs, upending me in his arms.
I cry out in surprise. It’s such a masculine gesture. I claim you for myself, it seems to say.
He walks with me in his arms, as though he’s crossing a threshold. The air shimmies around me and cools my copiously wet pu**y. I’m dripping with my own juices. I’m afraid of leaving dewdrop stains on the rich carpet as Alex carries me to goodness knows where.
I expect to be flung on some bed. The King’s chamber, perhaps. Alex has still not officially occupied it.
“No time to transfer my stuff,” he said. Though I suspect he still harbors residual guilt where his father is concerned.
We ascend some steps. Just four or five, from the way my body is being jangled. He puts me down again upon my heels. My stance is unsteady. It’s amazing how much we rely on our sight for balance. Being deprived of it is a major shock to the senses. I hold out my hands, trying to feel for Alex or something I can grasp onto.
My ears pick up the plops of soft things being shed onto the carpet. The chink of a belt buckle. He’s taking off his clothes. My own wet heat rises. I wait for his hands to settle upon me once again and I am not disappointed. They dive straight for my br**sts.
He tugs at them. Tugs at my hard, hard, ultra-sensitive ni**les.
His voice is breathy. “I need you, Liz.”
My ni**les are burning as I allow myself to be led this way towards to wherever he wants me to be. My triangle is wet, so wet that I can feel my creams cascading onto my inner thighs. Oh, I’m such a wanton slut. My mother would turn in her bed if she knew I had descended into this.
Alex stops. His hands slide to my waist. I’m not sure what he’s doing, but he pulls my hands to him this time. My legs take one step forward, only to be met by the solid resistance of his knees. He is seated, I believe.
“Mount me, Liz. I don’t think I can wait a moment longer. I need you. I need to be inside you.” His voice is so hoarse now that I can scarcely hear it.
His cock. Oh, his cock. I picture it – as hard as hard can be. His thick veined shaft rising from his pubic thatch, capped by his circular mushroom head, his balls pulled tight. That very c**k which has been inside me for oh so many times until I’ve lost count.
His sure hands guide me to straddle him. He is indeed seated. I spread my thighs, leveraging myself on his shoulders, as he pushes his throbbing member into my ready pu**y. My greedy little mouth, so wet and enticing, encircles his girth.
I moan as he thrusts into me with one swift movement. His c**k stabs deep – so deep that I can feel its tip at the secret mouth of womb. Gravity ensures that I stay there, pinioned to him as he steadies my hips.
I’m so stretched. So, so stretched.
Ooooooo.
He seems bigger than usual. Harder. As if an iron rod wedges inside me – plump and decisive and dangerous.
My thighs and legs claw for purchase, and my knees scrape against something . . . firm. Something cushioned. The armrests of a chair.