The intercom startles Isabella, and she shoots me an apprehensive look. She needs a decent kiss before our guests make their way upstairs. I deliver instructions into the brass plate by the door and press the buzzer.
“Showtime, baby. You ready?”
“Yep,” Isabella answers, accepting my outstretched hand and meeting me at the door. She glances warily at my left hand, which is resting by my side, and I can see that I haven’t been clear enough.
“You’ll know when I’m signaling you, as long as you’re paying proper attention. It’ll be a horizontal surface—the table, my knee, your lap—not this.” I wiggle my fingers and give her a reassuring smile. “Okay?”
“I’m about to kiss you and make you forget your own name, and then we’re going to both enjoy a much stiffer drink with our company. Capiche?”
“Sounds good.” Her smile is radiant and delicious. She looks as dazzled as I feel when I finally unwind my tongue from hers. “I love you, baby.”
“Don’t forget your safe word if you need out of the harness or out of the scene. Got it?”
“Yes. Thank you, but I’m really fine.”
“Good, because I think it’s gonna be a great night.”
“Easy for you to say,” her chagrined expression says just as our company knocks on the door. Since her right hand is free, she reaches for the knob first.
“Ange!” Isabella squeals, crossing in front of me and diving into the hallway to embrace her friend. Angela seems equally excited, bouncing on her toes and giving Isabella a heartfelt hug. Luckily, she releases my fingers on her way out, so I’m able to offer Garrett a handshake.
“Hey, man. Come on in.”
He takes my hand stiffly but gratefully, and offers me the bottle in his other hand. “This is for…you guys,” he says a bit awkwardly, not quite sure if giving it to me was the right move.
“This is really nice…Patron Platinum. How’d you know we were serving Mexican?”
Garrett grins and points his thumb to the girls in the hall and I shoot him an understanding nod. The world wide web has nothing on the information highway traversed by two close girlfriends, and Garrett and I take a moment to share our joint accomplishment—reuniting the two dear friends.
“You ladies coming inside?” I inquire. Isabella drags Angela through the door, where she shyly meets my eye.
“Hello again, Edward.” Giggles all around.
Isabella rolls her eyes at her friend, and I pull Angela into a friendly but very chaste hug. “Welcome to our place, and thank you so much for the tequila.”
“Thank you for having us over.”
“Here, let me take your coat.” Angela spins out of her long down coat, stuffing scarf and hat inside the arm holes. “I’ll trade you.” I hand her the bottle and shuffle off to the closet.
Garrett is finishing up a cautious hug with my girlfriend, and she hands me his coat. I give her a just-because wink. She looks mostly happy and fairly relaxed.
“Shall we break open the Patron?” I suggest.
“Hell yes,” Garrett answers.
“What’s happening in the kitchen, Isabella?” I ask. “Can you sit down with us?”
“For a minute.”
“It seems a shame to muddy up the good stuff with fruit juice. Should we have it straight?”
Garrett rubs his hands together. “I’m game.”
Angela giggles and sidles up to Garrett. Seems all is well in Auditland. “Sure. We’re not driving.”
“All righty then. Isabella?”
She runs her hand down my arm, stopping with her hand on my watch. “Why don’t you just pour me whatever you think?”
Extra credit for the submissive in the front row! Wow. In one fell swoop, she has placed herself in my capable hands, right in front of her friends. I am impressed beyond belief, and I make damn sure she knows it by sending an unmistakable message from my eyeballs to hers.
“Better go easy,” Angela warns me with a giggle, “unless you want take-out pizza for dinner. I’ve seen this girl in action with a few drinks in her.”
Isabella lifts her hand from my wrist and gives her friend a mock slap in the arm. “You know I can hear you, right?”
Garrett helps line up the glasses at the bar while I open the bottle and start pouring. He leans in and says, “It’s great to see those two together again. Thanks again, man.”
I nod and pour three double shots and one shorter one for Isabella. I take ours and he takes theirs and we meet the girls over by the couch.
“To friends!” I offer, winking yet again in a private salute to my girlfriend and our earlier toast.
“Friends!” they all repeat. I take a seat on the couch and place my palm down on my knee. Isabella instantly settles beside me. Ah, yes. So it begins.
I sip at the tequila, one eye on the kitchen timer and the other on Master’s hand. When the rice countdown reaches one minute, I appeal to my Master. “I should get back to the cooktop.”
Seamlessly, he flips his hand up and says to the others, “That’s my girl. Slaving over hot coals for me, day and night.”
I stifle the instinct to thank him for giving me permission to rise. Instead, I stand up a little too quickly and feel the bite of the plug anew. Master watches carefully and steadies me with a hand quickly wrapped around my knee. “Y’okay there, sweetheart?”
“Yep, just fine.”
His inspection seems to convince him I’m telling the truth, and he lets me go deal with the kitchen. Angela hops up and scurries along behind me, and I can only hope the liquor she’s consumed will be enough that she doesn’t notice my waddle.
“What can I do to help?”
“Take out the corn bread?”
“Sure. Want me to plate it for you?”
“That would be great.” I show her the serving platter I was going to use. I have to admit, as comfortable as I feel here, it’s still Edward’s apartment, Edward’s kitchen, his dishes. No amount of time is going to change the fact that these are the artifacts of his life as a single man. Everything here was purchased either out of sheer necessity or because his mother decided he should own it. It wouldn’t be any better if I unearthed my own things and combined them in, I fully realize. Then it would be some strange melding of his and mine—not an equation that would add up to ours.
Obviously, I’m being foolish and sentimental and who cares about things like Lenox and Baccarat when I’m wearing the man’s butt plug, for heaven’s sake? And yet, for all our commitment and obvious compatibility, I still feel very much like I’m playing house right now—especially in contrast to Angela and her long-standing relationship with Garrett, for better and for worse.
The ridiculous comparison is what finally allows me to shake off my sudden melancholy. That and Angela’s tinkling laughter pervading the kitchen.
“God, Bella, how do you stand it?” She’s standing at the counter holding the spatula over the pan of corn bread, staring at my man. “He is so totally into you. Like, his eyes never leave your body. It’s like a twenty-four-seven eye fuck. And dearbabyjesus, those eyes.”
I swat her with the oven mitt and she squeals. “Oooh! Thank you, sir, may I have another?” sending both of us into folded over fits.
It helps not at all when Edward spins around and regards us suspiciously. “Everything okay over there, ladies?”
Angela loses it all over again at Edward’s show of attention.
“We’re fine,” I assure the men, and Edward grins and shakes his head.
I grab Angela’s shirt and pull her close. “Listen, you. I need to put oil into this hot wok. Are you going to be able to control yourself?”
“Yes…yes, yes. I’m fine.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and resumes plating the corn bread.
I’ve wrangled the onions and peppers and am just about to add the chicken when she asks what else she can do to help. I have her heat up the tortillas and place everything on the table. Edward turns back to check on me, but he doesn’t offer to help or make any comments. I call everyone to the table and present the fajita fillings.
“Everything looks delicious, sweetheart,” Edward says, drawing my attention before placing his hand flat on the table.
Aye-aye. I toss the oven mitts on the counter and slide into the seat next to his.
“Wow, Bella, this looks amazing,” Garrett comments, reaching for the warm tortilla.
“Oh, shoot! I forgot the sour cream!” I pop up from my seat and get all the way to the refrigerator before I realize I’ve just disobeyed my Master. Shit, shit, shit. He said he’d be lenient, but not a chump. With a wary eye, I pull the sour cream from the top shelf and peer around the door of the refrigerator.
Crap. His palm is still on the table and his eyes are on me.
I spoon the sour cream into a serving bowl and walk back to the table, a lead ball and chain shackled to each foot. I notice Master’s hand is no longer on the table. I’m not meant to sit down yet. I place the bowl in the center of the table and hope I’ll be directed soon. Sure enough, Master takes charge. Wrapping his arm around my waist, he says, “While you’re up, weren’t you meaning to wear that chain tonight? You know, the silver one with the…” his voice trails off.
I recognize that he’s giving me the alibi for leaving the room while in no uncertain terms telling me what I need to do.
I reach for my throat, playing along. “Oh, jeez. I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight. Thanks, Edward. I’ll be right back.” He gives me a nod and I’m off to my room.
Shit, shit, shit. I open my jeans and shimmy them down to my hips, just enough that I can manage to unclip one of the links at the front of the chain. This time, the clip doesn’t quite reach back to the waist chain without a slight tug down on the opposite end and a slight tug up on the one I’m holding. The chain is no longer cold to the touch, but it’s tight as hell. Not only is the plug forced further inside me, but my lips are now pulled open. Perverse curiosity gets the better of me, and I turn toward the mirror. I know I’m not allowed to touch anything, but just the sight of me takes my breath away. I’m glistening with arousal despite the added discomfort. There will be no way to set this aside when I’m standing or sitting, or as Master seems to be demanding, doing plenty of both.
I almost forget to grab a necklace before rushing back out to his side.
“Could you help me with this clasp, please?” I ask Edward, pulling him away from the table enough to discreetly slip the disconnected chain link into his palm. He drops it into his pocket and steps behind me to fasten my necklace.
In a hushed undertone I’m certain only I can hear, he asks, “Still green?”
He surprises me with a soft kiss at the nape of my neck, and my whole upper half turns to goose flesh. His hands slide across both shoulders and over the top of my arms. He seems reluctant to let go.
“Food’s getting cold,” he finally says. “We better sit down.”
The thrill of scening where other people are present, of course, is the idea that only you and your submissive know this enormous secret. It draws two people closer, to the exclusion of the rest of the world. Watching Isabella take her seat again, seeing the way she gingerly moves—for me—ranks right up there among my top Masterful moments.
“Bells, the fajitas are delicious! You do this yourself?”
“Yes, Ange. I actually sliced the chicken and stir-fried the veggies all by my lonesome!”
Garrett pipes up. “You’re not into cooking, Edward?”
“My strength lies more in entertaining the chef.”
Isabella chuckle-snorts into her water glass, and I turn an innocent smile her direction. “What? I don’t amuse you?”
“Oh, you constantly amuse me.”
Angela sighs rather loudly and Garrett looks like a guy who’d like to roll his eyes or worse, but wisely he does not. Instead, he changes the subject to something he feels more competent about.
“This chardonnay is a great pick. I’ve been going with unoaked lately. What is the aroma I’m catching…is that Meyer lemon? Very vogue.”
Guys and wines. Why don’t we just pull down our pants and see whose dick is bigger? Garrett is not actually trying to be an asshole right now, so I guess I can roll with it.
“Yes. This one is more on the tropical fruit side, but I like the idea of the naked vats—let the grapes sing their own tunes, you know?”
“Mind if I take a look at the bottle?”
“Not at all. It’s up on the counter. You can open another one if you’d like.”
Isabella shifts beside me, and I’m afraid she’s about to hop up again to serve him. That is unacceptable, and I really don’t want to see her make another mistake so soon. She’s already where she needs to be, and the next link is going to probably ruin the rest of her evening. Before she has a chance to err, I slide my left hand to her right knee and hold it—and her—right there. She doesn’t so much as glance at me, but it’s clear she’s gotten the message. “I’ll have a little more if you’re pouring, Gar,” Isabella says.
“How’s work going, Bella? You doing any more traveling?” Angela asks, folding a second fajita and preparing to hoist it to her mouth.
“Not for work, but Edward and I are about to take a little vacation together.”
“Oh yeah? Where are you going?”
Isabella turns to me. “He’s not telling me.”
Angela sets the food onto her plate. “What? A mystery trip? How romantic! Did you hear that, Gar?”
“Yep, romantic,” he says absently, his eyeballs wrapped around the wine label as he walks back to the table. Fortunately, Isabella stops him from filling her glass beyond a few sips’ worth, and I cover mine when he offers. Master needs to sober up, though I’ve had very little up to this point anyway.
“When do you leave?”
I take over the answering. “Our flight leaves JFK at ten on Friday morning.”
“Your flight? Wow! That is so exciting! Aren’t you even curious, Bella?” Angela is practically bouncing in her chair, while Garrett has adopted that mildly agitated look that guys get when another guy in the room is making them look bad. Tough luck, dude.
Isabella turns to me once more and smiles serenely. “What’s the difference? We’ll be together.”
“Ohmygosh, will you be back in time for Valentine’s Day?”
“Yeah,” Isabella answers, lucky for me. I’d have to look at a calendar for that one. “We have our painting class that night.”
Garrett looks up. “Painting? Hobby of yours, Edward?”
“Actually, no. I totally suck at it, but it makes Isabella outrageously happy.”
Garrett chuckles, and for once, I don’t see a sarcastic retort in his eyes. “That would be the goal,” he says.
“I think you’re starting to catch on, my man.”
He grins broadly and taps a finger at his temple. “I’m slow, but I get there eventually.”
Angela scoots her chair a wee bit closer to Garrett and gives him an adoring look. He stretches his arm behind her chair and spins his wine glass stem between his fingers. I give Isabella’s knee a little scritch-scritch with my fingernails and she looks up at me and smiles.
“I could really go for another fajita. Feel like slapping one together for me?”
“Nothing would please me more,” she responds.
As I watch her reach, assemble, and lovingly package my next burrito, I survey the happy scene. Angela seems pleased with Garrett’s behavior, Isabella is cheerfully serving me—in some capacity, hell, maybe in every capacity—and I can’t remember the last time I had this much optimism for the future.
“I am stuffed!” Angela reports, rubbing her belly for effect. “Your homemade guacamole was da bomb, Bella. I think I must’ve eaten a hundred chips.”
Garrett’s polished off another half bottle of wine and he’s feeling no pain. That makes one of us. “What’s for dessert, Bella?”
“We picked up some churros at La Nueva this morning.”
“Oh noooo! I love churros!” Angela wails, holding her stomach with both hands now, causing Garrett to chuckle at her distress.
“Oh yes, babe. You know you’re going to have to eat one, so just go with it.”
Edward asks, “Anyone for coffee?”
“Aw hell no. Not taking up any room with liquids.”
Garrett eyes Angela’s wine glass. “Not even that?”
She smiles all googly at him. “Oh maybe that.”
They’re a little gross all lovey-dovey, but I’m so pleased he’s jumped through the necessary hoops for her I hardly mind the sickening display.
Edward flips his hand over next to his plate, my signal to rise. “I’ll help you clear, Isabella.” Angela tries to get up as well, but easily acquiesces when I urge her to relax. I get up a bit shakily, having been seated now for about half an hour. I can’t say I was entirely comfortable before, but at least I was used to it. Now, the restraints shift and strain anew. Edward follows close behind, which I take as his way of hiding my ungainly gait from our guests.
I take my place behind the sink and start rinsing the plates. Edward delivers the dishes he’s carrying to the basin and laces his arm around my waist, pulling me in close. His lips are at my ear, looking for all the world like your everyday boyfriend nuzzle, but I know better; he’s checking on me, and I love him for it.
“Green,” I murmur.
“For real?” he asks, pulling back to watch me answer.
“You really are da bomb, Isabella. I’ll heat up the churros while you wrangle these dishes. Leave the rest. You can do them later in your underwear.” Wink.
He turns his back toward the counter behind me and I can’t help teasing, “Will you be entertaining me at the time, Edward?” tacking the non-Master name on the end as a bit of insurance.
He can’t resist the bait, spinning back and pressing his body tightly against my back. “Of course I will, sweetheart. I was thinking of serenading you tonight.”
“Noooo,” I groan.
Edward laughs into my hair. “We’ll see,” he says his sexiest voice. “If you’re a good girl, I might just watch you instead.”
“I will be the poster child for good,” I assure him.
Edward’s thumbs play at my waist, and I feel the chain rolling beneath his fingers. He presses his hips to my ass and hisses a long, soft, “Fuuuuuck,” into my shoulder.
“You guys didn’t forget about dessert, did you?” Angela calls out from the table. Four eyes peer over at us, and I’m hoping they can’t see my blush from there.
“Nope, I’m just giving Isabella a little encouragement with the dishes while the churros heat up.”
“See that, hon?” Angela says to Garrett but loudly enough for us to hear. “That’s how you help a girl with the dishes.”
“Hmm,” Garrett answers in his version of a sexy voice, “perhaps if you’d entertain me like that while I was cooking, I’d help you with the dishes.”
I giggle at the two of them—drunk they may be, but clearly things are on the mend.
I twist my face around to where I can see Edward. “I think you better get the churros heated up before those two end up under the table.”
Edward flexes again, and I can feel how hard he is. “Baby, I can guaran-dam-tee you my churro is on fire for you.”
“You’re killing me here.” I’m not kidding. I’m actually a little worried I’ll just slide to the floor when he steps away from me.
“Okay, okay, I’ll try not to think about what’s going on back here,” rub, rub, “or up front, for that matter.”
“That was ever so helpful,” I say, adding a long sigh for effect.
He finally steps back, leaving one hand lingering on my ass as if it just couldn’t say goodbye.
“Okay,” Edward says brightly several minutes later. “I’ve got hot churros, and I’m not afraid to use ‘em.”
As he walks past me with the dessert, he pauses to whisper, “Eat quickly. I need you.”
I slide the plate across the table inelegantly and sit down rather heavily in my chair, slapping my hands face-down at my place and announcing, “Dessert is served.”
Isabella obeys instantly, slinking quickly into her chair and biting her lip to stifle a giggle. This is the non-sex equivalent of, “This is gonna be quick and hard, baby,” and she better hold onto the saddle while I speed our guests through dessert.
“Oh my god, this is soooo good,” Garrett declares halfway through the donut.
“Would you guys like to take a couple home with you for breakfast?” I suggest, happily planting the idea of leaving in their minds.
“Gosh no,” Angela answers. “This is a rare treat. We’ve both been spending way too much time behind a desk the last few months. We have to watch the sweets.”
“That reminds me, Isabella. We should get up to the rooftop tomorrow.”
She pauses mid-bite and side-eyes me.
“Sorry. Was that politically incorrect of me while you were just about to enjoy that big bite of fried dough?”
Isabella shoots me a mischievous look, then pushes the churro into her mouth as far as it will comfortably go. I laugh cheerily until she bares her teeth and bites into it.
“Ouch. Okay then.” The others laugh, so I take it like a man, but she better never do that to my churro or there will be hell to pay.
“Speaking of fattening food, what are you two doing for the super bowl tomorrow?” Garrett asks.
It occurs to me that Riley and I didn’t even touch upon the subject yesterday. “I haven’t made any plans. You, Isabella?”
“The Super Bowl is tomorrow?”
Garrett and I have a good laugh over that.
“If you’re not doing anything,” Garrett starts, then fumbles. Woops. “Sorry, bad idea.”
Isabella looks at Angela. “Jasper?”
Isabella smiles kindly. “Thanks but no thanks?”
“Yeah, well…” Angela stands and places her hand on Garrett’s shoulder. “We should probably hit the dusty road.”
YES! I drop my hand to Isabella’s knee and flip it palm up. She hops out of her chair, and I follow immediately, tossing my napkin to the table in front of me. It’s amazing, really, how quickly we’re able to usher them out without appearing rude once Garrett took a dump with the Super Bowl invite, the stupid fucker.
Coats are presented, goodbyes, kiss-kiss, hug-hug, and finally, the blessed closing of the door with us on one side and them on the other.
I turn my eyes on my girlfriend and watch her morph into my submissive right before my very greedy eyes. “That was efficient,” she offers, a small smirk playing on her face.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures, princess. You have five seconds to get those pants off.”
Her eyes go wide and she kicks off her boots while grabbing at the button and zipper of the jeans. I lean back against the wall as the first glint of metal comes into view, feeling myself hardening once again as the pants slide off her feet.
“Damn, you know what? Put those boots back on for me.”
Isabella bends over to reach a boot and immediately realizes her mistake. “Ahh! Crap. Ow.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa there…steady, girl. Here, bend from the knees, there you go.” I hold onto her elbow while she squats down, slower this time. She picks up her boots and stands up.
“May I sit down please, Master?”
I’m pleased how easily she’s slipped back into submissive mode. Extensive hardware can do that for a girl.
“Sure. In fact, why don’t you sit down and I’ll put these on for you?” I offer so kindly she knows there will be a catch. She eyes me as she places her bare ass onto the nearest chair. “Damn, that’s pretty. Maybe next time, we’ll just forego the pants, eh? I doubt they’d see you from the other side of the table.”
She’d like to answer but she knows better.
I hold out my hand. “Boots?” She passes them to me. “Foot one.” I extend my hand at waist height, about a foot above the seat of the chair. She carefully lifts her right foot, making it to my knee before cringing.
“Sit back a little, baby. It’ll go easier.”
She presses her weight onto her palms on the sides of the seat, then tips back in the chair. Her eyes close as she rolls over the plug, but she opens them again so she can place her foot in my hand.
“How bad is it, Isabella?” I slip the boot over her toes and jiggle it over her foot and around her ankle. The delicate stocking makes an unlikely appearance at the top of the boot, and the contrast is ever so appealing.
“It’s okay,” she answers, teeth grit against the discomfort.
“I’m trusting your answers,” I remind her.
She nods. Doesn’t want to be babied, and I can totally respect that. I can even have a little fun. With her boot-clad heel still in my hand, I draw her leg to the side, opening her up to my view. “Goddamn, that is a beautiful sight. You, bare, chained open for me…I bet the air feels good on your sore pussy.”
“Yes, Master,” she answers evenly.
“Boot.” We repeat the process on the other side, and I hold her legs wide open, just looking. I’m not taking her this way tonight. I lower her feet gently to the floor and hold out my hand to help her stand up.
“Lift your arms, please.” She hisses as I slide her shirt up and over her head, tamping down her static-laden hair as I admire the bra she chose for tonight—midnight blue silk with a white lace trim. I step closer and reach around her back to unclasp it. “This just keeps getting better and better.” I slide the straps down her arms and toss the bra on top of her jeans.
“I gotta tell you, sweetheart, I am really holding back right now. I’d like nothing better than to sink to my knees right now and feast on that sweet after-dinner drink between your legs, but…once in a while, a guy’s just got to stick to the plan. Know what I mean?”
“Yes, Master,” she says. I swear there’s a little quiver in her lips.
“I knew you’d respect that.” I slide one finger between the chain and her soft skin, close to where it’s clipped to the waist belt. She moans out loud at the contact, and I’m nowhere near touching her where she really wants it. I step closer. Her tits are so damn tempting, but I need to let them be; need to let those nipples reach for me but not make contact.
“You did well with the chain tonight. I’m very, very proud of you.”
“Thank you, Master.”
My finger slides down the links, her knees wobble, I tighten my grip at her waist with my other hand. “What do you think, Isabella? Could you have handled another link taken away?”
Her eyes click to mine, fully aware now. “If I’d earned my punishment, I would’ve happily taken it, Master.”
“That’s an excellent answer.” My finger continues to slide, rounding the puffy part of her lip. “Do you think you can hold onto the plug if I take away the chain?”
“Yes, Master,” she answers immediately.
“Let’s see.” I unclip the chain, threading it back through the horizontal chain and letting it fall loose in front before unclipping the opposite end.
Isabella tips forward slightly as the blood rushes back. I spread my fingers over her opening and rub both sides of swollen flesh without touching her middle. “That feel good?”
“God yes, Master,”
“Feel how hard you made me, Isabella. Touch me.”
She reaches out to my pants and rubs her hand over the bulge.
“No, princess. Take it out and really touch me.”
“’Tsokay,” I answer immediately, tucking her hair behind her ears while she works open my pants. The instant her warm hands are on my skin, I’m ready.
I spin her around and help her to her knees. “Remember that whipping bench position we did earlier? I want you just like that for me.”
She sinks to all fours and slides her head forward onto folded arms. Her skin is pink from the constant contact with the rough denim, and I twist it experimentally and pump the tip in and out, pleased the plug is not forcing its way out. I line up behind her and touch her pussy for the first time today. She rocks back into my hand and moans, and the sound is so needy I feel myself twitch in response.
“You and your plug seem to have become good friends tonight; you’re nice and wet for me, princess..” I tweak the plug gently while slipping my fingers through her folds, offering her pleasure to offset the challenge. “Go ahead, sweetheart. You can move, moan, beg…whatever you like. When you’re ready, you can even come like gangbusters for me.”
This elicits a very loud, frustrated growl. Her sounds are my roadmap, guiding me through her head space and letting me know as she passes each milestone. While still working the plug, I slide two fingers inside her pussy, testing, measuring. “Does anything hurt?”
“Not pain. Just…pressure.”
I add a third finger inside, tapping the plug, reassuring her with my voice. “Pressure is good, princess. Pressure means I’m taking over your body…everywhere.
“You’re so fucking perfect, Isabella,” I promise her, scooting closer so my thighs receive every backward thrust. I pull away my fingers and carefully align my tip with her pussy, delicately working the plug all the while. It feels different as I enter her, ever so slowly. “So fucking tight for me…do I feel good inside you?”
Methodically, carefully, excruciatingly slowly, I make my way inside. Her voice is a high keening cry, an out of control wail, a complicated reaction of pleasure and pain no human brain would be capable of sorting out in the moment.
“OH, GOD,” she cries in choked sobs.
“Does it feel good?” I beg her one final time, the last of my control slipping away.
“Yes!” she roars. “Fuck me. God, fuck me, please!”
The rubber band snaps and I let go finally, assured that my sweet Isabella is safe.