As his cum hit his face he tried to loosen his grip, but Beverly's hand
held him captive against his own softening cock. She stroked their hands
up and
down, milking the last drops, trying to stimulate him once again.
"What were you thinking of?" she whispered into his ear before beginning to lick his cheeks clean.
"You," Jean-Luc replied. It seemed a safe enough answer.
"Of course me. Specifically?"
He paused, considering his choices before settling on honesty. "Last week."
"Last week?"
"Don't play innocent, Beverly. It doesn't suit you."
She didn't answer him, and reluctantly he opened his eyes to find her
face above his, frowning. It wasn't the good kind of frown, the kind that
meant an evening of fun and games. It was the kind of frown one found
a way of alleviating, quickly, or faced the consequences. "That corset,
on the
other hand. That suited you."
"Did not. Nearly killed me. So unless you're a necropheliac..."
"You just didn't see it from the right perspective," he teased.
"Yours?"
"Mine." He moved his hand off his erection, moving hers as well.
"So show me..."
Jean-Luc began to trail the lightest of touches over her neck, her breasts, her waist, as he began to tell the story his way.
"I am breathing in, dammit."
"Then stop talking." That remark was greeted by a frosty chill, so he explained himself. "When you talk, you take in air."
"When I breathe, I take in air," she retorted. "And I like to breathe."
He pulled on the laces again, trying to get the corset to close.
"Next time, take me with you," she complained. "That way you'll get the right size."
"I did get the right size. Or, at least, the size you told me you wear. Maybe you've just put on a little weight." He knew he was looking for trouble, there, but the truth was the truth--wasn't it?
"I'll have you know I still wear the same size clothing I did in the Academy."
"That's what we all say, Beverly. Now hold still-I'm almost done."
"No, I'm almost done. One more tug like that and you'll crack me a rib."
"Please, Beverly. One last try. Breathe in. And...there!" He pulled back to look at her, and she, in turn, tried an experimental breath. Both were pleased with the results. She could get enough air to survive (barely) while he...
He was staring at a goddess. Above the corset she wore nothing, the stays causing her breast to jut out at him. Below, she wore only stockings attached to the garters. And heels, of course--this sort of outfit would be incomplete without heels. High. Black.
Sometimes the two of them had dinner and then parted company. Sometimes they just spoke, all night long. Sometimes they'd act out his fantasies, sometimes hers. And then there were nights like tonight, where she got the candle-lit romanticism she craved and he got to bring to life the visions he'd carried in his head for decades.
Only one thing was missing, and he reluctantly turned away to light the dozens of votive candles which would obscure the room and highlight the angles of her face, washing away the present and traces of years past.
When he returned, he sank to his knees before this goddess he'd created.
He ran his hands over the thin silk-clad legs, lifting one foot out of its shoe so he could suck on the toes, kiss the arch. Then he continued the kisses upward, gliding his hand behind her knees, tasting the difference between silk and silken flesh at her thighs. His hands ran up the rough brocade of the corset to rest at her waist while his mouth strayed to the curls between her legs, his tongue stretching out to worship this goddess.
He could hear her breathing roughen, could almost feel the way her breasts were rising and falling. Almost, but not quite, and so he guided her backwards, onto the bed, allowing himself to look and touch and feel as he wished.
She was gorgeous. Her hair had begun to fall out of its pins and spilled over her shoulders. She was already reacting to his skill, and he molded his fingers around her nipples, measuring her labored breaths. His tongue continued its assault on her, and on other side of his body her legs raised and lowered as though she were trying to escape his overwhelming ministrations.
A strand of sweaty hair stuck to her cheek and he recalled how wonderful it felt when she took the smooth strands of hair and wrapped them around him. His lowered his hands back to her waist and maneuvered himself so that he was poised over her generous mouth. Her breasts rubbed against his belly with each of their breaths. She tried to say something, but he pushed his way into her mouth, silencing her with his girth.
She was fire around him, sucking hard. Her nose nudged up against his balls, and her exhalations tickled the hair there.
It was all too much--the fantasy come alive, the feel of her under him, around him, her helpless position beneath him, laced in, silenced. It took less than a minute of pushing his way toward her throat before he could take no more. He moved back over her body, pausing only long enough to look at her, to touch the corset which bound her, before burying himself inside her. The bed shook with their efforts, their breathing, their straining for release, and then, in the aftermath, everything went still.
It took many long minutes before Jean-Luc realized that Beverly was out cold, that she had, in fact, lost consciousness some time ago. He smiled at this ultimate compliment to his sensual abilities and sat, cross-legged, keeping watch until his goddess again awoke.
"There's no need to pretend to me. I was there. I know what happened."
"You do." It wasn't a question--more like a challenge.
"Yes. I'm just that good."
She arched one slim eyebrow. She rose from the bed. "Close your eyes."
He did as ordered and heard her bustling about the room. When he was certain she was far enough away he slitted his eyes open.
"I said shut them," she barked.
Sometimes he wondered if they'd ever fully broken the Prytt link. From time to time, as she did whatever it was she was doing, he attempted to discreetly open his eyes, but she always caught him.
At last, after what seemed forever, she was standing next to his side of the bed and she allowed him to open his eyes. He looked up the long expanse of her body, outfitted in what seemed to be a catsuit made of self-sealing EVA material. His glance came to rest on her hands. Some of the items she held were obvious--the blindfold, the cuffs, the ball-gag. The others seemed as though they might be familiar, were it not for the context. "What are those?" he asked.
"You should recognize them--they're from your climbing gear." He made no move of recognition, and she continued. "Crampions and a set of ice picks."
"Whatever for?"
"We'll see just how good you really are," she smirked.