My entire world is rocked. I feel spent and used in the most lovely way.
“Up on your knees, pet.”
I couldn’t rise to my feet right now if he demanded it. But he helps me up to my knees and as soon as I’m perched before him again, I open wide, waiting for him to take my mouth again. The admiration in his gaze makes my belly flip. Without direction, he pushes forward, shoving his huge cock into my throat, and he holds my head in place, fucking my mouth as he desires.
I gag slightly and he retreats; his eyes trained on mine flash with something dark. “Don’t stop now,” he warns.
I shake my head; I won’t stop until he makes me. I want to use my hands, and he hasn’t expressly forbid it this time, so with this cock bobbing in and out of my mouth, I test the waters, trailing my fingernails over his solid thighs. When he doesn’t stop me, I grow bold, wrapping both fists firmly around his generous length and stroking him between each thrust.
“Fuck.” The word rumbles from deep in his chest, an almost animalistic sound. Seconds later, his fists tighten in my hair and a hot jet of semen coats my throat.
I swallow him down and once he’s finished, he bends forward and brushes his lips over my forehead, then pulls on black boxer briefs.
My limbs are heavy, and all the blood has settled into my lower half from remaining on my knees for so long. I’m shivering and weak.
“Come here,” he says, gathering me up in his arms and moving me onto the bed. He pulls the quilt over me and holds me quietly. After several minutes, he tilts my chin up as though he’s inspecting me. His eyes are dark and stormy, and I don’t understand why. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” My voice comes out hoarse and rough.
“Would you like some water?” he asks.
I nod.
“I’ll be right back. Just lie back and rest.”
He rises from the bed, and I watch his tight butt as he heads for my kitchen. In the silence, my gaze wanders to the candle he’s placed on my dresser, its flame dancing in the otherwise dark room.
The initial satisfaction fades and a deep shame over what I’ve done—with a perfect stranger, a man I’ve hired—threatens to overwhelm me. Confused by the quick shift in my emotions, I blink back tears.
I rest my eyes for a few moments and when I open them, he’s standing over me wearing nothing more than boxers that barely contain him and the generous swell at the front. His eyes are soulful, and his look is one of concern. He brings a glass of cool water to my lips, and I take a long drink, grateful for his compassion.
“Are you okay with everything that happened?” he asks, noticing my solemn mood.
“Yes, I’m fine.” It was just a blow job, for goodness’ sake. But I think some part of me knows it’s only the tip of the iceberg. Submission. Blindfolds. What’s next? Before I have time to ponder that, his cell phone rings.
He apologizes as he grabs his pants from the floor and fishes his phone from the pocket. As he looks down at the screen, he frowns. “Do you mind if I answer? It might be something important.”
“It’s fine.”
When he hits a button, the sound of feminine voice crying in the otherwise silent room startles us both. In the darkened room, he must have inadvertently activated the speaker phone.
“Hale?” she sobs, her voice frantic.
He quickly takes the phone off speaker and presses it to his ear. “Yeah, it’s me. I’m here.” His tone is soothing, worried.
Hale…is that his name? What kind of name is that? It’s surprisingly fitting. Its association with the weather, forceful and a little scary, is just like him. I love it. I wonder who the woman is, a sister? A friend? My stomach sinks when I realize she could be another client.
It’s impossible not to listen, and he makes no move to leave the room or prevent me from overhearing. Whoever the woman is, she’s sobbing, and though I can’t make out what she’s saying, he listens attentively, repeatedly telling her that everything will be okay in a solemn and comforting tone. After several minutes of kind encouragements, he tells her that he’s not alone, and that he has to go. He ends the conversation by telling her to run a warm bath and make herself a mug of tea, and that he will check on her later.
When he hangs up, his posture is so rigid he looks like he could crush the phone in his hand. He releases a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry about that.”
Of course I want to ask who the mystery woman is, but remember we’ve made an agreement not to delve into each other’s personal lives. “Is…is she okay?”
“Do you know what aftercare is, Brielle?”
“No.”
“Chrissy is a submissive at a club I belong to. She was shaken up after a rough scene with a Dom tonight, and he left before she could talk with him about what she had just experienced.”
“And she trusted you to talk her through it?”
“Yes.” He places his hand against mine and meets my eyes. “We will always talk about how you’re feeling after a lesson. I won’t leave until I know you’re okay. And if you have questions, or unexpected emotions pop up afterward, you can call me. I have a cell phone number for clients that I’ll give you.”
“Okay.”
“I’m sorry tonight’s lesson got cut short. I didn’t intend for that to happen.”
“That’s okay. It sounds like she needed you.”
I wonder what that means, a submissive at a club he belongs to. A sex club? Does he play with her too? A pang of jealousy flares inside me, but I ignore it. He’s a Dominant hired by scores of women for sexual instruction, yet there’s no denying he’s a caring partner. I’m not mad; I’m more curious than anything.