“Thank you, my beast,” she said, soft words that drifted around them, words only for them (not that anyone could hear anything unless she flipped on audio), words for him, words that settled the wild in his eyes.
When he gave her that gift, she reached out and took tight hold of his cock.
He grunted and the wild swept back.
“Do not thrust unless you’re told to, Olivier,” she warned. “This cock is my cock. As was my wont, you’ve sweetly offered it to me. Now I’ll do with it as I will.”
“Yes, Mistress,” he hissed out, not anger, his breaths coming fast and uneven as he held back what she knew was an overwhelming desire to fuck her fist.
But it was more.
It was the first time she’d touched him in any real, direct way.
And she’d done it by claiming a man’s most precious possession.
And he’d done very well. He was so very beautiful. And she’d looked forward to this all week.
She’d experienced more than a persistent anticipation all day, and the day before, and the day before that (and so on), knowing she was coming to the club.
As the time drew nearer, it was a want that kept her panties relentlessly wet.
So as her steed had performed very well so far, it was time for his reward.
She stroked him and did not go easy. She wanted to see the pull arch that powerhouse of a body to her will. She continued to fist him tight, tugging hard at the root and the tip, jerking his body into a deeper arc of offering to his Mistress.
His head dropped back and he fought it. Not the pull, the relinquishing of himself. She saw the tenseness that caused his muscles, all of them, already standing out in relief, to start straining.
With relentless and swiftly increasing tugs, she didn’t give up.
It took time, long, glorious minutes before he cracked and she knew precisely when as he gave her some of what he was holding back, the grunts that grated up his chest and filled the room like explosions, pounding against her clit.
There was so much of him, so much she wanted to see, it was impossible to take it all in as she kept working him, harder, tighter, the pull more brutal.
She knew his ass was clenching, she was forcing it from her manipulation but more, he needed to do it to stop himself from taking over.
Her focus remained on his cock, his harnessed balls restrained but so fucking big, they still rocked with her pulls. But her mind was on his ass and how she intended to have him again, just like this, but fill him, perhaps with something special that would spread out on the floor around his calves and feet, swaying with her movements.
On this thought and the one that chased it, the one that made it difficult not to press her hand between her legs, it happened.
He broke.
The tenseness of his body vanished. He was hers to work at will.
He was hers.
He gave himself over to her, and if the sight of it etched in every line of his frame wasn’t enough, he gave her more.
Lifting his head, she caught her breath and felt the gush of wet between her legs at the burn in his eyes, the look on his face so dark with need, she fancied it cast a shadow on them both.
“Yeah, Amélie … Mistress,” he ground out. “Fuck yeah. Fuck yeah. Jack my dick. Jack my fuckin’ dick.” His words so affecting, her strokes came faster, rougher, testing his flexibility as he fully capitulated and gave it all to her. “Jack your dick. Jack your dick, Amélie.”
Her voice was husky in a way she could not hide when she allowed, “You can meet my strokes with your thrusts, Olivier. Give my cock to me. Fuck my hand with that brute.”
He didn’t need to be asked twice, thrusting into her fist, forcing his own body into an impossibly beautiful arc. His head fell back again, the column of his throat convulsing with each grunt that came with each thrust, his jawline hard.
She felt the tension gather, shifted her grip from wrist up to wrist below, and ordered, “Offer your seed to me.”
“Fuck yeah,” he groaned and convulsed, his body staying arched, only his hips powered into her hand, the movements fluid yet spasmodic, coming in rapid succession, like an animal rutting.
And then on a muted roar, he spewed his seed, the milky jet of it soaring up his chest, wetting him from belly to nipple.
And it kept coming.
“Beautiful,” she breathed.
She held him tightly throughout, even as his drives weakened, his back slightly relaxed, and his head began to loll on his shoulders.
“Stay in position,” she ordered when he stopped thrusting altogether and she took over, gently milking out the last of his seed. “Stay offered to me, Olivier,” she repeated.
Reaching her other hand out, she cupped his harnessed balls.
And carefully squeezed.
A final gush of milky cum splashed on his flat belly as his hips juddered violently.
“Jesus,” he murmured, the tone one of stunned surprise, a shudder lightly shaking his body.
She stroked down and held him at the base, feeling the coolness of the ring.
“If you must, you may relax,” she started and his head came up, that sated look on his handsome face one she could get dangerously addicted to, soft around his mouth and eyes, lips parted.
Hers.
In that moment, all hers.
“But I’d prefer, mon chou, if you’d keep yourself presented to your Mistress while I go about the task of cleaning you up and preparing you for more play.”
He blinked.
He wasn’t expecting more.
She fought a smile.