Pierce Paris was on his knees in Lily Lane's bedroom by ten in the evening, naked, wrists cuffed loose in his lap, and Lily was still in a black satin robe pacing the rug in front of him with a glass of red wine. "Two rules tonight," she said. "You do not move. You do not come without permission. If you break either one I sit on your face for an extra ten minutes after you come, with no breaks. Yes?"
"Yes, Lily."
"Good." She set the glass on the dresser. The robe came off her shoulders and pooled at her feet in one slow shrug. Underneath she wore nothing but a high-cut pair of black panties and the ink that ran down her shoulders and her thighs. She walked back to him, lifted his chin with two fingers, and looked down at him for a long unhurried moment.
"Lie back. Flat. Hands above your head, palms up. Eyes on the ceiling until I am sitting on you."
He went down. She stood over him for a beat longer, took a step forward, slid the panties off, dropped them onto his chest, and watched him fight the urge to look. He kept his eyes on the ceiling. She rewarded that with the only soft sound she had made all night.
"Smart boy."
She climbed onto the bed and turned around above him, one knee on either side of his head, facing his feet. He could feel the heat of her before she lowered. He could not see her face. What he could see, when she finally settled and the weight of her thighs closed around his ears and the world narrowed down to the warmth and the slow rocking pressure of her cunt across his mouth, was his own hard cock, and her hand reaching back behind her, and the small bottle of oil she set on his stomach.
"Open your mouth and start. I'll do my part."
The first stroke felt like a held breath. Her hand wrapped him at the base, slow and firm, and slid up the full length of him with an oiled drag that he felt in his teeth. She did not move her hips. She just sat. Solid, warm, soft, settled. She let him work the rhythm out for himself, tongue slow and patient, one breath at a time, and matched his rhythm with the rhythm of her hand on his cock. Up when he licked up. Down when he licked down. Twist at the head when his tongue circled. Soft squeeze at the base when his nose pressed against her clit. The mirror of it was almost cruel.
Three minutes in, she rocked her hips down for the first time. Pressed in firm. Held. He could not breathe. She counted four seconds in her head and lifted just enough to let him pull a single deep ragged inhale through his nose, then sank again. Held. Lifted. Held. The first time it happened he panicked and her hand on his cock did not change pace, and the panic eased, and on the next press he relaxed into it because she had taught him how. By the fifth time she did it she felt the shift in his hips. She rewarded it with a slow, longer stroke up his shaft that took eight full seconds.
"Good," she said softly, mostly to herself. "There you go."
She kept going. Slow patient strokes, tight at the head, loose down the shaft, the kind of stroking you do for a man you are not in any hurry to finish. Every minute or two she rocked down again, smothered him for a count of four or five, and lifted just before it tipped. Every one of those held him at a different state of starvation, and every release of pressure made him gasp into her cunt and lick harder, and every time he licked harder she stroked slower in answer, refusing to reward the desperation with any speed of her own.
By the fifteenth minute he was leaking over her fingers and she was grinding shallow circles against his mouth and the rhythm of his stroking had gone soft in his chest. By the twentieth minute she had taken him to the edge twice and pulled back twice. By the twenty-fifth she had set her free hand into his hair, not to steer, just to hold, and the weight of it on his forehead was almost unbearable in its tenderness.
The third edge came faster than she meant. She felt the tell at the base of him under her fingertips, the small swelling pulse that says a man is three strokes from finishing whether he likes it or not, and she let go entirely. Sat down full weight on his face. Held. He was making a high tight sound under her that she understood without hearing it. She did not lift. She counted slow in her head, ten seconds this time, eleven, and then rose just enough for him to drag a single shaking breath, and held there at half-pressure on his face.
"Not yet," she said quietly above him. "Two more. Then maybe."
The fourth edge she did with both hands. One wrapped around the shaft, the other cupping his balls firm. The rhythm was patient, almost lullaby slow, and at the moment he started to break she released both and reached behind herself to push his head harder against her cunt instead. He came with no contact at all, his cock twitching empty in the air above his stomach, and made a sound into her that she felt all the way up her spine. She held him there until his breathing went steady.
"Good. That was a ruin. It does not count. You still have not come."
She wrapped him up again. This time she did not stop. Long, oiled, two-handed strokes, building speed slowly the way you build a fire, all the way up his length and back down, twist at the head every fourth stroke, light squeeze at the base on every sixth. She could feel the rhythm of his tongue go ragged underneath her, feel him forget what he was supposed to be doing, feel the small begging vibration of his throat against her where she sat. She did not stop. She did not slow. She rocked her hips down hard against his face on the same beat as her grip tightened.
"Now."
The first thick rope of cum arced up high against his stomach and onto her wrist. She did not let go. The second cumshot hit her forearm and ran in a slow line back down into her palm. The third was a single hot burst of cum that pooled in her hand because she had angled her grip there to catch it, and the fourth and fifth and sixth spurts came fast and short and pulsing in her fist, and she just kept stroking him gently through every last load, slow up, slow down, slow up, slow down, milking the very last of him out with the relentless calm of someone who has done this a hundred times and is in absolutely no hurry to stop.
And the entire time she came down she ground softly on his mouth, slow circles, breath catching hard at the top of every one, until on the eighth or ninth small spurt out of him she finally let her own orgasm break and she went silent above him, hips rocking slow and shallow and shaking, and his cock kept twitching weakly into her hand because the rhythm of her cunt against his tongue would not let it stop.
When she lifted off him a long minute later his face was wet and his eyes were unfocused and his cock was lying soft against his stomach in a small white pool of his own come. She wiped her hand carefully on the towel she had set aside earlier, picked up her wine glass off the nightstand, and stood over him barefoot and naked, looking down with the small private smile she only ever gave him when an evening had gone exactly the way she wanted it.
"Stay there. I want to look at you for a minute. Then we are going to have a bath, and we are going to talk about Tuesday."
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