Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 101261 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101261 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
I wondered what that was, that I could submit to El-Mudad without resistance but submission to Neil was most exhilarating when antagonistic. Was it the difference in their personalities? The smaller age gap between El-Mudad and I?
"Are you going to join us?" Monsieur asked Sir.
He shook his head slowly. "I think I'd rather watch for now. You're both so beautiful. I’ll use her when you’re finished."
Monsieur grinned at him before turning back to watch me slowly circle my clit with my middle finger.
"Focus on your breath," Monsieur said, his tone low and gentle. "As I count, you will inhale deeply and begin to circle your clit. Start at the six o'clock position and move your fingertip counterclockwise; don't reach twelve o'clock before the count of five."
This was new. My toes curled at his clinical, detailed instructions.
"Let's begin. One..."
As he counted, I matched both my breath and my touch to his measured pace. The featherlight touch he allowed me, combined with the aching slowness, were tantalizing now; they would be torture in only a few minutes.
The pattern he created was designed to make me impatient, to hold me on the very edge of orgasm for as long as possible. It was something Neil particularly enjoyed tormenting me with, as well, but El-Mudad's methods were less ruthless, more elegantly devious. Why use vibrators and punishment threats to control my orgasms when Monsieur could use my own body as an implement of torture? At the apex of my inhalation, he asked me to hold it while I tapped the very tip of my clit as quickly as I could during a count of two. Then, exhaling for six, I reluctantly slid my finger down the other side of my clit in preparation for the next circle, the next cycle. Each time, it became a little more challenging to concentrate, to restrain myself. I imagined the oxygen I took in arcing through my entire body on a loop that brushed fire through my pelvis, and each inhalation brought me close-ish to climax.
All the while, Monsieur held my gaze with his, moving his hand on his cock at the same measured pace.
I remembered Sir's hand gripping El-Mudad's cock, making him writhe and sweat. The way Monsieur had pleaded, just as he made me plead now, under my breath, my hips rocking on the mattress.
"Don't tense, Sophie," Monsieur scolded me softly. "We've discussed this."
A full-body shiver rippled through me. Oh yes, we had discussed it. Discussed it and worked diligently on it. Monsieur had taken an interest in prolonging and extending my orgasmic state; by not clenching my muscles, the ripples of release didn’t peak, and I could keep going, on and on, before fully climaxing.
He lifted my foot in his hands, turning it this way and that, making intense eye contact with Sir. “I think tonight she'll learn exactly how long she can endure the pinnacle of her pleasure. And how long I can resist her tight, wet little cunt."
I flinched at those words.
Sir noticed. "Do you need lube tonight?"
My heart sank. There I was, wildly turned on with two men focused solely on my pleasure, and my body was not responding the way it should. Diabetes fucked with my whole body all the time, but the worst was when I felt like a failure because I couldn’t gush like a porn star on a particular day.
"I believe I forbade you, as your Sir forbade you, from feeling guilty over things you can't control." Monsieur turned to Sir, who'd risen from the sofa to retrieve the lube from our bag. "What should the punishment be if she plans to continue disobeying us?"
Sir made sure I could read every sadistic option that ran through his mind as he raked his gaze over my body. "Ginger. I’m sure the chefs here have some."
I gasped. Peeled, fresh ginger root in my ass while Sir spanked me? High on my list of worst punishments ever. But it was so difficult not to blame myself for the quirky way my new pal diabetes complicated my sex life.
"You must learn to trust us," Monsieur said, squirting the shockingly cold lube generously over my hand, my vulva, and my panties. "If you're not wet enough for our liking, we have other methods. You're lucky that your Sir is only watching tonight and that I will be the one to decide your punishment. Take your hand away."
Reluctantly, I moved my hand to rest on my lower abdomen.
"Fix your panties," he ordered.
The silk clung to my lube-coated vulva.
"Now, let's begin again."
This time, as much as I wanted to be a good girl and focus on his voice, my breathing, the right pace, I simply could not. I writhed and whined and ached to touch my bare flesh. Even the drenched silk was too much of a barrier.