“It’s . . . strange,” I say.
“Good,” Dean growls. “Now climb on my cock.”
“Right now?” I squeak. “With this?”
“That’s right,” he says. “This is for me, not you. I want to feel it while you ride me.”
Dean lays back against the cushions, his cock jutting upward, expecting me to climb on.
Swallowing hard, I shift positions.
Every tiny movement makes the plug move inside of me, reigniting the nerves, reminding me of its existence.
It’s a little uncomfortable.
But also . . . it feels good in a way I’ve never felt before. An entirely new sensation.
I straddle Dean, worried that the plug might fall out.
No chance of that—the flared shape keeps it exactly in place inside me.
Slowly, I lower myself down on his cock.
“Oh, fuuuck,” I groan.
Dean’s cock has never felt so enormous, not even the first time.
There’s no space inside me for both his cock and the plug, and yet I’m forcing them both in.
The tightness is insane.
Dean groans simultaneously, feeling the pressure and grip as intensely as I am.
“God yes,” he moans. “I can feel it rubbing against my cock.”
I slide all the way down on him. Then, carefully, I begin to ride him.
Wrong — MAX
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The sensation is so extreme that we can barely breathe, let alone speak.
It feels good. I mean really fucking good.
I’m ashamed how good it feels, but it’s too pleasurable to care. I want more.
I increase the pace, and Dean instantly begins to cum. He grips my waist, making a desperate moaning sound, his whole body shaking beneath me.
I fucking love being on top of him.
I love riding a man like Dean.
Every tendon stands out on his neck, his chest and shoulders swollen with the effort of fucking me. He looks more powerful and muscular than ever before.
And yet, he’s completely at my mercy.
I’m the one dominating him now. I’m the one in control of his pleasure.
I can ride him faster or slower, I can grind or bounce on his cock.
I can tease the pleasure out of him at my will. He’s shaking beneath me, kissing me ferociously, utterly obsessed with me in this moment.
I think I could ask him for anything, and he’d give it to me.
I could never get this rush fucking a lesser man.
The more violent and vicious Dean behaves, the more of a thrill it is to see him like this: gasping, vulnerable, and totally wrapped up in me.
I’m high on it.
I make him cum over and over, and every time he does, I cum too, because I’m drunk with the eroticism, with this sense of omnipotence.
I will never be physically strong, not like Dean.
But I feel powerful when I have power over Dean.
“You like that?” Dean growls, his hands gripping my waist. “You like riding me with that plug up your ass?”
He said it was for him, but he knows how good it feels for me, too. It’s a doubling of pleasure, like I’m being fucked twice over.
“Yes,” I admit, blushing with the taboo of it. “I fucking love it.”
“Good girl,” Dean says.
I cum again, melting with pleasure and satisfaction.
“I want to see it,” Dean says.
He flips me over and shoves my face down in the pillows, pulling my hips up so my ass is in the air. He drives into me from behind, fucking me hard and fast.
I know he’s looking at the plug in my ass. I should feel embarrassed by that.
But right now I don’t give a fuck. We’re way past shyness. I want Dean to take his pleasure out of me any way he likes. I want my body to be his plaything.
“Harder,” I beg. “Fuck me harder.”
I want more, more, more.
There’s never enough.
Dean roars as he explodes into me, what feels like a gallon of cum pumping out of him.
I turn my face into the pillows, grinning with delight.
15
Dean
Only a week remains before Christmas.
That means I only have one more week with Cat as my pet.
That’s a problem, because I’m completely fixated on her. She occupies my mind night and day.
An additional problem: I fucking need her to cum.
I tested it on Saturday morning when Bram walked down to the village with Valon.
I stayed alone in our dorm room, setting myself up in my bed, planning to try to stroke my cock light and steady like Cat does. I wanted to prove to myself that I was the one in control of my orgasms. That I could make myself cum over and over just like she does, that I didn’t need her.
I laid back and tried to think of things other than Cat. I didn’t even want to use her for mental stimulation.
But no matter what kind of woman I tried to picture, tall or short, thin or curvy, I couldn’t get hard. They all seemed bland and insipid, as plastic as dolls.
I only felt that spark of lust when I pictured Cat on her knees before me, with that wild mane of dark curls all around her face, and those big, innocent eyes looking up at me above her mischievous smile.
Then my cock swelled to life. I couldn’t help but picture her crawling around in that sinuous way, the candlelight gleaming on her tight body.
I scowled, thinking that I would use her for fantasy, but I’d cum all on my own, without her touch.
I stroked myself, imagining it was Cat’s small hand wrapped around my cock, making it look enormous.
My hand was too big, too rough, too clumsy. It felt wrong.
Far from cumming multiple times, I couldn’t bring myself to climax at all.
I wanted her, not myself.
Disgusted, I flung the covers off and went to shower, pent up and furious.
I can’t be this dependent on her. Especially not with so little time left.
It’s dangerous and weak. I told myself I’d never make this mistake again, wrapping up my desires in a woman.
That night in the tower, I fucked Cat viciously, telling myself I was only using her, that I didn’t care about her at all.
I never should have told her about my mother.
I never should have told her anything at all.
Cat didn’t seem to care that I was in an awful mood. She didn’t mind that I was rough with her. She bit and scratched me back until we had scattered the cushions and rubbed our backs raw on the floor.
When we lay there after, panting and sweating . . . I felt nothing but peace.
Sunday, I go hunting for Lola Fischer.
I find her lounging in the common room of the Gatehouse, with Dixie Davis and a half-dozen other members of the Dixie mafia.
They’re a motley group, all ages and appearances. The Dixie mafia is one of the only mafia groups not connected by family or country of origin. They recruit out of prison, and their members include both wealthy entrepreneurs who run the businesses along the Strip in Biloxi, as well as decidedly less-reputable members operating riverboat casinos, strip joints, and bingo parlors all through the Appalachian states.
Hence why Lola dresses like a dolled-up debutante, while her henchmen Carter Ross and Belkie Blintz look like they’ve never encountered indoor plumbing.