Page 114 of Mine To Hunt

I lift my hips higher, shameless, offering myself like I have no pride left. He lets me chase for a few more strokes, tongue pressing just a fraction firmer, enough that the coil inside me starts to wind impossibly tight.

I can feel it happening. The flutter deep inside, the way my clit throbs harder with every heartbeat, the heat spreading outward until my whole pelvis feels like it’s glowing.

My breathing turns shallow and frantic. I’m right there, teetering, every nerve screaming for release. And then he stops. Completely.

He pulls back so suddenly the absence feels like a physical slap. I hear the faint wet sound as his mouth leaves me, feel the rush of cool air against slick, heated skin.

The mattress shifts as he sits back on his heels, putting deliberate distance between us. My hips keep rolling in tiny, helpless circles for several long seconds, searching blindly for the mouth that was just there.

Nothing. Only empty air and the humiliating drip of my own arousal sliding down my inner thighs.

I’m panting so hard my chest hurts. The blindfold is soaked at the edges from tears, but fresh ones prick behind my eyelids now, frustration, need, humiliation all twisting together until I can barely think.

"Please…" The word slips out, cracked and raw, barely more than a whisper.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t acknowledge the plea.

Instead I feel him shift forward again. This time it’s not his tongue. The blunt, hot head of his cock nudges against my folds, slow, torturously slow glides that part me without entering.

He drags himself upward through the wetness he’s created, coating every inch of himself, then presses the underside right against my clit. Just enough pressure to make me gasp, to make my hips snap upward again, chasing that brief spark of friction. Then he slides back down.

He teases the entrance, dipping in the shallowest inch, letting me feel the stretch, the promise of fullness, before retreating entirely. The withdrawal is agonizing. My walls clench around nothing, fluttering uselessly.

He repeats the motion.

Up to my clit again, a firmer press this time, circling once, twice, letting the ridge catch just right before pulling away.

Down again, another shallow dip, another retreat. Up. Circle. Down. Dip.

Each cycle is identical in cruelty, but the intervals between feel longer every time, as though he’s watching, counting my breaths, waiting until my body starts to climb before snatching it away.

By the second full pass I’m whimpering continuously, small, pitiful sounds I can’t stop. By the third my thighs are shaking so badly I can barely hold the position on my knees. By the fourth I’m outright sobbing, quiet, hiccuping sobs that make my whole body jolt.

Tears stream freely under the blindfold now, soaking into the scarf. My wrists chafe painfully against the binding, shoulders screaming from being held back so long, but none of it registers over the relentless, throbbing ache between my legs. Every nerve feels raw, over-sensitized, screaming for something to end the torture.

He pauses after the fourth withdrawal, long enough that I think maybe, maybe this time he’ll take pity. My hips keep twitching, small aborted thrusts into empty space.

I can feel how swollen I am, how obscenely wet, how every tiny movement sends fresh sparks of frustrated pleasure-pain through me. Still he waits.

My sobs quiet into shaky, uneven breaths. I’m trembling all over, sweat cooling on my skin, muscles burning from strain and denial. Only when the frantic edge of my arousal has dulled just slightly, just enough that I’m no longer right on the brink, does he move again.

This time he doesn’t tease with shallow dips. He presses forward in one long, slow, inexorable slide, stretching me open inch by devastating inch until he’s buried completely.

The fullness after so much emptiness is almost too much, my walls flutter wildly around him, trying to pull him deeper even as my body struggles to adjust. He stays there, motionless, letting me feel every thick ridge, every subtle pulse of him inside me.

"Don’t you dare come yet." He murmurs, the first words he’s spoken in what feels like forever. His voice is calm, almost gentle, which somehow makes it worse.

Then he begins to move. Long, languid thrusts that drag against every oversensitive place without ever increasing speed. Each withdrawal leaves me achingly empty, each re-entry fills me so perfectly I want to cry with relief.

But the rhythm stays punishingly controlled. Never fast enough to build real momentum, never hard enough to tip me over. He pulls out entirely twice more, each time waiting until my whimpers turn into full, broken cries before sliding back in with that same torturous slowness.

"Please." I beg again, voice cracked. "I can’t. I can’t take it anymore."

"You can." He says calmly. "And you will."

He starts thrusting again, still measured, still controlled, but deeper now, hitting that spot with devastating accuracy on every forward stroke. My head falls back, mouth open on silent screams as the pressure coils tighter and tighter.

This time he doesn’t stop when I start to climb. He keeps going, pace unchanging, letting me spiral higher while my pleas turn incoherent.