That he’s willing to do whatever it takes not just to have me, but to make me happy.
Finishing with his chest and stomach, I wash his underarms and the top of his broad shoulders, then massage the thick, heavy muscles around his neck with my soapy hands. He seems to enjoy that, arching into my touch like a big cat, so I knead the area some more, then crouch and wash his legs. His thighs are like steel, with zero give in the powerful muscles, his glutes as round and hard as a bodybuilder’s. Unable to help myself, I squeeze those tight globes and look up, blinking at the water spray, to see his eyes closed and his head tipped back in purely masculine bliss.
He likes what I’m doing. Likes it very much, judging by the rapid hardening of his cock.
Impulsively, I close my soapy fist around that thickening column and cup his balls with my other hand, then glance up through the water spray again. He’s staring down at me now, the rapturous look replaced by one of predatory hunger.
“Keep doing that,” he says hoarsely, slipping his hand into my hair. “And take it into your mouth.” Closing his fist around the wet strands, he guides my face to his groin, the pressure gentle but inescapable.
I obediently close my lips around his now-fully-erect cock, tasting water and the faint remnants of soap as I shift forward onto my knees. Despite my earlier orgasms, heat is curling deep within my core, my sex beginning to pulse anew. I might’ve started it this time, but he’s taking over, taking charge as he always does. Unbidden, the recollection of the time he punished me comes to mind, and my inner muscles clench on a surge of need, the images in my head more erotic than any pornographic movie.
He fucked my mouth that time. Tied my hands behind my back and took it without mercy, controlling my breath, my very life. It had been brutal, utterly crushing, yet it made me ache with this same agonizing arousal, made me crave more of the darkness.
I don’t fully understand why his roughness turns me on so much, why I enjoy being in his control like this. Prior to meeting Peter, my sexual fantasies rarely involved any element of force or coercion; vanilla was my comfort zone, even in my mind. Could the trauma of our first encounter in my kitchen have transformed me somehow? Maybe some wires got crossed in the aftermath, and the violence I experienced at his hands became linked with pleasure in my mind?
Either way, whatever the reason, I burn as he pushes his cock deeper into my mouth, so deep I almost gag. Reflexively, I brace myself on the steely columns of his thighs, but I don’t fight him, not even when he starts to move his hips, thrusting into my mouth with increasing savagery. I just stare up at him, blinking away the water spray, and when the pulsing ache between my thighs grows unbearable, I slip one hand there and rub my clit, letting his thrusts pace my fingers’ movements.
He notices, and his hard features tighten, the predatory look intensifying. “Yes, that’s it, ptichka.” His voice is a low, thick rumble as he pushes deep into my throat, cutting off my air. “Keep doing that. Let me see you come.”
Eyes watering, I obey, rubbing my clit faster as I hold his gaze. My other hand clenches on his thigh, my heart rate surging as my body catches on to the lack of air.
I’m not breathing.
I’m not breathing, and there’s water on my face.
My entire body stiffens, my eyes squeezing shut and my muscles locking up as my mind flashes back to the torture in my kitchen, when he had me drowning in the sink. The recollection chills me, but doesn’t cool the fire in my core. Somehow, the terror intensifies it all, ramping up the tension, and even as I claw at Peter’s thigh in panic, my other hand frantically works my clit.
I come so hard I see explosions of light behind my tightly closed eyelids. The spasms rack my body, making me scream, and it’s only when I slump against Peter’s legs that I realize my mouth is free and I’m breathing.
Dazed, I look up and find him fisting his cock, a savage grimace on his face. Then, with a harsh groan, he comes, spurting ropes of cum all over my face and hair. I blink up at him, wiping it off my forehead with a shaky hand, and he helps me up to my feet, his grip strong, though he must also still be recovering from his orgasm.
I don’t say anything and neither does he as he washes my hair for the second time. It’s not until we step out of the shower and he’s toweling me off that he speaks.