The Sheik Retold(59)

His attitude was authoritative and dominating. His mouth was compressed and his gaze hard. There was nothing soft or tender in his demeanor, no sign of the lover I had known. In this moment, he was the master, and I was merely a slave, and as a slave I was expected to give everything and ask for nothing. All of my instincts recoiled from playing this role, but he had come to me for satisfaction—and I was avowed to give him more than he bargained for.

I reached for him, tentatively at first, closing my hand around him, and caressing slowly up and down. His verge grew and stiffened immediately beneath my touch. In a moment the imperious-looking purple head reared almost to his belly.

"Faster. Harder. Use both hands."

I gripped him tighter, sliding my hands up and down his thick and rigid length, relishing the hot pulsing sensation. I already wished it was buried deep inside me, but it seemed he would deny me that pleasure. Nevertheless, in our weeks as lovers, I had come to appreciate Ahmed's instrument as a source of profound delight. The impressive size and intricate shape, perfectly shaped to fit my body, the satiny skin, and even the bulbous purple head of it all, combined to fascinate and excite me.

The oil was slick and coated him quickly, making him more slippery with the upward and downward strokes of my hands. I watched his expression as he gazed down at me from beneath hooded lids. He palmed my nape, urging me closer to his jutting phallus. "Use your mouth."

"My mouth?" My hands froze as I digested this request.

He regarded my hesitation with a scowl that said he expected obedience.

I wasn't completely ignorant of fellatio, having been exposed to a good deal of erotic art while in India. Only two months ago, I would have been utterly repulsed, but now I found the idea of giving him oral gratification both curious and surprisingly arousing. His verge was already a sensual delight to me even before I had experienced the smell and taste of him.

I was fully sensitized to the scent of manly musk as I drew closer and pressed my lips to his warm, hard flesh. Experimentally, I kissed the smooth head, and began working my way down the side of his shaft with lingering kisses. My gaze sought his as I darted out my tongue to lick him all the way back up. Ahmed's pupils flared, and his fingers tightened on my nape, a reaction that excited and filled me with an odd sense of power. Incited to explore his reactions more deeply, I continued to stroke with my hands while I plied my lips and tongue slowly up and down his length, basking my senses in his smooth skin, musky smell, and tangy salt-tinged taste.

I grew bolder yet, adding short flicks and long swirls of my tongue, alternating these until his hips rocked and his other hand slid deeper into my hair. He made a guttural sound that excited me even more. "Open your mouth."

Once more I hesitated, but there was a note of command in his voice that I could not ignore. I closed my eyes, forcing myself to breathe, fighting off the reflex to gag, as he advanced by slow inches into my mouth. The experience of him, hot, pulsing, and filling my mouth, sent ripples low into my belly and made my inner muscles convulse. I didn't quite know what he expected until he began to move in and out. I then understood that he wished to use my mouth the same way he used my chatte.

I had learned to squeeze my sheath muscles to enhance his pleasure and used my lips the same way. His initial thrusts were gentle and shallow, but as he grew more excited, he became rougher, with his hands tightening on my head and his fingers fisting tightly in my hair. I snaked a hand up and down his hard thigh, loving the slightly abrasive feel of his hairy skin beneath my fingers. I fondled his heavy sac and then caressed my way to his taut buttocks, clasping and squeezing them with the ebb and flow of his flexing muscles as he slid himself in and out of my mouth.

His motions became more frantic and his thrusts deeper. His hands tightened in my hair, and his breathing became ragged. I knew his release was imminent even before he told me.

"You will swallow."

His taste was no longer strange to me, but the idea of swallowing his seed was. Still, I refused to balk. It was obvious that he had come to me determined that I should take no pleasure in this experience. He expected me to satisfy him while receiving no reciprocal gratification—but he was sadly mistaken. I refused to give him that kind of satisfaction. I refused to act as a mere receptacle. No, as before, he would give and I would take exactly what I wanted from him, and what I wanted most was the control he had sought to take from me.

I felt the same as when I had initiated my first kiss. The taste of him had only sharpened my hunger for more. Much more. I willed my throat to relax, to open, to take him as far as I could. With a constant sucking motion, I drew him in until he filled my mouth to the back of my throat. With my hands on his buttocks, I urged him deeper still.

His hips jerked with a low and panting groan. "Grand Dieu! Just like that, swallow me whole."

I was growing dizzy with the pure headiness of taking control, of the power I had usurped from him. Nothing existed for me outside of commanding his pleasure. It was mine to give or to withhold. I cupped his sac, finding him rock hard to my touch and ready to spend. I swallowed harder and squeezed his arse, willing him to give me his release.

He threw his head back with a cry and bucked his hips wildly in a hissing stream of Arabic. I shut my eyes as his hot liquid surge hit my tongue and the back of my throat, continuing to suck and swallow until I'd milked every drop from him. When I released him from my mouth, his hands were braced on my shoulders, and his body trembled. He appeared dazed, depleted, and for the first time, utterly vulnerable. When he finally opened his eyes to look into mine, I perceived intense satisfaction, but there was something more, something else I had never seen before.