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I shiver as I come, moaning softly.
“Again,” Master Séverin orders before going back to sucking my nipple into his hot, wet mouth.
This time Master Erek is twisting and pinching and pulling my other nipple, and desire is like a knife, stabbing deep into my system with every excruciating pinch.
Yes.
“Come for us, darling,” he says quietly.
And obedient Girl that I am, I come for them, my pussy clenching, then squirting a little as I ride out the waves trembling through me.
His hand slips over my inner thigh, and he laughs. “Ah, she squirted,” he tells Master Séverin.
“Let’s make her do it again.”
Master Séverin attacks both nipples, sucking, licking, pinching, teasing, and pleasure is sharp and lovely. Undeniable. I try to ride the wave, but they don’t let me.
“Come for us, darling,” Master Erek demands, and I do.
It’s no less a shock, this orgasm after so many others. I groan as my body convulses with the power of it. Or maybe with the power of Master Erek’s voice drawing my climax from me, with the knowledge that I am helpless against it. Against them. And god, I fucking love it. Love the overload. Love their utter command over me. Love that edge of worry and wonder about Master Séverin that lurks beneath every sensation. I love that every single thing about this moment is utterly twisted.
When I stop shaking, I am overcome with the power of their command. With not only the power these two Master wield over my body, but somehow, my heart. It’s all the same right now.
“Again,” Master Séverin says, and there is something in his voice, some edge of the pain I see in his eyes.
I don’t understand it, but it brings out a need in me to please him that’s very different than anything I’ve felt with any Master or Mistress before.
But I’m thinking too much again.
I force my body to focus on him torturing my nipples with his hands and his mouth. I come for him, hard and jolting, and as Master Erek bends to suck one nipple into his mouth, I can’t seem to stop.
“Oh! Ohhhhh…..”
It starts again, unbidden, a new height to fall from, and I come crashing down so hard, my legs are kicking the air, and I sob.
“Nooooooooooo!”
But what I’m begging for, I don’t even know myself.
Then the strangest thing happens. Master Séverin lets my nipple go and places a soft kiss between my breasts, then kisses his way down my stomach, and pillows his head there. Master Erek reaches down to stroke his hair.
I am feeling far, far too much at this tender display that I know is not for me, but between the two of them. My heart surges in my chest, and I cry and cry, soaking the pillows beneath my head.
Master Séverin lifts his head and says quietly, “Ah, there it is; the tears I hoped for. She weeps from her eyes and her cunt. Lovely. Don’t stop crying, Girl. Cry for us.”
Why does this make the tears start anew? Is it that I am such an obedient slave? No. It’s that I feel so deeply for them. And if my tears will please them, I will cry all night because my heart tells me I must.
I can think later about why these two particular Masters have drawn me in so. Why I am often up half the night trying to figure them out, like putting together a thousand pieces of a complicated puzzle. Why my yearning for them, for their happiness, makes my chest ache in a way nothing ever has before.
I wake up on my still-damp pillow. I must have cried in my sleep, as I sometimes do. My two Masters are with me on the bed, one on either side, their hands clasped and lying on my belly. The sun is just beginning to rise in streaks of orange and pink across the misty sky, the color caught in the scattered clouds, all of it is shrouded and blurred a bit as I gaze through the sheer curtains at the windows. So beautiful.
I never want to leave this place.
Master Séverin stirs, then his hand slips out of Master Erek’s.
“Up, Girl,” he says. “Go bathe and relieve yourself, then return to the room, and kneel at the foot of the bed on your pallet.”
I nod, then slide off the foot of the bed, careful not to disturb the sleeping Master Erek. But from the corner of my eye I see his long, blond hair, tousled from sleep, the leather thong he usually ties it back with lost in the sheets. Such beautiful hair. I wish I could touch it. I don’t, of course.
