Sacred Revelations by Harte Roxy

clear here, if you want me to fuck you, you will ask me to fuck you. What you experienced with Garrett wasn’t fucking, was it?”
    I swallow hard, thinking too hard.
    “Did Garrett fuck you, or make love to you?”
    I start to tremble and release my hold on his swollen cock, but his hand still holds my wrist, so my hand is left hovering over his erection, I am left nervous, disconcerted.
    “I don’t know,” I lie.
    “Touch me again,” he commands, relaxing his grip on my wrist enough that my hand drops, touching by accident before closing around his length on purpose.
    “Good girl,” he praises. “While you decide what you want, fucking, or not fucking, give me what I want.”
    My lips part to speak, to deny knowing what he wants, but my hand moves, holding him, stroking him, and to deny that I understood would only sound childish.
    I hold his gaze, slowly moving my hand up and down his length, my fingers gripped around him so that his flesh moves separate from his hard shaft. His cock is baby smooth in my hand, rock hard but smooth, and I’m afraid I’ll hurt him. I keep the movement slow, my hand tight. It seems such an intimate thing, touching him while I look into his eyes. By watching his changing expressions, I can tell if I’m doing it right. I want to do it right. I want to please him.
    “Harder,” he commands.
    I squeeze harder, nice slow strokes up and down his shaft. His eyelids droop a little, though he still watches me and I still watch him.
    “Faster,” he whispers.
    I move my hand faster, twisting as I pump, causing him to moan, the sound of his pleasure rippling through me, making me feel pride. I pump him harder and faster, wanting him to feel it, feel me, wanting him to ache with need for me. Wanting him to need the pleasure that I’m giving him as much as I needed the pain he gave to me.
    Harder…faster…up…down…twist…twist.
    “God, Sophia,” he sighs and the name he calls me cuts through me, brings me pain, not like the comfort he brought me last night, but acute pain, making me miss her, making me think of her knowing I’m here, knowing I’m doing this. I don’t want to know what she would think of me now and I’m embarrassed, thinking the worst. I squeeze tighter, wanting suddenly to hurt him back, needing him to scream my name in pain the way I’ve screamed his and I succeed, my name a roar from his mouth. But it’s not pain I’m bringing him and I watch, satisfied as his come shoots free. When our eyes meet, a jolt of awareness quickens my heart. Need. His? Mine? I reach out to stroke his face, but he pushes my hand away, shutting all emotion visible in his gorgeous brown eyes away as if what I saw hidden in their depths hadn’t been there at all. But it was. I saw it. I felt it.
    “Taste me,” he says, pushing my face down. “Taste what you’ve done to me.”

    I close my eyes, feeling unsettled, really unsettled, and snuggle my face deeper into the pillow, hiding, crying, but not sobbing, slow hot tears rolling down my cheeks. Tears of confusion. I’ve never done that before, not for someone else—though once, Lion shoved his dick into my mouth, but it was after everything else, after he’d raped me, sodomized me, had already come himself, and his dick was shriveling as he shoved, a last-ditch attempt to humiliate me more.
    When Lord Fyre said, “Taste me,” I wanted to. I enjoyed taking him into my mouth after I’d stroked him to orgasm. He was still coming when I lowered my mouth over his still-erupting shaft, his warm, salty
    jism coating my tongue. I didn’t swallow, at least not at first, so it flowed into and out of my mouth, covering his cock. I enjoyed doing that to him, feeling powerful when his come crested and flowed over the tip of his penis, thinking, “I did that! I brought him!”
    I was proud, giddy.
    Now I just feel dirty, used, and I don’t know what the difference is.
    He came in my hand, in my mouth. So much cream that I couldn’t