Moments with Sir – Can’t?

Sir recently discovered that my new blog theme has emoji buttons at the bottom of posts and decided to go through all of my posts and “like” them with the emoji buttons.

I found this both silly and mortifying and, without thinking said, “No, you can’t…”  I caught myself and stopped, but… not soon enough.

Sir looked at me.  He wasn’t angry, I could see the faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes, but he raised his eyebrow and turned in the office chair to face me fully.

“I what?”

“Nothing…”

“I can’t?”

“No, Sir…” The eyebrow arched higher.  “I mean… no, I mean, yes, Sir.”

“Yes, I can’t?”

“What?  No, you… I didn’t mean… I meant you can…”  He got out of the chair and I stepped backward.  “You can do anything you want to, Sir!”

“Can I?”  He reached out as I took another step backward and grabbed the waistband of my jeans, halting my escape.  His other hand began to lift the hem of my T-shirt.  “Can I do this?”

I made a face, afraid I knew what was coming, but Sir was clearly enjoying this now, and I knew I was on the ride until he was done. “Yes, Sir,” I said with a slight whine that I knew would do no good.

One hand still holding me close by the denim at my waist, he slid the backs of his fingers up my chest and across my nipple lightly, making me jerk and squirm.

“Anything I want to, girl?”

His fingers began teasing my other nipple, torturous in the lightness of his touch, and I found myself struggling to coordinate my breathing and words.  “Yes, Sir,” I gasped out, twisting and twitching at his feathery brush across my skin.

Abruptly, he turned his hand and pinched my left nipple hard between his fingers.  I yelped and leaned into his hand instinctively trying to relieve the pressure.

“What about this, girl?  Can I do this?” he asked, twisting.

I wrapped my hands around his forearm, imploring with my touch, sucking air hard into my lungs to make the words, “Yes, Sir!  Yes, Sir!  Ow!”

He released my nipple, then flicked it with his fingernail, making me yelp again.

With two steps, he pushed me back against the wall, then used both hands to quickly and roughly shove my T-shirt up over my head.  I raised my arms to help him and he tugged it free, tossing it to the floor.  With one hand he again brushed the backs of his knuckles against my left nipple, which was still throbbing from his treatment. Then with the other he repeated the torture of pinching and twisting to the right.

Our bodies were so close now, I could feel his heat against my skin, and his breath against my left cheek as he whispered, “Put your hands on your head.”

I obeyed quickly, and whimpered as the position pulled at my nipple still trapped between his fingers.  I was making mewling, whimpering sounds, until Sir gripped again my left nipple and pulled and twisted both at once, drawing a sharp cry from my throat before I could choke it.

Abruptly, he released me and pressed his palms against my breasts, soothing the ache, whispering softly, “Good girl,” as I struggled to even my breathing.  Then his hands moved down to my jeans again and he pulled open my fly.  He reached around me and pushed my jeans over my hips and down my legs.  “Take your hands down,” he murmured in my ear, pulling me away from the wall.

I eased my arms down, my shoulders stiff, stumbling in the hobble of my jeans.  Sir wrapped his arms around me and pulled my body tight against his.  I whimpered again as my nipples pressed against the hard muscles of his chest, the soft cotton of his shirt feeling like wool against my tender skin.

His hands slid down my back and over my panties, then he lifted his right hand and brought it down hard.  The sound was like a gunshot echoing against the walls of the room and I yipped, my hips thrust against his, and I could feel his reaction to my pain.  I clung to him as he matched the swat with his left hand, then added four more to each side.  I squirmed against him, smothering my cries in his shoulder, and when he stopped, my breath was hitching and my legs trembled.

He pulled back slightly, his left arm still cradling my bottom, and looked into my face.  He brought his right hand up and brushed his fingers along my jaw, then pressed them softly against the underside of my chin, tilting my face to meet his.  His gaze was intense, tracing the planes of my face without ever meeting my eyes.  His left hand still firmly trapping the heat of his swats, he dropped his right hand to my breast again and I flinched, but he didn’t hurt me this time.  He cupped my breast gently, his eyes following his hand and I watch him, for a moment aware only of his face.  Then he slid his palm down my belly and into my panties and I gasped.  His lips tightened slightly in concentration as his fingers slipped between my legs.  For a moment I was ashamed of the slick warmth there, of the throbbing beat of my pulse, and then he found what he was seeking and his fingers were all I could think about.

He moved slowly at first, his face a mask of concentration, but then he oriented himself and I gasped, scrabbling against his back, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, staggering as my knees suddenly lost their strength.  His face lit with a crooked grin, and he moved his fingers in short, quick strokes.  I clung to him, resisting the energy building to overwhelming, afraid I would collapse, my legs gone to jelly, but the intensity of the pressure when I sank onto his hand jolted me upward again.  Sir, grinning wider, pushed me back against the wall, cupping his left hand under my ass, keeping me upright as he continued, faster, and I felt the last of my control tatter.

I buried my screams in his shoulder, my body no longer my own, for seconds… or minutes… or hours… until finally the torrent of sensation began to retreat and I collapsed against him, my legs still helplessly weak.  He drew his hand back gently, but even his careful withdrawal made me jerk and yelp.  He kissed my forehead, and my temple, and looped his arm under my shoulders.

He guided me, stumbling, wincing, ripples of aftershocks still stealing my breath, until we reached the bed.  He threw back the covers and tumbled us into it.

For several minutes I lay still, listening to the chorus of my body, sparks and shocks making me twitch as my nerves sorted themselves back to normal function.  Sir leaned on his elbow, rubbing slow circuits over my belly and breasts, still grinning and looking pleased with himself.

Finally my breathing slowed and I felt myself sinking into a deep somnolence and I shook myself awake.

Sir shifted onto his knees, kneeling beside me on the bed, then he leaned down and kissed my belly.  “You’re such a good girl.”

“Thank you, Sir,” I murmured, deep contentment and warmth spreading outward from my stomach.

Carefully, Sir climbed out of the bed, then leaned over my slightly, his expression changing.  He brushed my hair away from my eyes and looked into my face.  “You okay?” he asked.

I nodded.  He chewed his lip.

“You sure?”

“Yes, Sir, I’m okay.”

He nodded but shadows of uncertainty still shifted across his face.  “Do you need some water?”

I licked my lips and realized my tongue was sticky. “Yes, please.”

He reached across me and pulled the blankets  up to my chin.  “I’ll get you some water.  Are you okay for a minute?”

I was drifting too far to smile, but I nodded at him and he leaned down again, this time to kiss my forehead.  As he rose, he slid one hand under the covers and found my breast.  He cupped it gently and his lips quirked up in a hint of his earlier grin.  “I’ll be right back.  And I’ll bring your Brother.  We’ll see if he is as accommodating as you…”

This time I found my smile.  “Yes, Sir.”

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