She pushed him back onto the bed without breaking eye contact. His knees hit the mattress, then his back, and he was looking up at her — the black latex catching the low light, her blonde hair falling forward as she followed him down. His suspenders were still hooked over his shoulders, leather straps cutting across his bare chest where his shirt had come untucked somewhere between the hallway and the door.
Her hands found his waistband. Buttons gave way under her fingers — the last two he hadn't bothered with downstairs — and she pulled the denim down his thighs in a single rough motion. His cock sprang free, hard and aching, the tip already slick where pre-cum had beaded during the crawl. She didn't look at it. She looked at his face.
"Look at you," she said, soft. "All that strength, and you're trembling."
Her fingers wrapped around the base of his cock. Warm. Deliberate. She squeezed once, just enough to make his hips twitch, and held there — her thumb stroking the vein on the underside, her palm pressing against his pubic bone until he let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.
"That's it."
She lowered her mouth to him.
Her tongue was flat and warm as it ran along the shaft — slow, exploratory, tasting the salt of his skin and the musk of his arousal. She started at the base and worked her way up in a single, unhurried line, her lips trailing behind her tongue like she was memorizing him. When she reached the tip, she closed her mouth around him and held there.
Just held.
Her lips sealed. Her tongue pressed against the sensitive underside. Her eyes lifted to his face — watching, waiting, her pupils blown wide in the dim light — and she didn't move. The heat of her mouth was absolute. The stillness was worse than motion. His cock throbbed against her tongue, desperate for anything — suction, movement, the sweet relief of friction — and she gave him nothing but the weight of her gaze.
A sound escaped him. Low. Involuntary. His hips tried to lift off the mattress, searching for more of her mouth, and she pulled back just enough to let him feel the cool air on his wet skin.
"Ah-ah." She shook her head slowly. "Not yet. You're going to lie there and let me have my way with you, and when I decide you've earned it —" she ran her thumb across the tip, spreading the slickness, "— I'll let you finish."
She lowered her mouth again. This time she took him deeper — her lips sliding down his shaft until he felt the back of her throat, the soft resistance, the way she swallowed around him without flinching. Her tongue worked the underside in long, firm strokes while her head rose and fell, her hand gripping the base in rhythm with her mouth, and the wet sound of her sucking filled the room.
He watched her. Helpless. His fingers found the bedsheets and twisted.
She pulled off with a soft pop, her lips glistening. "Already close?"
He could barely nod.
"Good." She sat up, straddling his thighs, and reached for the buttons of his shirt. "Now let me make you look the part."
The shirt came off in pieces — her fingers slow at each button, her knuckles brushing his stomach as she worked her way down. When the last button gave, she spread the fabric open and ran her palms across his chest, his skin warm and damp from the heat of the room. She pushed herself off the bed, walked to the dresser, and returned with a small glass bottle.
Baby oil. She held it up so he could see the label.
"You're going to glisten for me."
She poured a pool of oil into her palm, set the bottle aside, and brought both hands to his chest. Her fingers spread the oil in slow, circular strokes — over his pectorals, down his ribs, across the hard plane of his stomach — her palms flat and warm, her thumbs tracing the lines of his muscles until his skin shone under the bedroom light. The oil caught the sheen, making him look wet, sculpted, worked over.
Her hands traveled lower. Across his hips. Down his thighs. She avoided his cock — deliberately, torturously — letting her fingers slide along the inside of each thigh, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her palms, never quite touching where he needed her most.
"You have no idea what you look like right now," she murmured, leaning close, her lips brushing his ear. "Lying there in those suspenders, all that muscle oiled and shiny, your cock hard and wet from my mouth, waiting for me to tell you what to do."
Her hand drifted down his stomach. Her fingers grazed the base of his cock, light as a whisper, and he bucked into her touch.
"I want you to stroke yourself."
He stared at her.
"I want to watch you —" she took his wrist and guided his hand to his own cock, wrapping his fingers around the shaft, "— do it for me while I play with myself. I want to see your face when you can't hold back anymore. I want to hear you beg."
She shifted, hitching her dress up her thighs, and settled onto the bed beside him — propped on one elbow, her free hand sliding between her legs. Her fingers found the hem of her panties, pulled them aside, and he saw her fingers disappear into the slick heat of her body.
"Go on," she said, her voice dropping lower, huskier. "Show me how you touch yourself when you think about me."
His hand moved. Slow at first, uncertain under the weight of her gaze — then steadier as he found the rhythm, his fingers sliding along his oil-slick shaft, his thumb circling the tip the way she had done with her tongue. His breath came in short, sharp pulls.
Her fingers worked herself in the same rhythm — wet sounds, soft and obscene, her hips rocking into her own hand, her eyes fixed on where his hand moved. "That's it. Just like that. I want you to think about my mouth —" she pushed two fingers deeper, her breath hitching, "— my tongue on you. My lips. The way I felt when I sucked you."
His hand quickened. His head fell back against the pillow, his jaw tight, his chest heaving under the glistening oil.
"Are you close?" she whispered.
"Clara —"
"Are you close?"
He couldn't speak. He nodded, his hand still moving, his whole body trembling on the edge.
She pulled her fingers out of herself, wet and glistening, and reached over. Her hand closed around his — stopping him. Stilling him. He let out a sound that was almost a sob.
"Not yet," she said, and she lowered her mouth to him once again.
She took him deeper than before — her throat opening around him, her tongue working the base, her nose pressed against his pelvis — and held there, letting him feel her swallow, letting him feel the heat and the wet and the perfect pressure of her throat contracting around his cock. Her hand found his, interlaced their fingers on his stomach, and she looked up at him with those winter-blue eyes.
"Good boy."