Melted and Whipped by Cleo Pietsche

capable of this, I wouldn’t have spent months trying to let my high school boyfriend down easy. I would have thrown myself at Porter, not taken no for an answer. If I’d only known…
    Porter kneels beside my head. He lifts my face. His cock is still out, jutting from his pants. Already my mouth is opening, then he’s lowering me onto him.
    I scramble to get my hands and knees under me, then I rest on my forearms, my ass in the air. Adrenaline rushes through my veins as I do my best to satisfy him. Porter’s large hands are around my jaw and throat as he raises and lowers my mouth on his thick pole. He establishes the rhythm, then interrupts it, holding me on him without moving.
    Once again, I’m struck by the sensation of being someone else. Someone better. Someone happier and prettier.
    Also someone sluttier, the kind of woman who enjoys having a man strip her and fuck her mouth roughly. I’d like to give myself credit for being so brazen as to allow it on the first date, but Porter is hardly a stranger.
    He doesn’t even let me suck him for a minute before he gently pushes me away. “I want to do everything with you all at once,” he says as he turns me onto my back. He stretches my arms over my head, then kneels over my face.
    I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen a man from this angle before. It makes his cock look like a tower. I wish he’d pulled his pants down so that I could see his balls because I’m gripped with the urge to lick them, to suck them into my mouth. It’s not that I love giving blowjobs… but I do want to please Porter. Not only because if I don’t, he probably won’t be interested in a second night, but also because pleasing him feels… right . The word keeps rolling through my mind.
    When was the last time anything in my life felt right?
    Porter pushes my wrists together. Something flat and silky wraps around them, between them, around them again.
    I tilt my head back and see that he’s tying me with a black sash, almost a ribbon, really. I try wiggling my arms apart. Even though he’s not finished, I’m already prevented from moving.
    Porter looks down at me. “Is it too tight?” he asks. His tone suggests he already knows the answer, that this is an indirect warning for me to stop wiggling.
    I shake my head, and he smiles. He finishes securing my wrists, leaving the ends of the sash in a loopy bow, then he stands.
    Arms crossed, he stares down at me. I can imagine how I look, my hair mussed from his rough treatment, my body naked, my pussy wet, my wrists bound. I’m like this, and he’s dressed. I’m powerless, at his mercy.
    Panic flashes through me. Sharp and urgent, then… gone. I trust Porter. It makes all the difference.
    He picks me up as if I were weightless, carries me to the bed, and places me on it. I sense that under different circumstances, he would be rougher, and I’m touched that he’s being relatively gentle for my first time.
    “Open your legs,” he orders.
    My legs slide a few inches apart. Cool air caresses my center, which is hot and damp. Porter kneels between my knees. He removes something from his pocket. A condom.
    “Open,” he says, and he presses it between my teeth. “Hold that.”
    It’s hardly what I expected.
    His hands travel down my knees, spreading my thighs farther apart. I expect him to take the condom at any second, roll it over his cock and enter me, but he doesn’t.
    Instead, he stares at my pussy. I want to close my legs, but I can’t, not with him in the way.
    He unbuttons his shirt. The bulging and rippling of his muscles as he shrugs the shirt down his arms is hypnotic. Not only is he much bigger, he’s got almost no body fat. I can see his ripped abs. It’s intimidating. Even the dusting of hair across his chest is perfect, and I meet his gaze, those golden-brown eyes. If there’s a woman alive who’d dock him points because of his nose or his crooked smile, she’d surely be rethinking that assessment the moment she