Shadow Girl by Mael d'Armor Page A

draw closer. Bring her some hard relief. Do something rash.
    She starts thirsting for those fingers.
    But they are taking their time, toying with her, skimming up and down her spine, caressing the nape of her neck, sweeping over the sensitive skin on her arms.
    Without warning, fabric is ripped apart in one quick jerk. She wobbles on her knees and her skirt falls away.
    â€˜Excellent, Sandra, you’ve kept the position.’
    The compliment drowns her in a small wave of euphoria. She has kept still. She has pleased him.
    More snips, and her panties are swiftly removed. Save for her boots and the strips of blouse clinging to her arms, she is now completely naked, with her backside on full display.
    Something large and soft is tucked under her bust. A cushion, which squashes her breasts. Her nipples harden against its tight weave. Swell in anticipation.
    Rather brusquely, her knees are forced apart.
    Exposed. She is exposed to the four winds and finds the thought wickedly exciting. She begs for his voice to coil around her, for the fingers to do with her as they wish. To chain her to their caress.
    His voice is back, washing over her like chilled champagne, and she laps it all up without a thought. Without a qualm. Just to get drunk on its bouquet.
    â€˜I will repeat the circular pattern closer to your core. For the core, ultimately, is the source of the sounds produced by the mouth. Only when it is properly stimulated can you achieve the perfect vowel.’
    The perfect vowel. The words vibrate like a luscious promise. Yes, she is willing to do anything for the perfect vowel. Anything to please him. She is dying to be stimulated. Roused to any heights.
    The hands have claimed her arse and started unhurried circles on each cheek, kneading her flesh, pulling it also, stretching it.
    She submits with relish to the cool fingers, to their persistent ballet. And prays for them to move faster. To get closer. To relieve her.
    Please, oh please .
    Her heart is pounding. The pulsing in her flesh turns to ache as the hands continue to dance without haste, to toy with her, to squeeze her pulp like vicious beasts. Baiting her. Preying on her helplessness.
    She is an offering; horribly, deliciously submissive.
    Something stirs in her mind — a reflex from her decorous life. She stammers through her arousal.
    â€˜Please . . . Please . . . I have a boyfriend . . .’
    â€˜A boyfriend, Sandra? Do not worry, this is strictly business. Purement professionnel .’
    â€˜Yes, strictly business,’ she parrots, clutching at the words like a lifeline. ‘Strictly business.’
    The fingers trace on their lascivious motifs. Twist and spread her like delicate pastry.
    His velvet voice drapes over her again.
    â€˜Your core is strong, Sandra, very strong. And so beautifully oiled. Can you feel it? Of course you can. Good girl. So keen to please. To gain approval. To exceed my expectations. I have rarely seen such eagerness to yield. I anticipate an outstanding response.’
    Yield to him, yes, she so badly wants to. There is this terrible longing in her. But she doesn’t know if she can take it. If she can take the tease. The torment.
    A finger samples her. She bites her lip, praying for more. But the finger will not be hurried. It spins endless figures around her clit, careful to avoid it. It, too, has resolved to prolong her agony. To weave on its vexatious ballet.
    She sucks in a few quick breaths, squirming under this taunt.
    Christ . She needs him to go all the way — give her a proper knead. She needs him inside her too, inside and deep, to put an end to this torture.
    She wriggles her butt. But the fingers anticipate every motion, then resume their slow, pernicious exploration of her ground.
    She whimpers in frustration.
    â€˜All in good time, Sandra. All in good time,’ coos the voice, tying her more hopelessly to her want. ‘We must not rush blindly into things and drink like gluttons from