I Want to Taste Me on Your Fingers

Scarlit watches the strength of his fingers as Aaron strums loosely on a guitar, imagining with each movement the things he could do to her with them. Sometimes the surety of a man’s hand is all a woman needs to feel to submit entirely. She rises. Her wrists meet rope. He knots it tight, binds her arms above her head. She hangs from that point, toes brushing the floor. He steps behind her and gathers her hair, pulls her head back, puts his mouth to her throat. Fingers trace the curve of her breast, pinch, linger. She parts her thighs without being told. He slips his hand between them, finds her wet, slides two fingers inside, works them deep until her knees buckle. When he withdraws them, slick and shining, he brings them to her lips. She opens, sucks them clean, tastes herself on his skin. He spins her, still bound, bends her over the arm of the couch. He grips her hips, sinks into her from behind, thrusts hard. She strains against the rope, gasps every time he bottoms out. He drives deeper, faster, sweat slick on her back. She feels him swell, feels the pulse, feels him spill hot inside her. He stays buried until the last tremor fades. Only then does he cut the rope, lower her, and let her slide down to her knees, mouth open, waiting for his fingers again.