American Queen

Twist go the fingers, moan goes Greer.

“What. Do. You. Say.” Twist twist twist. “When. I’ve. Made. You. Feel. Good.”

“Thank you, Sir,” I gasp, not fighting myself any more and rocking into his thrusts.

A small smile like a comma at the corner of his mouth. “Good girl.” He presses his thumb to my clit and starts working it, building me up to a second orgasm so fast that I barely have time to register that it’s about to crest, and then it’s on me, and I’m shivering apart into bliss, contracting around the President’s hand, and gasping thank you thank you thank you as his eyes blaze with heat.

With gratitude.

“No, thank you, angel,” he murmurs, eyes on my face, fingers still gently working. “Thank you so much more than you can ever know.”

10

The Present

Ash’s fingers probe me once or twice more, pressing against my g-spot and testing my responsiveness, and then he slides them out, using my dress to dry his hand. The gesture is at once degrading and unbelievably sexy, and before I can again plunge into a who am I mental soliloquy, he says, “Snap your fingers instead of saying my name if you need to.”

I blink at him, confused, and then all of a sudden his large hand is fisted in the hair at the back of my neck, literally dragging me off the desk and to my knees. I tumble past his legs, his hand in my hair preventing me from using my hands to balance myself, and I land hard on the carpet, my dress catching between my body and Ash’s legs and baring my ass.

Ash’s hand is already on his belt buckle, deft and sure, and then his pants are open and I catch a glimpse of him. Male and hard and thick, and so much more beautiful than I ever could have imagined—all smooth ridges and a wide flared tip, every part of him flushed a dusky red. It’s hard for me, throbbing for me, and like a greedy girl, I reach for it with both hands.

A sharp tug of my hair. “Just your mouth,” Ash says.

I have next to no practice doing this, but I remember Ash’s comforting words from earlier and put that out of my mind. He wants me to try, I want to try, that’s all that matters. And so I lean forward and run the flat of my tongue up the underside of his cock, feeling every curve and swell of his shaft, relishing the shaky breath I hear him take above me. I repeat the action, faster this time, and start flickering my tongue experimentally around his tip, finding all the spots that make him pull my hair harder, the places that make his stomach tighten and his breath catch. Without my hands, it’s hard to apply the right kind of pressure, and so I lean forward even more, pinning his cock against his muscled stomach, which is still mostly covered by his expensive white button-down. There’s the scratch of Italian cotton on my cheek and the glide of his silk tie, a contrast to the heat of his skin, and then his hand is at his root and his other hand yanking at my hair, and my mouth is forced down onto his dick.

His crown is so wide, and I choke as he holds my head down onto him. The minute he hits the back of my throat—still far from all the way in—he yanks my head up and I gasp for breath, the stinging in my eyes manifesting into tears that smudge my mascara. My heart is racing, my blood flooded with adrenaline, and I realize I’m squirming the tiniest bit, my pussy already demanding more. I’m aroused and exhilarated and ashamed all at once.

Ash doesn’t speak, doesn’t loosen his hold on my hair or move the hand currently controlling his erection, and I realize he’s waiting. He gave me a small taste of what this would be like, and he’s waiting to see if I’ll snap my fingers or say his name to stop it. But I do neither.

I lick my lips instead.

He smiles then, a quick smile that doesn’t seem like it’s necessarily for me. Like he’s smiling at himself, smiling in satisfaction. Like he knows he made the right choice.

His cock is forced past my lips again, but this time I’m ready for it, opening my lips and taking a deep breath through my nose.

“Relax your tongue,” he murmurs from above me, and then lets out an, “Ahhhh, yes, like that,” when I comply. He moves a little slower than the first time, pulling me off and back onto his erection with a steady but not unkind pace, going a little deeper each time, until there’s finally the moment he pushes deep into my throat. My body rebels, my throat convulsing and threatening to gag, but then I realize the hand in my hair is caressing my scalp and that he’s crooning something to me. I can’t hear what he’s actually saying over the panic in my mind and the blood in my ears, but just hearing his voice grounds me. I breathe through my nose, more tears leaking over the edge of my lower lids, and reflexively swallow against the urge to gag.

“Holy shit,” Ash swears as I swallow around him, his hips bucking up into me. “Fuck.”

I do it again, with much the same response, the swearing and the jerky thrust into the tight vise of my throat, and at the same time I feel a rush of triumph, I also see my mascara-stained tears begin to drip onto his white shirt. He must see them too, because he gives a groan—half regret, half sheer cruel desire. I can feel his reluctance as he lifts my head and his dick leaves my mouth, but all I feel is a rush of overwhelming gratitude and also a kind of indescribable pride that I made him react that way.

I suck in several desperate breaths while he stares down at my face and gently wipes at the black tears on my cheeks with his thumb. “More,” he says, “I need more,” and then he’s shoving up inside me again, this time without mercy. I don’t snap my fingers, I don’t struggle—because God help me, I love this too much—but I can’t help the way my fingers claw at his thighs and my bare feet kick at the carpet as I let him fuck my throat. It’s invasive and brutal and fucking intoxicating. I’m the one being used, but in the dirty, airless heat of it all, he’s the one weakened and at the mercy of my mouth. He’s the one unraveling, thrusting and swearing and sweating, the one who’s more beast than human, and all because of something I’m doing. And doing well.