His finger extended down my opening and then traced up, slid back down and back up. Three times he did this, each time the tip of his finger going slightly deeper. I was wiggling in my seat by the time he had his finger inside me up to the first knuckle. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to have me shaking all over, anticipating, needing. I had to breathe now, and my lungs were expanding and contracting furiously, my chest heaving.
He stilled then, one finger barely inside me. I frowned, groaned, just barely able to restrain myself from writhing my hips to get more of his touch.
“Not a sound, Kyrie. Not so much as a groan.”
I was aching, hot and throbbing, wet. Needing his touch, needing him to make good on his promise. I needed this. He was there, right there, but not moving, not touching. And then, just as I was about to ask him to touch me again, he did. His finger slid in, a little deeper. He dragged it up between my lips, and I had to bite my lip to keep silent as the rough pad of his big index finger brushed against my clit. I did gasp, but it was a quiet intake of breath. I tensed, my hands still fisted in his shirt. I let my hands fall, releasing his clothing. One of my hands rested on the armrest of my chair, the other on his forearm, gripping the corded muscle and firm flesh.
I felt his muscles moving as his finger circled my clit. My hips lifted, fell, lifted and fell, moving with the slow rhythm of his finger. And then, suddenly, his finger dipped into my channel, into the wetness and the heat.
“God, Kyrie,” he murmured. “You’re wet. So wet. I love how wet you are. You’re tight, too.”
His words had me blushing even as his finger withdrew to flick against my clit once more, making me flinch and writhe, biting my lip. He circled my engorged nub with his thick finger, and I wanted to moan, to groan, to swear, to say his name. Anything. But I couldn’t. Somewhere, out beyond the bubble of this box, someone was singing. Her voice was powerful, rising and falling, lush and rich, the song growing louder and faster, other voices joining hers. The song was reaching a crescendo, voices overlapping and competing.
His finger slid into me again, going deep, withdrawing, slathering my own juices over my clit, dipping in, moving over me, circling once, twice, three times, dipping in, never letting me find a rhythm, never letting me get too near the edge of climax. He added a second finger, and I wished I could tell him how much I liked that, but I didn’t dare, because if I made a sound, he’d stop, and then I’d die.
I was writhing now, lifting my hips up off the plush seat, seeking release, biting down on my lip so hard I thought I tasted blood. My breath was coming in short, sharp gasps, grating past my teeth, rasping from my throat. Keeping quiet was proving impossible, and the fact that there were people just a few feet away in the adjacent boxes made this all the more frightening and risky and exhilarating, making my need to stay silent that much more imperative. Yet I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I heard a slight, nearly inaudible whimper slip from my throat, and Roth’s finger stilled immediately. I felt the burgeoning swell of impending orgasm recede, making me panic, frantic. I writhed, gripped his hand in mine and tried to make him move.
“I couldn’t…couldn’t help it…couldn’t help it….”
“I know, lovely girl. I know.” Roth’s voice was in my ear, rough and low. “You’re so close, aren’t you? You want to come. You need to come. But you can’t. Not unless I let you.”
He wanted me to beg. I knew this. I wouldn’t. No. I wasn’t that far gone. I wanted to come, but I wasn’t prepared to beg him for it. I tossed my head from side to side, clenched my thighs tight around his hand, pinning his hand in place.
“Oh, Kyrie. You won’t beg, will you? Too proud for that.” His finger, still inside me, curled, twitched, and I jerked, my body spasming as he brushed my clit. “You’re right there, Kyrie. A few more of these” —he brushed my nub again, and I felt heat and pressure coiling in my belly— “and you’ll come all over my hand. All you have to do is say ‘please, Roth.’ Two little words. It’s not even really begging. It’s just…asking me nicely.”
It was acknowledging his control, his power over me, and we both knew it. But then, that was the entire point of this game, wasn’t it? I had his blindfold on. I was playing his game. So why not this, too? I wanted it, and I was right there, so close. I was on the verge of biting clean through my lip at that point, my hips fluttering in desperation I couldn’t control. Two words. Let him have his control.
“Please…Roth.” Who needs dignity when you can have public orgasms?
At that moment, as the words tumbled from my lips, the song coming from the stage reached its pinnacle, climaxing even as Roth’s fingers pinched my swollen clit and sent rockets of ecstasy firing through me. I clenched my teeth together and let my hips roll violently in time with his two circling fingertips. Just as the pressure in my core reached critical mass, Roth’s fingers dove into my channel, slipped out, dove in, and then resumed circling. It was just enough of a disruption in rhythm to pull me back from the edge. He was making me crazy, making me wild. Growls boiled in my throat, just barely held back, primal sounds of frustration at his games. He could make me come whenever he wanted, and I knew it. He was teasing me. Once more, he slid his fingers deep into me just as I was about to explode. I dug my fingernails into his forearm with all my strength, a plea and a warning. I fisted my other hand into his shirt, jerked him toward me, felt his mouth crash against mine.
“I played your game, goddammit,” I growled. “Now just f**king give it to me.”
His laughter was a long, low rumble, and then, just as I was about to do something really crazy, like bite him, he covered my mouth with his, thrust his tongue between my lips and fingered me right over the edge.
“Come, Kyrie.” It was a command. “Come now. Right now, baby. Right now.”
I had never so willingly obeyed before. He devoured my helpless moan of release with his hungry mouth, kissing me and flicking his tongue against mine and flicking my throbbing clit and pinching it and circling it, pushing my climax higher and higher until I was breathless and my heartbeat ceased and my body was arched up, only my heels touching the floor, my shoulders against the chair. It was too much, too much, too hard, too explosive, wrenching me apart, yet he didn’t relent — he continued to ravage my mouth with his, circling my clit and sliding his fingers into me and driving me to heights I hadn’t known were possible.