I opened the door and stepped back, allowing her to cross the threshold. She smiled when she greeted me, outwardly amicable and carefree. Even though I knew that she was concerned for my wellbeing, she did her best to mask it. I tried to respond in kind, stretching my mouth into what I believed was an expression of joy, but my face was tight and resistant. The depression felt insurmountable. I looked into her eyes, apologetic. ‘It’s okay,’ they told me. She rested her hand on my cheek. I felt the warmth of her touch; it revived me somewhat, restoring feeling to my body in places that were cold and crumbling.
“Go sit down,” she said. “We’re going to do something different today.”
After the first time that I commissioned Cynthia, I knew that I would not stop. In retrospect, I realize that that wasn’t the case. It wasn’t that I would not stop, but that I could not stop. She was my drug; my addiction. She was necessary. She was resilient, a constant in a world that would otherwise provide me with no respite for my pain. I’ve often thought about the irony of her name. Though she has always maintained that I call her by her working name, Sin, I’ve personally never experienced anything purer. This is my focus as I take my seat amidst the clutter and wait for my next instructions.
My home is a mess. It is the tangible representation of my mind. Sin overlooks it. She turns a blind eye to the dishes piled high in the sink. She refuses to acknowledge the unemptied trash, the discarded clothing or the dust. The dust is the worst to me. It builds continuously, daily, regardless of how often I wipe it away. It is trying to bury me, I know, but what it does not realize is that it’s too late.
I watch her as she returns to the living room. Her heels are gone now, as is her coat. She is wearing a high-waist teddy, its red lace a stark juxtaposition to the smooth dark hue of her skin. Her very gait is grace personified, but it does little to entice me. I am well aware of her physical beauty, though it is not the reason I call on her exclusively. In fact, we’ve never made love. I have never asked her to and she has never pressed the matter. Instead, she listens. She allows me to try and expel that which is crushing me. She caresses me and though she’s silent, she is attentive. When our escort sincan time is up, she doesn’t rush to collect her belongings. She doesn’t hold out her hand for money. She looks at me, and in her eyes, I see everything that I need to go on. She sees my humanity, and I see her recognition. But today, something is different.
She has a bag with her. After dimming the ceiling lights of my suite, she opens it. She removes a candle, which she places on my worn wooden bookshelf. A lighter comes next. Its metallic click cuts through the silence of our space until at last the wick ignites. Now she approaches me. Months ago, the sight of her would have awoken the beast in me, but my inner den is barren. She is unperturbed by my indifference. She slowly straddles me, her hands pressing against my chest. They are equal amounts firm and delicate. The red of her manicured fingernails and lingerie are harsh on my eyes, their vibrancy a shocking contrast to my world of black and grey. I don’t fight her; leaning back, I look at her attentively, waiting for instruction. She reaches in the bag once more and removes a blindfold.
“Have you seen The Leftovers?” she asks me casually, her lifted bosom inches from my mouth. She wraps the blindfold around my head before lowering it to cover my eyes. Her perfume is subtle but provocative. Its scent engulfs me and suddenly I am nervous.
“No, I can’t say that I have,” I respond tentatively.
“It’s a very unique story,” she continues. “I’d call it a study on hope and the human condition. My favorite character is a man named Wayne.”
She pauses. Star bursts light up the dark world behind the blindfold. I feel her weight shift. She’s leaned back. Her fingers begin to claw me slowly. Her palms rub my nipples through the fine fabric of my shirt, giving me gooseflesh. The scent of the burning candle now fills the room. Sandalwood and fresh breeze, like a wooden cabin on a warm ocean’s coast. I feel the weight of my condition lifting as my breathing syncs with her hand’s movements. The momentary relief can’t stave off the eventual crash, but I am relieved regardless.
“Who is Wayne?” I inquire.
I feel her smile. “He’s a holy man, or at least that’s what he says. Charming, but still a scoundrel. What I like about him most, though, ankara escort is the power that he possesses.”
She kisses my forehead. I bask in the fullness of her lips, electricity at the point of union; it makes my eyes cross behind closed lids. “What powers?” I gasp.
She plants kisses along the side of my face, a slow trail of intimacy. Her tongue connects with the lobe of my ear as she whispers, “He hugs people and takes away all of their pain.”
She progresses with her gentle kisses, eventually coming to rest at my neck where she traces lines up and down with her tongue. Rearing back, she presses off of my chest before removing my shirt. I am unable to respond, so she continues her journey unencumbered, suckling my nipples, to which I squirm. She removes herself from my lap and takes up a position on her knees between my legs. I’m breathing heavily now, stimulated and erect. She nibbles on my virility through the fabric of my shorts, making me gasp.
“I have a similar power, you know,” she says finally. “My hugs take away pain as well.”
She’s helps me out of my shorts and my dick bounces back against my abdomen. I feel the warm wetness of my pre-cum at the point of contact. She seizes it tightly with two hands before licking the tip. A moan escapes me and my strength follows suit. I meld into the leather of the couch. I’m throbbing now, bursting at the seams.
“The only thing is, I prefer to hug with my throat,” she says quietly, kissing the engorged head lovingly. “I’m going to hug your dick with my throat, do you understand? I’m going to suck your sorrow away. So just release it for me. Let it go, okay? Give me all of it.”
I grip the back of the couch tightly with both hands. All I can do is nod frantically. She’s breathing on me, waiting. I imagine her examining me and I’m reminded of the size of my strength. I swell with pride.
“You know you don’t have to do this right?” I say at last.
“Maybe not, but I want to,” Sin says, her mouth pressed against me. “That’s what I’m here for.”
She takes me in her mouth without warning and a sound of immense relief escapes me. She is undeterred by my size, stretching her mouth to accommodate me. She bobs slowly, open mouthed. I listen as she ignores her reflex to gag. Instead, she throats me etimesgut escort bayan in seconds and I am lost in her warmth. She retracts slowly before burying me once more. She chokes, her coughs coating my dick with her saliva. Still, she keeps me buried, denying herself air. I feel her tongue lolling along my underside. Her throat closes as her reflex finally wins out. She moans deeply as she succumbs to her limitations, breathing in deeply through her nose while she closes her mouth and sucks from me. My bottom lip is quivering.
She squeezes me tightly with her hands, forcing more pre-cum into her mouth. This delights her, as her pace increases, the sound of wet suction filling the room. Her hands twist and pull while she fills her throat with me once more. Her movements have become slow and deliberate and I realize she intends to milk me. The throbbing has become incessant and I realize that I don’t have much longer. She sucks hard, releasing me with a pop.
“Remember, give me all of it, okay? I want to swallow all of it,” she says between labored breaths.
I whimper my assent. She runs her tongue broadly from base to tip and I can no longer hold it. I feel her mouth close around me at the point of release. She immediately takes me into her throat and proceeds to swallow me loudly. I feel her hands slowly milking me in time to my spurts of ejaculation. She intends to leave me with nothing. Her wanton moans of satisfaction spur me on. Rising to my feet, I remove the blindfold. Her eyes are fixed on mine and her hands are still pumping; the flesh of her throat is mobile as she passionately accepts anything that I might have left to give her.
The intensity of her gaze makes my legs give out. I collapse onto the couch, out of breath. She pops me out of her mouth again after she determines that she has emptied me sufficiently. Holding me tightly she straddles me once more. She pulls the crotch of her teddy to the side and inserts me. Her wetness is obscene. Pressing her body against mine, she leans over to whisper in my ear.
“Your sorrow and despair belong to me now,” Sin says. “And I’ll be over here every week to collect until there is nothing left. Do you understand?”
I hear her, but I am too exhausted to respond. Instead, I submit to her. I find immense comfort in the fact that my Sin will never leave me. I’m floating now. I feel safe, my pride and my sorrow buried deep within her. She will help me; from the first, I knew that she would. This is my final thought as sleep overtakes me.