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I obey.

Heather comes with my hair wrapped around her fist and my palms burning against her legs. She keeps my mouth on her through every movement, and when I try to lift my head, she forces it back down until she’s finished. Then she lets go.

I sit back on my heels with her taste on my mouth and my cock aching between my thighs. Heather looks at my open hands before she looks anywhere else.

“On the bed,” she says. “Hands beside my head.”

She lies back while I climb over her. I plant my palms against the mattress on either side of her face. The soft bedding should make the marks hurt less, but my weight drives the swollen skin down until both hands pulse.

Heather takes my cock and rubs the head through her wetness. I push forward. She closes her fist. Pain knots at the base of my cock. I stop.

She holds me there while my arms begin to shake. “What do you need?”

“Permission.”

“What else?”

I look at the ruler on the floor. “Whatever you decide to give me.”

Heather guides my cock to her pussy. “Now.”

I push inside her slowly. The muscles in my palms tighten around every mark, and her body closes hot around my cock until there’s nowhere left to go.

“Hold.”

I stay buried inside her.

She puts both thumbs against the centers of my palms. She presses upward while my weight presses down. Pain catches between us with nowhere to spread.

My hips move before I can stop them.

She releases my hands and catches my face. “Did I tell you to fuck me?”

“No.”

“Then why are you moving?”

“Because you’re making it fucking difficult.”

“That’s not permission.”

I lower my forehead until it almost touches hers, but Heather pushes me back by the jaw. She wants my face where she can see it.

“Please let me move.”

“One stroke.”

I pull almost all the way out and drive back in. Her nails bite into my hip before I can take another. She makes me hold until I’m swearing at the wall beside her head, then says, “Again.”

She gives me sex one stroke at a time. Every movement drives my hands into the mattress, and every stop leaves me trapped inside her with nothing to do except feel what she already gave me.

When I try to shift my weight off my right palm, Heather presses it flat again. “You chose that hand.”

“I chose yours.”

She drags her nails down my back. Four lines burn behind me. She does it again, harder, but stops after three.

“Seven,” I say.