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So, I decide to torture him some more, in my own way.

I reach down and run the cloth over his cock from root to tip, feeling the heat in my hand, the heavy weight of it. He lets out a rough yelp, one choked with need.

“Just making sure you’re clean enough for my mouth,” I tell him.

He whimpers with frustration, and it makes me squeeze my legs together. I need to stay focused on denying him, not giving into my own needs.

I grab the oily soap, running it all over his body, leaving his cock and his rear for last. I wipe my palm over the fatty bar until my skin is slick, and then make a fist over his cock, give it two hard, firm shakes.

“God!” Priest cries out, bucking against my hand.

I quickly let go before he has a chance to come.

“Demon woman,” he growls at me.

I can only grin, relishing in the power rolling through me. I love submitting to this man, but it does feel good to have him submit to me for once.

Then, I rub the washcloth over it and bend down. Without touching his cock, I run the tip of my tongue over the rigid underside before dipping into the slit at his tip, tasting the salt of the ocean.

Priest is swearing again, a string of curses that would make any pirate blush, and his whole body is strained, muscles bulging, veins standing out from his flushed skin.

“Had enough?” I say.

“Yes,” he groans.

“Beg for me.”

But he doesn’t. Not for this.

“Very well.”

I soak the cloth in the water and go around to his rear, wet between his cheeks with the cloth so that he’s clean enough to eat from, though he already seemed sparkling clean before. Then I take the bar of soap and slide it up and down through the crack. His muscles tense, and he lets out a sharp hiss.

“Do you like that?”

“No,” he says but somehow, I don’t believe him.

“Are you telling me to stop?” I ask, concentrating the tip of the bar on his entrance, making it slick and slippery.

He swallows audibly, practically panting now. “No.”

That’s what I thought.

I rub my fingers along the bar and then slowly penetrate the ring of muscle.

“Oh God,” he calls out, head going back. “Oh, fuck.”

I smile to myself and start working my fingers inside, pumping them in and out like they’re a cock. I watch as they disappear between the cheeks of his rear, watch as his muscles bunch, how he’s standing on his toes, splayed and straining, his calves corded.

I don’t think I’ll ever be in such a position of power again.

I take it for all I’ve got.

I keep working him, and he’s crying out, breathing hard, rough, inaudible sounds falling from his open mouth. I peer around him to see his cock bobbing with the movement, swollen and angry-looking, dying to be touched.

I know I’m torturing him now.

I won’t let him come.