Page 42 of A is for Aftercare

He pushes his thick finger inside me.

“You’re tight,” he whispers harshly. “I like that.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“You’ve prepped?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He waggles his finger inside me. “Presumptuous imp.” He plunges his finger deep inside me, slamming his knuckles into my arse.

I moan and push back against his hand.

“Don’t move,” he orders.

I freeze, even though I’m desperate to fuck myself on his finger.

“You’ll be prepped whenever you come here.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And you’ll dress nice.” He reaches round to flick my tie.

“Not smasual?”

“That’s a fuckin’ stupid word.”

“Yes, Sir, it is, Sir.”

“Shirt and tie. Smart trousers. You’ll always look your best for me.”

“Yes, Sir.”

It’s incredibly dirty, standing with my trousers and pants pulled down in his kitchen with full-height glass windows, his finger stuck up my arse, as he sets rules for our tryst.

“You’ll call me Sir, and I’ll call you whatever the fuck I like.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You’ll do as I say.”

“Of course, Sir.”

“And use your safewords if you need to. I don’t know what you’re feeling or what’s going on in your head. Safety is your job as much as mine.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He pulls his finger free of my arse and then plunges it back in, making my eyes pop wide.

“I’ll be rough with you at times, gentle if it pleases me.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Right now, I’m going to be rough.”

“Yes, please, Sir.”

He shoves a second finger inside me and drags them both back and forth. It hurts a little, but I like the pain. Adrenaline courses through my body, making my skin tingle. Every jab of his fingers inside me makes me feel more alive. My cock rubs against the cupboard. Pre-cum drips onto the counter. My breath rasps in my throat.