Not Exactly

You want to give in. Everything in you tells you that you should. ... It's funny. It's always been dominant men that turned you on as a girl, but nobody has EVER turned you on like Gemma does, even now. Even knowing what she's done to you, a part of you - a large part - wants to be her ****.

But you CAN'T. Not like that. You gave yourself to her, then you tried to take what wasn't yours to take, and she did to you what you'd intended for her. She changed you. And you can't. You can't because if you did, you would love her, and love her for what she'd done to you.

Sensation. Her flesh. Your flesh. All bound together, moving in concert, your body reacting to her touch. Every inch of your skin tingles with sensation as she fucks you, but there's no moment of surrender. You won't. You can't. Not like this.

Her question still hangs in the air as the wave reaches its peak. "How does it feel, 'mommy'?" And... nothing. You hang there on the very edge of orgasm for what feels like an eternity as your heartbeat roars in your ears.

You don't go over. Not yet.

"You know," you reply.

She stares into your eyes. You both know that she could **** you to orgasm if she kept going, but she doesn't. The anger is fading from her eyes. She pulls out, removes the strap-on, lets it fall to the floor. It's hard to tell what she's thinking. Her expression might be pleased. Might be disappointed. Is that admiration or contempt?

You slowly come back down. Heartbeat slowing. Arousal fading, but not vanishing. She watches without a word as you put on the sports skirt she gave you, intensely aware of her gaze, of the feel of the fabric as you slide it over your hips, and the glowing embers of your arousal. Then the white polo shirt, the socks, and the trainers.

You turn to leave, and then you're in her arms, her naked body pressed against you through your clothes as she sweeps you into a deep, intense, possessive kiss, her tongue slipping into your mouth, one hand around you, the other pressed against your body just above your sex, and for the briefest of moments, in spite of your earlier determination not to, you yield to her.

Then it's over. She's pulling away. Your breath has quickened. Your face is even more flushed. And Gemma is smiling a very possessive, very pleased sort of smile. "See you soon, lover-girl," she says, her voice low and husky, and the sound of it sends a chill running up your spine. Your mouth goes dry.

It takes an effort of will to walk to the door. To open it. To step out. To close it behind you.