The Lover's Children

Chapter 65 – April’s Tears #16

CHARLOTTE

His mouth quirks. “Do we both smell of horse?”

“’Fraid we do, Master.”

His smile widens, and he slides a hand around my shoulder. “Let’s have a shower, then we can enjoy

each other properly. C’mon, off with your clothes.” He undresses with brisk efficiency. I follow his lead,

tagging behind him.

In fact, we have more of a wet area than a shower room, with plenty of room for two or more…

As we stand together, naked, my thoughts wander…

… and I believe my Master is following a similar path. “We’ve never used this to its full potential, have

we.” His smile is wicked now. “Have you and Michael ever…?”

“Um… No… We haven’t and now I think about it, I’m not too sure why.”

He sniffs, seeming to consider that. “It’s not as though we don’t have plenty of options.” He fiddles with

the controls. “Not too hot,” he mutters. “Don’t want you overheating in your condition.” He flicks the

power switch and I gasp as water jets down, spiking at my skin, pummeling the muscles underneath.

“Aaahhh…”

“I’ll second that.” He stretches, facing up into the showerhead, letting the stream play over his face,

swiping the flow back through his hair. “That’s better.”

“Master, shall I do your back?” For answer, he passes me a loofah and turns away from me.

Smearing spicy-sweet gel between my palms, I work it up over his shoulders. Lather streams down,

channelling between his shoulder blades to river down his spine. Slippery under my hands, I rub at

smooth tight skin, down to his ribs, his waist…

“Harder,” he says…

… I scrub with the loofah…

“No, with your hands. Massage me. Over my shoulders.”

“Like this, Master?” I dig in with my thumbs, following the line of muscle and bone.

“That’s it, but harder.”

I repeat my massage, with more power, from the heel of my hand, then as he leans forward, arms

outstretched to prop his hands flat to the tiles, fisting my hands, I knead with my knuckles.

He lets out air. “God, that’s good…” Then, whirling, he rounds at me. “I’ll ask you to do that again, later,

but for now…” He picks among a medley of bottles, pots and tubes. “Which shampoo do you prefer?”

“That one, the apple.”

He flips the cap, sniffs. “Yes, so do I. Here…” Positioning me directly under the showerhead, he works

long fingers through my hair, finger-combing it under the spray until steaming water sluices through

long red tails before spiralling down the waste.

The bottle squeaks as he squeezes green-marbled shampoo into his hand. Rubbing his palms

together, the scent of apple, fresh and zesty, billows with the steam. And again as he works it into my

scalp. “Such beautiful hair,” he murmurs. “Always a glory on any woman. Especially so on you.”

Unhooking the showerhead, he rinses though, washing away suds to froth down between my breasts,

over my belly and loins. “Did you know,” he comments, conversationally, “that the word shampoo is

originally Indian? And it was a form of massage.” He works into my scalp, kneading and pushing,

fingerpads working at my skull, nails nipping in.

It’s electrifying. Arousal frolics over my skin, fizzes through my core. My gasps set blue-grey steam

swirling, curling away to condense against the tiles, droplets trickling down in thin glistening lines,

matching the trickle from between my legs.

His face close to mine. “That good?”

“Master, you have the hands of a surgeon.”

Even under the warm water blasting over me, my nipples crinkle and harden. My Master slips one hand

down, palming over a breast, cupping and caressing. He thumbs at the stiffening tip, sending a frisson

skittering over my skin, jangling into my pussy. His voice husky, almost grating, “That’s what I was

looking for.”

The hand quests south, snakes around my waist, pulling me in tight against the hardness pressing at

my thigh.

Abruptly, he grips me, spins me, pushes me back against the tiled wall. “Up you come.” Paired hands

under my ass, he heaves, pressing forward. I open and swing, hooking my legs around his waist,

locking my arms around his neck.

His mouth meets mine: demanding, open, ardent. His body enters mine: powerful, driving, forceful. As

we rock together, releasing a hand from my neck-lock, I try to steady us with a palm flat against the

corner wall.

Water sprays and gushes, flowing over my face, forcing my eyes closed. My Master hammers into me,

and with each stroke, and my gulping response, water seeps between our locked mouths.

He breaks away, laughing. “One of those ideas that sounds better than it works. Come on. We have a

perfectly good bed next door. Besides…” He nibbles at an earlobe… “I’m of a mood to make love with

you rather than fuck you.”

A rough towelling down, then naked, still steaming, he eye-points me through to the bedroom.

Already warm and fluid inside, my skin soft and damp, my hair still wet, I lie, my head on the pillow.

Stretching out, I arch my spine to flatten my stomach, then lifting my hips, display myself to my Master.

He sits beside me, watching as I glide hands over hip and belly, pressing my breasts together a little to

make more of my cleavage. His erection, semi-soft, re-hardens, vibrating with his pulse.

I slip fingers through the copper thatch at the vee of my thighs, but he takes my hands, folding them

together. Shifting to lie alongside me, he guides my arms up and back across the pillow, curls my

fingers around the bars of the bedhead, curls his fingers around mine to tighten my grip. He hovers a

moment, making sure, I think that I am obeying him…

…Then, propping himself up on an elbow, his hand coasts to where I had intended my own to be…

“Open your legs, Charlotte…” … the palm skims my mound, fingers rambling lower. “Look at me when

I’m going to make love to you.” Eyes dark as a secret lock with mine. And a smile, like the secret kept,

is veiled behind them.

My mouth is dry, but inside, I’m running hot and liquid. A single finger grazes my bud, setting my core

thrumming and my hips shuddering. It eases through my warming, welling folds. Exploring. Stroking.

“That’s good,” he murmurs. The touch repeats, this time brushing over and around my sensitising clit.

He shifts, angling himself, thumbing back the hood, flicking over the tip, flirting with my nerve endings,

and I mewl my arousal as his fingers dance and skip, then burrowing down, plunge deep inside me.

I think he’s going to hand-fuck me, but no, he’s opened me for himself. Rolling up and over, his body

crowning mine, he drives inside once more, filling me with himself. Arching convulsively, gripping the

head-bars, I yowl my response. Bucking and jerking as my Master rides me, I realise I’m laughing. And

he’s laughing with me, his smile no longer hidden, but broad and bright and joyful.

He slows to a more measured pace… “Alright, Charlotte?”

“Always with you, Master.”

He lifts himself away from me, stooping to kiss a breast flushed with arousal. For a few moments, he

plucks at the nipple, teething and nibbling. Then, dotting me with kisses as he moves, he slides down

my body to settle between my thighs. “Pass me a pillow.”

Unlocking my hands, I snatch the pillow next to me, lifting myself on the soles of my feet to let him push

it under my hips. He doesn’t instruct me to hold the bars again, so as he brushes his kisses over the

soft skin of my inner thighs, I caress his head, finger-combing his hair for the sheer pleasure of being

permitted to touch my Master.

Lips and tongue and the heat of his open mouth bathe me, growing ever closer to my sex. He’s

drawing it out, making me wait. I know that. It’s one of his favourite tactics.

And it’s working. With every touch, my pussy ripples and flows, wanting to welcome him again. As he

draws ever closer, my flesh twitches. Inside, I’m beginning to throb. The blood drums behind my ears.

“Oh, God… Master…”

He makes a pleased sound, dropping to suckle at my gaping entrance. Probing with his tongue, he

swirls inside, corkscrewing against the inner flesh, setting it skipping and dancing to his rhythm. I’m

vibrating with need. Jittery and shaky. Desperate to come.

Withdrawing again, he draws the tip of his tongue, the softness of his lips, the slight prickle of his

stubble, across bloated and puffy flesh until he centres on my clit. At his first touch, faint and delicate, I

moan; a moan that morphs to howls as he laps and licks.

Around and over, he twists and winds around the tiny thing, twirling and twining over root and shaft and

tip until there is nothing in my world except blind pleasure and him.

Shuddering out of control, I skyrocket into climax, a rapture that splinters consciousness like shards of

glass. Some part of me knows I’m screaming, howling like a banshee as orgasm rips through me. That

part of me isn’t in control.

It’s rapturous, exhilarating, ecstatic…

… and…

…and more than flesh and blood can stand…

“Stop! Oh, God, Master. Red! Red!”

Instantly he withdraws and I lie, twitching and quivering while I scrape myself from the ceiling.

“You can let go now,” comes a muffled voice.

Still starry-eyed, blissed-out, “Master?”

“You can let go,” he repeats. “Your death-grip on my skull.”

Belatedly, my fingers knotted into his hair, I release him. “Sorry, did I hurt you?”

He sits up, rubbing at his scalp with the heel of a hand. His voice dry, “Not so that it matters.” Shaking

his head as though dislodging an insect, he grins. “My turn now.”

I return the grin, lie back, spread. “All yours, Master.”

He slides over me, anchors against me, pierces me. Deeply inside, he pauses, head drooping as he

sighs. Then, our eyes meeting, he takes smooth, slow strokes. There’s no hurry. No forcefulness.

Canting my hips to meet him, I palm his cheek as we rock and sway together.

When he comes, he is almost silent, only a slow escape of air as his face drops and his hips wind into

me.

In the leisurely aftermath of orgasm, we lie together, body to body, entwined, my face pushed against

his chest. He kisses my forehead. I kiss his neck. Our breathing slows and the yammering inside his

ribs lessens, then fades to its normal thump-thump.

Downstairs, a door slams, followed by the quickstep of shoes, accompanied by smaller, fast-running

footsteps. “Daaa! Da… Daaa!”

“Sounds like Beth’s back with Adam.”

A laugh rumbles through my Master’s chest. “Time to rejoin the human race.”

I fling on a robe. “Just going to finish that shower…” Then pause. “I wonder what Michael’s surprise for

Cara was?”

“Why don’t we go find out.”