Saltwater Skin: an erotic novella (Breaking in Waves Book 3) by Laila Blake

Author:Laila Blake [Blake, Laila]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lilt Literary
Published: 2018-03-12T04:00:00+00:00

I remain in the room after she leaves. I, too, want to change into something more appropriate for the fantasy than my pajamas. When I slip out of them, laughter starts to bubble from my mouth like a stream I didn't realized I'd held back: slowly at first and then all once. Maybe afterwards we’ll joke about it together-- how I told her off for unprofessional attire while wearing old paisley pajama bottoms.

I’m still smiling in the shower, quickly running some soap and water over my cock and balls, under my arms. I choose to remain barefoot in the end, but I don black slacks and a white shirt, folded at the elbow. I brush a comb through my hair and, after a moment’s hesitation, add a dash of the scent she likes.

It is more enjoyable to slowly undo her, when I remain solid, and unspoiled. When with each loose lock, each tear-smudge and cum-stain she sinks lower and lower at my feet: my slut, my whore, my slave, and I remain towering above her, unchanged.

Breakfast is on the table by the time I walk into the kitchen, my damp hair slicked back over my head. My naked feet slap the ground with each step, there is a strength running through my veins that isn’t there without her submission, created to match her fever and her sweetness.

Iris is kneeling by the table, hands on her thighs and palms facing upwards. Breathing still seems to be a bit of a challenge, but she suffers it beautifully. She could have sit down, or taken a break, but I can tell she hasn’t-- not for a moment. She is at peace in her role, and the deception, even the whiff of potential wrong-doing, would have left her squirming.

She did wipe away the drool. But I can overlook that as instinct, reflex, or even the last vestiges of pride and the desire to please me with the way she looks. I don’t think she truly understands how attractive she is to me always, no matter what, and the special attraction of a cracking façade.

I only really notice what she’s made me when I can tear my eyes away from her. She is trying to be good, the picture perfect slave who averts her eyes when her Master enters, but I can feel her gaze on me the moment I look away. It’s a heady sensation, to be 43 years old and still regarded with such ardent desire.

There are scrambled eggs and bacon in the cast-iron pan, a piece of toast, some butter, another cup of coffee. My stomach growls in recognition, and I sit down.

I sip some coffee, butter my toast, serve myself from the pan. Iris is not an amazing cook, generally. But she can do breakfast well, and she likes to learn, hovering and watching and offering to help. Even now I can tell, she’s watching my every motion, every flicker of emotion on my face that would tell her whether she did well.

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