Have I ever mentioned that Elara would be the death of me? If I didn’t, well, she’s going to be. If I have, she still is going to be the death of me. She’s currently impaled on my cock, her pupils blown wide, her breath coming out of her in short, ragged gasps. But she still won’t let me take control. And fuck if I intend to deny her the right. Still, I don’t let the opportunity to ask pass by. “Elara — “ I call again, just as she begins to move, grinding her hips. “Fuck.” “Mmmm,” she moans, lifting her hips now, then slamming back down on my cock, I swear the breath swooshes out of my throat. “You’re — hey!” She grabs my hands just as I’m about to touch her and places them above my head, holding up before she continues her ministrations on my cock. For a brief moment, I wonder if she realizes I can literally yank my hands and take control of this situation, or if she thinks she’s actually in control. Either ways, I let her be. I let her be because I have no fucking idea
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