“Say it again. Go on.”
Eyes downcast, she repeats a variation of what should be said. Not what she actually said.
He stepped closer and puts his forehead right against hers. She felt his breath against her cheeks, shaping his demand, more than his words hitting her ears.
Pausing, she utters what she first said, under her breath. “I will, if you want me to.”
He sighed, very gently.
And deftly, tightened the clamps that she does not like, on her nipples. She turned my head just a bit to the right, trying to stifle the moan and keep the irritation off my brow.
“Don’t turn your face from me,” he says. Low and soothing tremolo that lulls her into thinking she will get away clean.
He tugged on each clamp, left right left right, only making her less sure of anything she was doing. She did not feel hypnotized by the simulation of milking.
Seeing the look in his eyes, she felt her natural wariness awaken, not caring that it was him, that it (and she) belonged to him, that she was to trust him.
Many things were his but after all this time, she is no more a sub than a fish is a fowl.
She flounders. She wants to give him his due and please him. But she cannot do it eyes open, only eyes tightly shut.
“Drop to your knees.”
She falls. It hurts. Others like this, she thinks. They do. She doesn’t, no matter how she tries to bend her mind around it. She likes to please him, she only wants it to feel good.
How can getting her ass beaten, her pussy spanked, her nipples twisted until she yelps, her jaw sore and throat raw from giving him head for so long and her anal cavity stuffed, feel…good? She does not like pain.
She likes him. Him, she likes.
His buckle clangs sweetly, as it is unloosed and quits doing its job of holding up his pants. She opens her warm mouth, engulfing him, as he rubs her hair and her face.
He is not talking, as she serves him. The one and only signal that he is irritated.
On her hands and knees, feeling the paddle on her ass. Over and over. Sometimes he seems to hit in exactly the same fucking spot. The pain kicks in, true pain–not any haa-haa-giggle-giggle tingle. She wants to say aloud, ‘Fuck you, Sir.’ But she lets it echo in her head, not out into the air between them.
To say it would hurt him. It is not enough that she wishes to, that she tries to. It is that she does. Do it, give in, yield, capitulate. Surrender, succumb.
She never thought it hurt him, to hear her protestations or to see her eyes, full of defiance , as her body yielded. But it did. Or does, for she has not perfected hiding it, no matter how fast to run to him or how ardently she acts.
He spanks her ass steadily, knowing that at some point, she will break. Her words and thoughts will coalesce with her body and she will lose herself in the task.
Serving him. That is what she is in his life for. Her wit, looks, mind, body are not what he savors.
It is her willingness, her exclusivity to him, her hankering to be perfect–that is what makes her shine brighter than the rest. Not the smart-ass bitch she is but the cunt of his that she wishes to be. She smiles. But once the pain hits, it drops away and becomes a snarl.
He needs it, the pain. He needs to hurt her. He wants her bra to be uncomfortable on her nipples. He gets off on knowing it will hurt her to sit for 2 days after. He desires her mind to remain on him, as her body screams out against what he has done.
Truly, it is. Her mind is full of him. To hold more of him in her head means she could not walk, talk or breathe.
On her back, watching his jaw clench, as he fucks her. She can barely look at him, but he demands she does.
He stares, as he steadily goes in, deeper and deeper.
That makes her cry. His eyes are telling her one thing: he needs her to give what she purports she will. To stop fighting, to stop struggling, to stop weighing it.
But to feel and flow, fall into it and let him guide her. To let him do as he wishes. Not to be forced, but to be led.
Before she knows it, her fingers twine in his silky black hair and she babbles her shame, that she knows she is failing.
There they are. Face to face, grinding into each other, her nipples singing the blues in the clamps, her ass tender against the sheets. He gets heavier, tense.
“Please,” she says. “Please”. His face buries into her neck, as he empties into her. She feels a flush of wetness. Hers joining his.
Right then, she was able to marry her head with her body.
They are there. Breathing. Almost one. Almost.
After he takes off the clamps, dries her tears and holds her close to him, she admits the truth. She is afraid. He knows that.
She tell him, in the softest voice she possesses, that she needs him to help her.
She is the one who afraid of what she will become.
And yet he proceeds on. Never doubting, never unsure.
What does he know and see, that she does not?