"Breakfast," you say casually, as if we're going out to eat, as if you're not standing here with your hands rudely shoved up my blouse, my bra askew, twisting my nipples so brutally hard that I'm on tiptoe, clutching your arm for support, eyes screwed shut, my entire body vibrating.
You've reduced me to two piercing points of feeling. The pain is exquisite.
It's all fun and games to you, toying with me, dangling me on the border of bliss and never letting me pass over.
Last night you jammed a dildo in my pussy while you callously raped my ass, cruelly pulling out before I reached my peak, stifling my complaints with your swollen dick. I pleaded with you to let me swallow, but you withheld that prize, falling asleep without conscience, leaving me wanting, unable to sleep.
When you woke this morning, your unjust cock rising with the sun, I thought you'd reward me. I more than deserved it. I had no qualms straddling you to take my rightful due. You owed me that.
Presumptuous of me.
Throwing me off, you made me pay for my mistake, confining me to the bed with my ankles trussed over my head. You were a machine, spanking my ass and thighs, my senses focused on your merciless gaze, the loud thwack of your hand, the heated tingle spreading in my flesh, warm and welcome at first, quickly becoming discomfort then outrage.
You smacked me relentlessly until my skin darkened from red to purple and I writhed in torment, appalled at the sick kinks in both of us that brought us to this.
When you untied my ankles I wailed as the blood rushed back to my feet, pins and needles prickling me as you spread me wide and attacked my bald pussy, hitting harder than ever, like beating a puddle given that I was dripping with the need to come.
How arrogant and superior you are when I'm frenzied and raw, weeping tears of defeat, begging to be fucked.
Of course you deprived me.
You made me get dressed, supervising to stop me from touching myself. My panties were soaked the second I put them on. My thighs were tender, slicked and slippery. Now I have bed hair and a seeping wet spot on the back of my skirt, in no condition to leave the house, but you know that. You've no plans to take me anywhere.
Releasing my nipples, you snap my bra back in place, the pain subsiding, the relief so intense I almost topple over.
One look from you and I know what 'breakfast' means. I don't need to be told to get down on my knees; I'm automatically there, mouth open like a baby bird, a slut-faced blow-up doll. Once I aspired to be loved, but these days I'm resigned to being nothing but a cum receptacle.
I've always savoured giving you head (one thing I truly die for), but somewhere along the line tenderness has been lost and I mourn for it. I want to taste you, I do, but it scares me that there'll be no sweet kiss at the end of it, no release for me. I wonder with more frequency lately why I let you abuse me.
Shirt off, belt and pants open, you come to me exposed, erect, strong and dangerous.
Every time I see you like this my doubts fade, my blood boils, and my juices flow.
You're always thinking – the wheels turning on some deep thought - and you're the master of self-control. I live for the moments when your foundations shatter, when the voice in your head blanks to white noise, instinct overwhelming you. Only then do I feel that we're equals, that you're just as much at the mercy of your sex as I am.
It's an intense turn-on for me, inciting you to that animal state, seeing the unguarded hunger on your face when you forget everything except the pursuit of orgasm.
Fisting my hair in your hands, you ram your cock between my lips, surging to the back of my throat, fast and punishing. I'm gagging, looking up into your eyes, tears streaming down my face. Feeding on my misery, you grow bigger in my mouth, backing me up until my head hits the wall. You hold me captive, slamming your cock into me over and over. All I can do is hold my throat open and suck harder, my tongue flickering over you, urging you to finish quickly.
Body seizing, you pull out and pump yourself, spurting white hot fluid all over my face, deliberately missing my mouth. Wiping your priceless deposit off my cheek, I'm desperate to taste you, but your hand tightens around my wrist and you whip my fingers away, cleaning them off on my skirt.
"Fuck you," I sputter. God damn you. I'm hurt, insulted, infuriated. You're lucky I don't jump up and plant my knee in your balls. I'm over it. I've had enough of your bullshit.
Standing on wobbly legs I turn my back on you, stumbling towards the bathroom.
You're right you know. Why would I want to swallow the cum of an iceberg, an unmoved, heartless pig? I'll wash you off, I'll scrub off every toxic drop, and if you ever try to face fuck me again, you'll get a guillotine of teeth. (Little do you know how much I'll suffer, far more than you, to be denied the taste and wonder of your cock in my mouth, at least, the way that I like it).
"What did you say to me?"
I freeze at the menace in your tone. I could repent but the damage is done, it's too late to take back my disrespect. I could bolt, but with the dead lock keys hidden, there's nowhere to run. A switch flips on in my head, a subconscious need to provoke you further. The more I push you, the hotter you get, the higher the chance that you'll lose your way and cave in to me, conceding me that elusive orgasm.
Then there's the terrifying, yet alluring, possibility that one day your beatings will go too far. It's all part of the rush.
Without looking at you, I reply, "What I said, was 'fuck you', but what I really meant to say was, fuck you, you cold-hearted, sadistic piece of shit." Put that mouthful in your Piecepipe and smoke it. I'll teach you for thinking I'm submissive.
There's a flurry of air behind me, and then you're on me, dragging me by the hair into the kitchen, pinning me face down on the table, holding me there while you rip my skirt and panties down.
Not saying a word, you release me and walk out.
It's an illusion of freedom, designed to put me in my place. Why cry and carry on when I'd the opportunity to walk away whenever I wanted? You're so devious. You know me too well. You know there are elements of anticipation and excitement building in me as I wonder what depraved punishment you have in store.
I know the rules.
Stepping out of my panties, I spread my legs so wide that my buttocks are stretched apart, my muscles starting to ache, the strain on my body amplifying every hurt and ill you've already inflicted.
The house is cold and silent. The minutes tick away while I stand absolutely still with my genitalia on display, open and vulnerable, my cheek pressed against the table, waiting.
After what seems an eternity you return, cool and aloof, hiding something behind your back. Before I can guess what it is you penetrate me with your fingers, slipping so easily into me that I'm embarrassed and ashamed. I can protest all I want but my pussy doesn't lie.
