It had been a hot day. The sort of day where the humidity lays upon one's skin like a heavy blanket. She had spent nearly all day in the heat. The shower had been little respite. Warm damp did little to erase the exhaustion brought on by the sub-tropical temperature.
After the shower, she wandered the house like a restless zombie. Air conditioners turned to high served to evaporate some of the moisture left from her washing. It did little to ease her restlessness. If anything, the cool only served to heighten the sensitivity of her skin. It was late, she was irritable, tired and aroused. She made her way to the darkened privacy of her bedroom, hoping to indulge in fantasy.
Shimmying out of her pajama bottoms, she lay prone, face down on her bed. Camisole shirt bunched around her ribs and waist, tight, pleasurable in restriction. She let her mind wander, hips lifting in the air. Exposed. She smiled slightly at the thought. If one were to walk in on her, what would he see? A bitch in heat, ass in air, legs spread. Open. Ripe for the taking. A soft whimper at the thought. She closed her eyes, fingertips snaking between her legs. A graze of nails against slicked lips. What if? What would happen if he would walk in on her?
A sound. Bedroom door opening, softly. Pushed shut. She senses his presence in the room, smells him. He says nothing, letting the silence grow uncomfortable. Her fingers stop, like a movie on pause. A knot forms in her belly, goosebumps breaking out on her skin.
"Enjoying yourself, are you?" His voice breaks the stillness, cold.
"I..I mean, I wasn't..."
He cuts her off. "You were. Why?" Amusement, heavily laced with anger.
She starts to pull her hands from between her legs, making a move to cover herself. He stops her, moving quickly to her side. His hand gathers her wet hair, yanking her head back roughly. Stars form briefly in her vision, momentary whiplash.
"You were hoping to come. You don't own this." His other hand, the one not in her hair, reaches back to cup her cunt. He jams fingers into her, roughly, no concern for how wet she may or may not be. "This is mine." His voice is a whisper in her ear.
"I'm sorry." Stricken panic in her voice. The knot in her belly grows tighter, fear of what could happen next feeding her arousal.
He loosened his grip in her hair, yanked his fingers from her cunt as roughly as they were jammed in. She gasped, wet leaking down her splayed thighs. Left open, her muscles contracted momentarily around air. Soft fingers stroked her hair away from her forehead, gentle like a lover. Then nothing. She felt him abandon her, sensed he was still in the room. Afraid to move, she remained on her knees, her shoulders and chin against the cotton fabric of bedsheets. A rustle of clothing. She knows this sound well. The muscles in her ass tense like springs as he pulls the leather belt from his pant loops.
His voice murmurs in the dark. "You wanted to play. So play."
She feels blood rush to her face, coloring her skin hotly. So open, exposed. The skin between her legs fleshy, hot, wet. She's embarrassed. She shifts slightly, raising her bottom higher, to grant herself access to her inner folds.
"Wider. I want to see you. Like a bitch in heat, that's what you are."
Her mouth goes dry at his words. That's what she is, a bitch in heat. His bitch in heat, to do with what he will. She knows this. That doesn't stop her from wanting to cover herself, to pretend to be angelic. She feels wanton, a succubus, her need only sated by his want. She shifts again, muscles in her legs trembling as she spreads herself wider. So exposed. She feels as if he could see into her, crawl inside. She begins her show for him. The middle finger of her right hand tracing circles around her clit. A soft moan escapes her lips.
The belt swishes through the air, the slap of leather against skin. She feels as though she's drained all air from the room, her pain and pleasure sucked through her teeth as a hiss.
"You want to come. You're going to come. Hard. Do it!"
The belt licks flames of pain across her ass. Red welts raise on cheeks and inner thighs. She struggles to continue her ministrations, adding another finger to the middle one circling her clit. She drops her hand down, two fingers plunging into the wet, not caring about the sting of leather against her hand. He continues to beat her as she masturbates. Her fingers pull from inside her cunt, now flying across her clit. Fast. Hard. Rough. A torrent of wet pours from her. The belt stops. A strangled cry comes from deep inside her. So close. On edge.
She stops. He yanks her head back, pulling at her hair again. "Did I tell you to stop? You do nothing unless I give you permission."
With a muffled sob, she uses the fingers of her left hand to part her labia, opening skin folds like petals. Her right hand strokes her clit, her nails catching skin. She feels him shove something deep into her. So cold. Not his cock. Something else. Its hard force sends her over the edge, hips bucking in the orgasm her pulled from her. Her fingers stop moving.
"I didn't tell you to stop, bitch."
She fights to hold on to some semblance of composure. Her thighs and bottom a mass of red welts against white. He pulls the object from her cunt. A plug. Average in size. She feels it press against her smaller aperture. She bites her bottom lip, enough to draw blood. She knows she should relax, open herself to him fully. The touch of the plug against her ass sends her into convulsions again, her legs spreading impossibly wider. He shoves it unforgivably into her, pressure, pain exploding in her belly in orgasmic release.
The bed shifted. She knew he was on the bed. She felt him kneel behind her. She dared not move. A zipper comes undone. The sound of clothing being moved, not removed. She knew he was angry with her. He wouldn't allow her the pleasure of feeling his skin against hers. He slapped her ass, using his full force. The print of his hand would remain as a bruise for days. He pressed against her, the fabric of his clothing rough against over sensitized skin.
"What are you? Tell me, who are you, and what are you?" It wasn't a question from him. It was a demand for her to answer.
