The door swings open, and I am gestured to be let in. "Ladies first," he says in an attractive tenor, causing me to hesitate as I cross the threshold of my own apartment.
"I'm not carrying you." The man jokes. He's good-looking, about in his mid-thirties, but he could pass for someone a lot younger or a little older. The rugged beard with casings, long, braided brown hair against stark pale skin, and the Mjolnir around his neck gives him the air that he just walked out of Kaupang or Kattegat. I turn, welcoming him to my home. My hands slide up his forearms. I hesitate a moment on the old, faded tattoo on his arm; he's never gotten it touched up, despite all the times he's said he would over the years. My eyes rise, dark brown meeting dark blue, and a mutual understanding passes between us. We both know why he's here tonight, and it's not to sit here and compliment each other's tattoos.
Yeah, I didn't think it was ever going to happen. We'd been talking and flirting and writing for over eight years, of course. But that really doesn't mean anything. And now...here he is. The wife has become comfortable enough with my presence to allow me to be with both of them. But she is not accompanying us this night, working or something.
I see so many lives before my eyes in this man. A kind man with long brown hair and a matching beard. A galactic prince-soldier widower with a gaze as cold as the void. A shorter man, built like a swimmer, but with the strength to manhandle a woman and threaten her into behaving. And my favorite, a charismatic blond-haired, cruel-faced man with a love of sadism and the training of slave girls. He looks at me, his gaze proceeding down over my body. All of these men play back in my memories. All of the good memories, the bad. The long nights where I would be awake, pressing my legs together and shifting desperately to find relief without masturbating, and usually failing in my attempt. Knowing how wrong it was, but oh, how right, as I desperately kept quiet, as not to wake my roommate, as I begged the name of the one I beseech tonight. And none of them truly exist. They are simply facets of the one that is in front of me. His hand, calloused yet gentle, comes to my cheek, his thumb running over my cheekbone, before slowly proceeding down to my neck, which he protectively grabs.
"Are you going to be a good girl?" His tenor has dropped about three octaves. His touch is divine, the very slight blood flow interruption causing me to gasp with delight and surprise. It is as if he can cut lightning from his fingers like the gods he honors, the bolts sinking into my skin painlessly and proceeding down to my very core, where they alight into flames.
"I..." He knows better. I am never a good girl. I can practically feel the smile of Freyja herself on me as I, one of her many daughters, engage in her blessed acts.
A smirk splits his face. "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah." His hand tightens a bit more around my neck before releasing and going to my ass, where he very openly cops a feel as he leans in to bite at my neck. He barely scratches the surface with his teeth, but it sends more of his unique electricity, causing me to push my legs together. And oh, does he know it. The knowing look tells me everything I could ever need to know and more.
"You have five minutes to hide." His voice is a final warning, and he proceeds towards my couch, setting a timer on his phone. He sits comfortably as if there were no care in the world. "Your time starts now."
I slip my shoes off, aiming to make as little noise as possible as he remains focused on his phone. He's definitely not looking...right? My place is a one-bed, so it's not like I have many places to hide. But that's all part of the fun, getting caught. With the thrill of the chase, my heart pounds as if I have called the Riders of the Wild Hunt to this exact location.
I look around desperately as I reach my bedroom. Under the bed would be a good idea. I would never fit, though. I have never been a small woman. I am curvaceous, with lush 42DD tits and an ass to match. The most obvious next option is the closet, but that would be too predictable. The game is about the chase, after all. I dash into the bathroom, carefully shutting the door to not make a sound, and climb into the bathtub just as the alarm goes off.
"Kali..." The Voice. Oh, Gods. The VOICE. "Where could she possibly be?" I'm biting my shirt to keep from giggling, curling up on myself. A good five minutes pass as he checks several places in my bedroom before opening the bathroom door and yanking back the shower curtain. From this angle, he looks like a completely different man in the shadows cast by the bathroom lights. "Kali, get up." He warns.
"No!" My own bratty words make me giggle. "You can't make me!" I whine like a petulant child, to which he rolls his eyes and, grabbing me by the wrist, pulls me up before throwing me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He brings me back to the bedroom, tossing me on the mattress. I do not dare move, practically frozen in place by his gaze, his lingering touch. The fires between my legs have grown to a full inferno, and my dress does little to keep me covered in such a position.
He mounts me, fully clothed, and places his hand on my neck, squeezing lightly. "Bad girl," his voice is low and sultry, causing a moan to escape my lips. His knee is forced between my legs, forcing me to spread my legs. "You think I haven't noticed? You teasing me the past few days." It's true. I have been teasing him. Sultry photos, roleplay ideas, and bratty comments fill our chat logs. He gives one more squeeze, more a warning than anything, as he heads towards a cabinet where we keep our...things. "Went shopping?" he teases, referring to a new dildo in the top drawer.
"Whatever. Are we Tyler or Gavriel tonight?" I ask. He'll know what I mean. Tyler, the loving yet effective brat tamer, or Gavriel, a breaker of women's spirits to the point they never disobey again.
He chuckles. "You think I'm going to tell you? Get up. Ass in the air." He says, and I do. Because he's behind me, I can't see him, but I can imagine how he stares. Perhaps his tongue would dart out to moisten his lips that he hasn't realized have gone dry, or maybe he will go and squeeze at his growing bulge, desperate to let it free. But no, he has other plans.
I feel his weight coming up behind me. At this moment, I feel so exposed. I'm fully clothed, still, but it almost doesn't matter at this point. His hands come to my ass, gently massaging before he lands a swat on my right cheek. And he's not gentle about it, either. His fingers come to my thong, and as I push my legs together as he tries to remove them, he huffs with frustration.
"I am beginning to think you want Gavriel to rail you tonight," he says, but his tone is more amused than disappointed. "That's just fine by me, slut. I'll break that brattiness out of you, one way or the other." I hear the slight click of a switchblade being opened, which he runs, blunt side down, gently along the skin of my inner thighs before cutting off my panties, letting them fall in tatters down to the bed. Then, the dress follows suit, a cut straight down the back which he rips off of me.
"Aw, I liked that dress," I whine, although I don't care. I consented in advance for that dress to be fucked. He isn't even paying attention, though. A soft moan leaves his own lips, and I know what he's looking at as he spreads my legs wider.
"You slut. You're already dripping. You love this, don't you?" he asks, his voice cold as the grave, and it radiates dominance. At my silence, the next spank comes, followed by a loving caress. "What do you say, slut?"
"Thank you, Sir," I gasp out.
