I woke up on my mattress on the floor. I still hadn't replaced the bedframe that Mike had crushed weeks earlier. I didn't really care, but it did take more effort to stand upright, straining my tender ass in the process. I showered and reflected on the last week, particularly last night.
Mike had told me that he'd been unsure about relationships, him having never been in one before. He needed time to quell the new, dominant sex drive that I'd awakened in him, so I had foolishly agreed to let him do whatever he wanted to me for two weeks. I agreed to be his personal hooker, to let him dominate me, abuse me, or treat me like trash if he wanted, before he agreed to engage in boyfriend duty. His growing dominant streak had climaxed the previous night when he'd tied me up, mind fucked me, and planted a flag of discovery deep in my rectum.
I still needed to move slowly as I got out of the shower and toweled off. Putting on clothes was awkward. I sat back down on the edge of my mattress and crunched some granola, still unsure how I felt about things.
Mike had texted me in the morning with a brusque message.
-hope u slept well ill come pick u up at 7 and well go somewere chill-
It was the first time that I wasn't simply delighted to hear from him.
When I'd first met him at the comicbook shop, I'd been so in awe of his physique that any priority but sex seemed completely irrelevant. Such a big, tall, heavy, hairy, bearded, masculine man had expanded the limits of what I thought was possible in a partner. Then prodding him to be dominant and feeling him take control of me, inch by inch, had made me question if I even wanted a partner or, rather, a master. My quirk of lusting for big, controlling men had become so perfectly actualized that it was frightening to feel it manifest around me like a tight collar around my throat. Catering to him felt so satisfying and bizarrely fulfilling that the centre of gravity within my desires shifted from dating and life goals and hormonal yearning to simple submission. I'd been coasting on this high of being low for the last few weeks, but as I neared the one month anniversary of meeting Big Mike, bruised shoulders and stretched sphincters and tattered work schedules had made me question if I could go on.
Girl problems, am I right?
I finished my granola and got up with another wince of pain. I needed to go out, get some sun, and breathe fresh air. I needed to return to some normalcy before I could arrange my priorities into a sensible order. I needed to clear my head before I could decide what I wanted. Before leaving the apartment however, I finally answered Mike's text.
-Sounds good. See you tonight.-
Despite any confusion, I knew I wanted to see him again.
I kicked around town, accepting the discomfort of my wounded anus. I grabbed a coffee and scrolled social media, perused a few stores on a commercial strip downtown, stared at travel deals on the big lit-up board at the travel centre, and eventually remembered that I had money waiting for me at work. It took me about forty minutes to head in, but despite the mark Mike had left on me, I pushed through and hoofed it over to the restaurant where I worked.
I asked Cassie to see if there was money for me. Since I'd cleared my schedule at Mike's request, I'd barely been in at all over the last week. I'd forgotten my cheque when I'd worked last; my mind had been occupied with the sexual punishment that he had waiting for me at home. I only had one shift that I couldn't get rid of over the next week, and I was beginning to be glad for it. I'd sacrificed my schedule to be at Mike's service, and a day or two per week was a needed reprieve from his thrall.
"Where've YOU been?" Cassie asked. She was the day bartender; we only saw each other in passing at shift change.
"Oh, well...stupid mistake...I signed up for an online course at the same time that my family is visiting. So I kinda realized at the last minute that I didn't want to be anywhere near here and thankfully Marty didn't freak out. So I'll be back on next week like normal."
"Oh yeah?" Cassie didn't really care to assess the veracity of my lies, which was fine by me. She handed me my cheque and we shot the shit for another ninety seconds before she needed to head to her table.
I found myself lingering on the way out, using the bathroom, making small talk with the kitchen guys in the back, and staring at the paper schedule for longer than need be to confirm when I was next in. I think I just needed to soak in anything mundane, something that was completely platonic and bland.
After I'd exhausted the attention of whoever was available and it just started to get weird, I waved goodbye and returned to the sunny day outside. I was almost running out of bland things to do, so I headed by a nice park and sat on a bench. Families were about, kiddies were playing on a multi-coloured playground, teenagers were smoking weed sitting on concrete barriers in the parking lot, and a dog was shitting under a tree. I slumped in my seat a bit and resisted the urge to stare at my phone. I wanted to be blank and meditative.
I guess my brain was receiving its regular dose of female hormones, because I kept staring over at the kiddies and smiling. Their giggly conversation and lack of coordination was endearing as they chased each other around the playground. I watched the parents, either solo or dual, as they kept an eye on their offspring. I mostly watched the dads.
I imagined Mike with some fat little munchkins running around him. I pictured a whole pack of dark haired kids circling his ankles, with one fat baby slung over his shoulder, Viking-style. It made me smirk down into my lap in a total girl moment.
"Damn you, biological impulses." I got up and started to head back home.
I was never the type to get lonely and my childhood upbringing hadn't instilled much familial affection in me. The thought of being pregnant grossed me out. So, in an urge to maintain the commercial value of my sexual organs, I'd declared to myself at seventeen that I would never have children. I'd spent a few years at college, travelled, worked, modeled, honed my art, and gotten into a few drunken misadventures unscathed, all of which had never been diverted by the desire to settle down; the fact that that had changed so quickly so almost embarrassing to me. I couldn't believe that a guy could alter my internal chemistry in less than a month, and have me suddenly starry eyed at the kiddie park. So corny.
I got back home, slight fatigue in my legs somewhat replacing the tenderness of my ass. I stripped down to my underwear and started to stretch out. I'd ignored any workouts for a while now and was in need of a yoga tune-up. I hit the floor and delicately entered cobra. My ass didn't hurt too much, but it was enough to make me hesitate before entering any new position.
That was another roadblock to the topic of reproduction: my beautiful body. I've always been quite happy with the way I look; call me self-absorbed and you won't be lying. I've gelled a high metabolism with a strict workout regimen, and it's always helped me catch eyes, both guys' on the street and my own in the mirror. Despite any wit or wisdom I thought I possessed, my ego was supported by the backbone of my fit, slender physique. What Mike had done to me the night before, leaving his mark on me like he had, felt like he'd toppled the altar of that ego.
His fat fingers and his fatter cock stretching my virgin ass and bruising my thighs had left me battered, ashamed, and confused. The momentum of Mike's indomitable sexuality hit its first speedbump when it collided with my bruised, superficial ego. I wondered what other wounds I'd accrue while surviving his sexual captivity, and how they would chip away at my pride.
I held a quadruped pose and raised and arm out and the opposite leg up behind me. My glutes gave out and I wobbled out of my bird-dog. The muscles around my hips and thighs felt weak still. I slumped over on the floor, my body now flushed with the slightest perspiration. I smirked at my failed attempt at a yoga routine: pathetic. The tension of my pelvic floor and sacrotuberous ligament was a little sacrifice I'd made in exchange for letting Mike be the first to fuck me in the ass. How many more would there be?
I rolled onto my back and imagined Mike's big body again. I visualized him on all fours above me, naked, hairy, and massive. A cocky grin lit up his bearded face as he smothered me in his abundant belly fat. His body was slick with sweat and he thrust his hips down, crushing me under his bulk, filling me with the girth of his cock. The memory of his past sexual demolition animated this little fantasy of mine until his phantom blew its load inside of me. I ran my fingertips up between my thighs and over my navel, imagining his hot load bombarding my eggs with sperm and instantly swelling me up into a nine month melon. I imagined being bloated with his dna, being fattened and burdened by it, like a ball and chain within me. I imagined waddling about, not fitting into any of my clothes until the day his chubby progeny burst out of me like a gory scene from Aliens. Blood would spill around me while I looked up into the face of this satisfied master, my whole body yet another living sacrifice for a powerful god above me.
I rolled back onto my side and ended my melodramatic little fantasy. I pushed up onto my knees and finished with a quick child's pose. My phone buzzed on the floor and I intuited it was Mike. On my knees, I answered him.
-my ride cant come until 8-
-that okay? Well go somewere chill and talk-
I hesitated for only a second before responding.
-Yeah, that's fine. I don't wanna dress up too much.-
He didn't wait long either.
-U always look amazing-
I perked up a bit from my weird reflective funk and got to my feet. I still wasn't sure how Mike and I would move forward but it felt good to exorcise the hormone-induced demon of pregnancy anxiety from my body. It was already after five so I headed straight into the shower. I cleaned myself up and felt like I'd finally shaken off the minor trauma from the night before. I stood in front of my closet and stared at my many outfits.
There was a reason why I'd told Mike I didn't want to dress up. It seemed to affect how he looked at me. When I'd first met him, I was dolled up after a modeling gig. I'd been done up in heels, heavy makeup, and a dress that screamed for attention, while he'd worn the most casual clothes, lacking any style save for nerd culture graphics and his reluctant, sweaty charm. And his reluctance came from that dynamic between us, between him and all women he found attractive: an imbalance of power.
Mike's mojo had never broken past the typical young man's deficit: always wanting from women and never attaining. Every woman that smiled at him possessed an acceptance he sought but also a rejection he feared. His relationship with women was always one lacking power; he was starving for it. I noticed that the more effort I put into my outfit, the more he would talk down to me and call me a slut. It was like an inverse relationship with fashion and abuse; the more I dressed up, the more he wanted to take me down.
