Asing for It

Every day, when you come home from work, I greet you. I put down whatever I'm doing, and welcome you. Throw my arms around your neck and place my ear to your heartbeat. You brush the nape of my neck with the back of your fingers, kiss me on the forehead, and then on the lips. I give a satisfied sigh, and I melt into you. You deserve that baby. Someone who's pleased to see you. Who has time to put you first.

Some days though, like today, I don't submit to our well worn ritual. I let you wander through the house, empty, quiet, and cold. It's not one of the days I have plans, you know I'm here. But for some reason, today I've left you hanging.

You stand in the doorway of my office, that irked expression on your face. Disappointed that I failed to observe our little ceremony. And then, you notice. I'm wearing my silver necklace. Our signal.

Your expression changes. I didn't forget today, what I was supposed to do. I chose to defy you. And now I'm wearing the necklace. The Hamsa hand pendant peeps out at you, nestled in the cleft of my throat. A raised hand can mean stop, but this one points down. It wards off evil, but it doesn't protect against danger. But then you can't go through life avoiding danger.

You put your hands on my shoulders. Spin me around in my chair to face you.

Our eyes lock. Normally, if I see that critical glare, I sink and cast my gaze down, avoiding yours. But today, I'm challenging you. Not boldly, because... that's not my style, is it? But a quiet, calculated defiance. I nervously run my tongue over my upper lip. Forcing you to make the first overture.

"Too busy to greet me today?" you ask, daring me to make a wrong answer.

Such a subtle play. We know each other so intimately, we don't need to reveal all our secrets in the first act.

Everyone appreciates a little dramatic tension though, *don't they*?

I chew my lip now. The air feels dense in my lungs, but I'm not going to break character.

"No Sir" I tell you, clearly. "Not really".

That's it. "Sir". Another flag dropped, so now all bets are off.

Your eyes narrow. Your jaw is set. I'm close enough to inhale the scent of you, a deep, predatory musk rises like steam from your exposed skin. One with better survival instincts might be repelled by such a warning. But it only draws me closer, makes me weaker.

My heart skips a beat when you move towards me, and seize my arm, above the elbow. Vice-like, you grasp me, and your touch seems to sear my skin. I can already feel those fingertip shaped bruises forming.

"What's your problem?" You ask me.

What is my problem? Who knows? But I want this. I like this.

I can tell this is turning you on. Your shallow breathing... It's OK, you know. It turns me on that you want this as much as I do. That you need to dominate me. I don't want you to do this for me, just because I like it. I need to know that you're doing it because you can. I want you to take what's yours. Because you own every inch of me. And I want to feel it.

"You seem to want to *act out*, Little Girl."

"Maybe I do want to act out" I whisper. Now everything else can go unsaid. We've rehearsed this enough. We both know the stage directions are hard wired into our brains. This set piece is part of our very souls.

So why this dance? This divertissement before the plot proceeds?

Because. You need it to feel safe. But we both want it...to feel... real.

I want to feel trepidation, when I see that hungry look in your eyes. I want to feel you lose control because of me, and ravage me, fuck me so hard that I forget my will exists. Because for me, fear and arousal are two sides of the same coin. And I can't help but toss that coin in the air sometimes, and see where it lands.

I swallow slowly and as I blink, a flash of our previous scene paints itself on the back of my eyelids. A fragment of the last time this show played, right here, with me laying on my back on my desk, legs in the air, while you gripped my shoulders and fucked me, hard enough to make me cry and scream.

Heads you win. Tails I lose.

I place my free hand on the slope between your shoulder and your neck. Try to push you away. But you just laugh, dangerously, unmoved by my effort. You pin me between you and the wall, no way out, and unzip my dress, one swift pull dropping it to the floor.

Your face is so close now that your breath leaves a vapour on my skin. You growl as you fix your mouth on mine, your tongue invading me, dragging my lower lip in your teeth. I squeal and then moan as you devour my neck, then my breasts, sinking your teeth in, crushing the flesh between your teeth. My skin's whole surface is alive, singing with the sharp trill of a thousand voices as the pain washes over me.

I may regret this tomorrow when I'm wearing a high necked sweater and long sleeves to hide the marks. But not enough to call red. Or even orange. No. I need this, so badly.

So go on. Hurt me. Don't spank me the way you do when I've broken the rules. Your upper arm tensed, carefully measuring the weight of each blow. I don't want a neat, precise row of handprints that will teach me to behave myself next time. I want a thrashing.

Hold my hair at the nape of my neck and slap me. Let me look at you, my wide, innocent doe eyes brimming with tears, begging you to stop. "Why baby? Please don't do this..." Oh you know me. You know what my dark heart craves. I want to recapture that feeling of being betrayed. Abused. But this time I want to enjoy the pain. Take out my broken side to play with someone safe. And retell the story.

I whimper as you sweep the papers off the desk and position me face down, my cheek pressed against the cool surface. I keep struggling. Kicking my legs, my round little buttocks and thighs squeezing tightly with the movement, giving you glimpses of my swollen, wet pussy. You lock me in place, restraining me so effortlessly. My face flushes with frustration but my pussy soaks at the ease with which you overpower me. I am helpless, bound, and I couldn't be saved now if I wanted to be.

Go on. Tell me I'm depraved. Hiss in my ear. Tell me that only a dirty, nasty slut would want to be fucked like this. Call me your fucking whore. And make me your whore.

I've surrendered now. No longer fighting back, I've resigned to my fate and your command. The fronts of my thighs are pressed so firmly against the edge of the desk there will be a welt there tomorrow, when I want to remember your intensity and your power.

I shiver as I hear the familiar sound of your belt unbuckling. You do it with one hand while keeping the other pressed into the small of my back, subduing me completely.

In one last vain attempt to resist you, and deny my own urges, I cry out "Stop. Please."

You push my panties to the side and fuck me, urgently. Your teeth are gritted and fists clenched as they hold my wrists behind my back, grunting with the effort of pounding me, using me like a fleshlight, so my teeth rattle and the whole desk shakes. I'm suspended by my upper body, flat on the desk's surface, where my legs have long since stopped supporting me, trembling and shaking and useless.

But this is what I want. It's what I need. I want to be fucked and used until I can't think straight. Until my head is completely empty.

I suck my lip under my teeth and bite down to stop myself from screaming.

"Shh. This won't take long".

I sob in agreement. You can read every note.

"Good girl. Now keep still and take it for me".

I love that. To endure for you. To suffer. To give myself to *you*, someone who can teeter on the edge with me, holding me so tightly and loving me so fiercely, that even if we fell off, it would be freeing. Our lurking, dark shadow selves finally swallowing us, we'd go down as one, clinging together until the last breaths left our bodies.

Close to the final climax, your pace begins to slow. I arch my back as much as you allow, my neck straining to lift my head and look back at you. Even as I whimper, I enjoy the view of your body thrusting into me, those slower, sensual strokes gliding in my wetness.

It makes me feel alive. To be at my most vulnerable and exposed. The heady rush of what we're doing hits me, steals my breath. I close my eyes and sail closer to that mindless bliss.

You tell me all the things I have to do to make you cum.

"Squeeze me tighter. That's my girl."

You make me feel needed. Needed so badly that you couldn't wait until your urges were acceptable. You brought yourself to me in your roughest, rawest state. Showed me the darkest and most unloveable parts of you. The ones that frighten you. They might scare me too, but they don't disgust me. I want them. I want all of you.

With that thought ringing in my brain, and your cock ploughing my tight, wet cunt, the action, the drama and the conflict all reach a glorious climax. I cum for you, powerfully. Shuddering. Sobbing with the weight of what we've done.

The curtain falls to complete silence. But we don't need applause, approval. Nothing goes up in lights, just a hushed, damp glow of shared appreciation. Both of us catch our breath. You lift me up to sit and face you, your cum trickling out of my pussy onto the desk, marking my workplace, my sanctuary, as the site of my destruction.

You kiss my eyelids and as they close, a final tear runs down my already stained face. I wrap my legs around your waist. Now you finally get to hold me in your arms, feel me sigh into your chest and kiss my forehead. You check me over and make sure that you only hurt me in the good way.

And now, finally, I stroke the back of your neck and whisper "Oh baby, that was so good. You really give me everything I could possibly ask for".