Fuck Me Angry

He’s pissed me off.

That’s where we begin.

Where you get lucky.

Every request he’s made that I’ve denied…all yours.

We start with my pain. Drive your hands into my hair. Yank my head back. Take control. Show me that, no matter who may own me most of the time, you own me NOW.

Metal. Leather. Hard. Fast. Beyond my sway. Lost to you until you say otherwise, eventually equally lost, spent across me.

He hurts me, but it is to you that I run for sublime agony—and such sweet submission as you receive from me is made from the stuff of his dreams—and agony you provide, in delicious, forbidden waves.

Breaking, bleeding under your hand, your tools; in this moment, I am more yours than ever his. Your teeth in my shoulder, my thigh, my stomach, my ass, I drip, though, whether from blood or drool, I couldn’t say, but from pussy, it is certain.

I scream my anguish; you laugh, and I’m wet.

I think of him for a moment before your hand, your whip, your tongue, your cock assault my thoughts.

“A born fellatrix,” you say, before allowing me to return to my worship of you, leather falls across my back punctuating each stroke of your cock down my throat.

“Whose slut are you?” you ask before you cum, wanting to hear my devotion from my own lips.

Fuck you.

The same question you all ask. You. Him. Random others. You all want to know.

“Whose slut are you?”

I am mine.