tagBDSMPower struggle

Power struggle

byjele©

He was power. Fully aware of his power over her, he started softly, then grew to become brutal in his corruption. He used his authority, his role in her everyday life in a furious and controlling, potent way. Outside of the bed, he was a strict disciplinarian, expecting perfection from his girl in every way. She found him gruelling most of the time, his nurturing and nearly parental demands seemingly unending. But when they were alone in her bedroom, he would become the force behind her most treasured and divine pleasures. The world of fantasy and reality too easily blurred: two different people in the bedroom. She was young. It was almost immoral for them to even be married. And he was older.

When he touched her, it was as if the exposed areas of her skin would raise out to meet his touch. The tiny variations in her body, the stretched epidermis on her neck, the taut shine under her eyes, the smooth, strong meat in her lips and mouth and the texture in her hands would fizzle and burn whenever he made the inevitable motion to clasp and claim her. She wasn't aware of it until their unions became a regular occurrence, and she could relax enough underneath him to notice the heightened raising of her flesh. At first it felt just like a little humming buzz of electricity filtered through her cells and muscles. Then the skin tingled, and the hairs raised in static magnetics.

He treated her so well, his hands leaving only rounded, warm tones on her. Later in the night, those same hands would turn clammy and wet with her juices, and hard and flat against her. He would press down hard on her ribs with the full, mounted flesh on his palms, working her up and down and trying to coax the cries from her lungs. He liked her to lay in a state of constant undulation underneath him. He liked to play her like an instrument, urging the pleasure from her like a heavy, malleable wax. She grew lazy under his ministrations, learnt to be served, learnt to be dominated. He would tell her: "You will cum, thick and long. When I fix myself deep in you, and begin to build the pace," he ordered in smooth, slow strokes, "You will cum heavily and try to wet the bed through my fat prick."

And she would nod, taking his demands into her head. The firm hypnosis clicked in her body as he fixed himself deeper, and his swollen, hurtful rod nearly tipping the base of her womb, his motions would speed up. It was an internal expectation when he said this, and sparked her to cum in the very way he'd narrated. She would milk the cum from her own muscles, pumping the pleasure through her own body, and try to cum out onto the bed despite his cock being firmly plugged up inside her. His dominance inspired some of the most mind-blowing orgasms of her young, experienced life, and she grew addicted to it.

With separate bedrooms, he would not live in her bedroom, but instead tend to her like a patriarch. After the nightly ritual of baths and showers, late night television, he would tell her it was time for bed: "You have an early morning, pet, time for bed."

She would whine for a moment, and play the nightly role of minx, slipping onto his lap to try to tempt him from his regime. She would stroke his arms and elbow, running her fingers up and down his large, fat, muscle-drenched arms, "Awww, no. Not yet, please? One more hour?"

"No, I'm serious. Bed."

She would whimper and linger under his beard, under his chin, burying her cool lips against his neck, nuzzling lightly, "One more hour?" She'd whisper, and he'd falter.

"Hmm, alright. One more hour," He would agree, "But you have to watch what I want. None of your teen rubbish," and he'd switch the video on. And the familiar pangs of erotic moaning would enter the lounge room, flavourful and rich. The television would suck them into the world on the screen: a feverish, gasping, grunting carnival of flowing juices amid the folds of red, meaty flesh and thick, hard bodies. They would sit like that in the den, in a dewy silence, watching enthralled as the two naked beings on the screen fornicated and fondled each other. He knew she would never last the final hour, and instead would begin to squirm on his lap, playing with herself a little bit. She would position herself over the large, velvet stone under his pants, and begin to writhe her muscles back and forth on him.

"I'm going to bed," She'd announce, and give him a lingering kiss before racing upstairs to climb into bed.

He would sit in the lounge alone, watching the rest of the movie, before going to bed himself. And sometimes he would try to be good: going straight to his bedroom. The cold, empty room aching in him as he undressed and climbed into the starched white sheets. His cock would throb painfully, knowing she was only in the next bedroom, moist and juicy, hot and waiting to begin.

Prowling the hall naked, he would slip into the room as if they lived with other people, and he would lock the door. She learned to love the sound of the door lock clicking over. She could almost cum at the very sound. She would pretend to be sleeping, and he'd coax her awake, feathery soft touches around her face and neck. She would roll over and yawn, and smile at him in the darkness. His hand would stroke down over her pretty nightgown, stopping to ease her round, tight tits out of the lace. He would roll his hands over them in the full, circular strokes, telling her silently not to move, pressing down on her belly and ribs under the sheet. She would lift her legs though, parting impatiently for what was to come: that smooth, exotic aroma of sandalwood and musky berries.

"Put your legs down," he'd whisper in a warm, growling hush, "Don't move."

It would hurt to back down from him, and lay straight in her bed. Until his hand strobed under the sheet further, finding the soft hem of her nightie, and pulling it up. He would stroke it all the way up to her chin so she lay still and naked before him. The sheet would be ripped from the pressing rim of the bed, and shrug with a folded sigh to the floor of her bedroom. After so many years together, he worshipped her body, her scent, her textures. He'd watch her lay there, watch the rise and fall of her belly when she breathed, the subtle twitch of her delicious pussy hairs over the fine, smooth mound of cunt that he craved. He'd watch and his eyes rolled over her body, tip to toe, stroking her and skinning her alive so that her veins and tendrils of soul were uncovered. Never cold, she'd warm under the pressure of his wild, frenzied eyes. He liked to tease and taunt them both - he liked to bring himself to the brink of pain before allowing for the drenching of her around him.

The house would become alive in that silence. The soft breathing of two naked beings would awaken the walls, and they would begin to hum, flashing lightly with a grainy motion. The floor would listen, waiting for the padding of her bare feet and the dripping of her cunt as she walked across it to the bathroom. The light switches would impatiently buzz in anticipation for the touch of her wet, grimy hand on them. The house was the witness to their union, and it was a whore to them just like she was a slave to him.

He would lean in and kiss her breasts, whispering "I love you" in a little mantra that came so easily to his older lungs, "Ohh I love you. I love you, pet, I love... you..." And she would eat his words up, moving beneath his luscious kisses, unable to stop quivering, kneading the back of his neck with her hand. Those subtle movements he would allow, but if she tried to move on top of him or take the dominant role, he would grow ruthless, beating her down with his gruff grumblings, pushing her back with his shoulders, massaging her down into the bed again, lifting her legs so that she was exposed and shivering under the weight of him. Forcing into submission every urge in her nature to reach out to his cock and stroke and suck and worship.

His mouth would be filled with the bitten mounds of her breast flesh, his throat pricked by her rubbery, hard nipples, and he would moan in delight at the sensation and taste. He would eat them up for a long while, until he could feel her body hardening and stiffening with the oncoming promise of orgasm. Then he would flick his tongue around the tips of the mounds: biting her nipples with gentle teeth - and then rougher and more cruel, until she yelped. He would feed from her tits, moving down over her bed-bound body, stroking her flesh with the texture of his face, lips and beard until he could part the cheeks of her ass widely and glut himself on her cunt meat. His cock would rub on the edge of her bed. He would be like stone by this time, perhaps already staining the sheets with his jism. But he would still let her cum before his cock entered her tunnel.

His power was undeniable, and he would end up fucking her so brutally that the friction in her cunt burned like a delicious, rubbing fire. It inspired the beautiful motions and rhythms of orgasm deep inside her - not just clitoral - but also in the walls of her vagina. The strong, firm, sucking muscles of her cunt would pull him in and force him to rub the cream from her. When she came, she came hard for him. That was how he liked it. He often felt her juices spread like butter around his penis as he came inside her, shooting his load deeply into her belly.

She'd ask him: "Cum inside me," pleading in a delicious little girl whine - amid the frothy womanly moans and gasps of a whore. The request always was welcome, and he'd fuck his seed up into her as deeply as he could, lifting her legs up over his shoulders and ramming deeper with the juice. When he pulled out, she'd flow like a fountain; like a creamy waterfall, wetting up the bed, staining it clear and sticky.

She'd slide down in the cream on her sheets, her ass slick with it, and when he was exhausted and vulnerable, she would take the opportunity to suckle his cock as it softened in her warm grip. Sometimes she'd shudder him unexpectedly, and more seed would spurt out into her soft, loving little mouth. She'd drink it like it was candy, licking his head around and making him jolt from the sensitivity of the gesture. She took great delight in sucking the matted hairs around the empty balls, and swaying base of the shaft. She licked the hairs, tickled her nose with them, chewed on their curls a little. When she was done cleaning him, she'd stand and hobble to her bathroom, dripping cunt-cream on the floor as she walked, her pussy throbbing with the pleasurable, sensitive sensations of ecstasy. He'd watch her walk, wet and slimy from him, and still warm from their union, and he'd fall asleep on her pillow, knowing she'd be back after her shower, to hug and hold him into a dream.

He held the power until the last, when he shot his load into her. The power would transfer into her. Her pussy, her body, would eat it up like energy. She'd walk from the bed glowing with authority and confidence. Her skin shone with the wet sweetness of dominance. When she came back to bed, she would be the hunter, and he the victim. Sometimes she would throw her leg over his belly and try to get him hard again, just to hurt him. Sometimes he would get hard, and she would fuck him violently from above - the only time he'd allow it. His exhaustion allowed her a great deal of possession, and she would possess him. Grunting, she could piston his cock and roll on it, then like a well-oiled machine, thrust and thrust until he was groaning from an agonizing weakness. His punishment would come fast and furiously as she fucked him from above like that, not allowing him to move. She would bury his face in her dangling breasts so that he suffocated beneath her.

"You're bad," She'd grunt, "Making me lay there like that, not moving. You're mean and cruel. Now you can't move!" She'd babble, fucking him in a seemingly ceaseless athleticism. "You just have to lie there and feel me eating you up, feeding on your cum, your sperm, your thick wads... of... creamm..."

Her own words would work her into a daze, and she would cum again on top of him, then fall, exhaustedly against his chest, and they'd fall asleep together, his cock still buried in her where it belonged.

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