Symon & Michelle: Endurance

Symon and Michelle: Endurance

Symon called around 7PM, saying that his project group had decided to finish things off completely, regardless of how long it took. She'd known he was going to be late, and his call made her realize there was no point in waiting up for him. She went to bed about 10PM.

Some time after, when she was dead asleep, she was awakened by the sensation of Symon yanking the sheets and blankets off of her. Before she could really make sense of the chill that washed over her naked body he was on her. Behind her, rolling her onto her stomach, digging his fingers into her thighs to spread her legs and pull her ass into the air. Groggily, she registered his heat and weight, then his breath at her ear.

"I need you. Now." His voice was hoarse and low.

He didn't give her time to say or do anything. She was clay under his hands. Her body responded, as it always did, to the raw desire in the husky tone of his voice. To the desperation in the grip of his fingers on her. He shoved his hard prick into her and it burned. He pulled out and it burned. And immediately her arousal compensated, lubricating her tunnel as he shoved back into her.

Soon he was gliding in and out smoothly, wetly, his pace quickening and his force increasing. She felt his fingers pulling at her butt cheeks, separating them, digging in at the most tender and sensitive spots where one half protected the skin of the other half. Where the skin thinned, meeting her hole.

Still, Symon pounded into her. He pushed one thumb into her sphincter, using that grip as a handle, pulling her hips up, forcing her to arch her back. His other hand grasping and kneading her leg, splaying her out so he could reposition them both for a more relentless pace.

Michelle stretched her arms out, bracing herself on the headboard, her elbows locked. Symon's action was driving her down into the bed. Her stomach now almost flat on the mattress between her outstretched knees. And still he rutted into her.

Now she heard that he was talking, grunting really. The words almost incoherent, but the tone angry, hard; she knew he was likely spitting insults, maybe spitting threats, or just as likely violent promises. Her body flushed, her battered cunt clenching around his thick cock. She shivered, on the brink of climax, knowing her satisfaction was immaterial to him.

She screamed, low, the sound swallowed by the pillow she was face down in. Her stomach contracted as her orgasm shot through and seemed to ricochet off all her internal organs.

She felt him wind his hand in her hair, and then the inevitable yank as he pulled her up off the pillow, suspending her temporarily by her tresses. She shifted her hands, trying to get more support, half believing that he would next twist her arms behind her. But he was to intent on pummeling her pussy.

As he pulled her up by her hair, he growled, "Cum again, cunt."

She did, almost automatically. The combination of sensations too much for her not to. With her orgasms behind her, he redoubled his pace and intensity. She was just along for his ride. Now she could hear more of what he was saying. The names he was calling her, his cockslut, his cumbucket, his greedy whore. The promises to wear her out, wear her down, ruin her pussy and her ass so she couldn't sit for a week. That he would cover her in bruises and make her beg for more.

She didn't know what time it was. She didn't know what had spawned this need in him. She didn't care. She couldn't think. Then another orgasm shuddered through her and he laughed.

"So predictable," he grunted at her.

He stopped for a moment, deep inside her. He leaned down and whispered gruffly in her ear. "One of these nights, cunt, it won't be me. I'll let some asshole take you like this, just to prove what a slut you are. Fuck, I'll pay an asshole to take you like this. Just to show that any dick can do you. Any dick can make you cum. Cunt."

She knew he didn't mean it. In the throes of a session like this he almost always threatened to turn her out to someone else. A lot of the threats were more graphic and disturbing than that. But fundamentally, he didn't want to share. She stopped questioning, years ago, why he needed to say those things to her. She'd stopped questioning, long before that, why hearing that kind of thing turned her on so much.

He resumed thrusting in her, more slowly, but with just as much force. She tried to catch her breath. He pulled out of her almost completely. He squirted a dollop of lube on her asshole and shoved his thumb back in. Then he went back to pounding her as fast and as hard as he could, shoving her back into the mattress, with his hand still wrapped in her hair. Her head yanked back, then he let go, and used that hand to add more lube to her crack.

He dug his fingers into her ass, spreading her cheeks again. She measured her breathing, preparing herself. Symon shoved into her hard, a few final times, then she heard his familiar guttural groan and sigh. He'd had his climax, balls deep inside her.

He pulled out of her, fast, so he was still hard. Then shoved himself in her ass. He got partway in, then pulled out, added more lube and impaled her on his length. She felt him grasping for her knee, and she shifted so her left leg was straight, and the right was bent just about ninety degrees. Symon matched his legs to hers, then shifted his own weight to press down on her. He wasn't quite completely laying on her back, but close.

Once she was in the position she was supposed to be, he reached his right arm around her front, clamping his hand on her shoulder and pulling her further onto him. He wanted his cock as completely inside her ass as physically possible, and he wanted it to stay there. She shifted slightly, to turn her head, ease her breathing. Making herself as comfortable as she could, with something that size stuck up her butt and a grown man practically using her as his mattress.

Symon's hand slid down, gripping the tip of her breast. She felt him curling his torso to match her, his head bending to rest on her hair. She was pinned, speared, well and truly mounted. She sighed, trying to relax, needing to sleep.

When they'd both settled, Symon kissed the top of her head.

"I took tomorrow off," he said.

"What?" she asked.

"I needed a day. It's been a shit week."

"I have to work tomorrow." It was hard for her to talk, she really wanted to turn to face him, but he was immovable.

"I know."

"No, really, Symon, I have to be there. The auditors are--"

"Michelle. I know. I'm not telling you to call in sick or anything. Just come home on time. Don't be late. I'm making plans. Just don't be late, ok?"

"Ok." She let out a sigh that sounded more exasperated than was prudent.

Symon laughed. "Relax, babe. You should probably sleep."

She buried her face in the pillow, thankful that he couldn't read her mind and hear the fifteen varieties of bastard she'd called him in her head. He knew she hardly ever slept when he positioned himself like this. He pinched her nipple, and she felt him relaxing on her.

She waited, hoping to feel his cock soften and slip out of her. Knowing that once it did, he'd likely roll onto his other side. But she surprised herself by drifting off. When she woke up a couple of hours later, Symon was on his side, his back to her. She rolled over herself, to spoon him, after resetting her alarm for thirty minutes earlier than usual. She definitely needed a long shower in the morning.

*~~*

The next day, she left work ten minutes early. She'd been sore and achy all day. When she sat down, she did so gingerly, and still winced about half the time. Symon hadn't been trying to hurt her the night before. But he was in the mood not to care if he did. At that was often worse. When they played games that he knew would cause her pain, they both prepared. But last night she hadn't had the chance to, and he hadn't cared about any cautions.

But, marry a sadist, and that's going to happen to you from time to time. And Michelle had to admit that the arrangement worked out pretty well for her too. Most of the time.

In her car, she sat while the heater warmed it up some. She texted Symon that she was on her way.

He responded: Good. Meet me downstairs. I left something on your chair in the bedroom.

She was surprised. He hadn't enforced that particular rule in a while. In the early stages of their relationship, when they were still figuring out what they wanted from this lifestyle, they'd come up with some rules. They'd heard so much about contracts and explicit consent, about writing things down, codifying them. Symon had wanted to play around with asserting control, and Michelle was willing to experiment with giving up control, to see how it meshed with her masochism.

One of their rules had been that unless she was dressed for work, she was only allowed to wear what he left her on a chair that sat in their bedroom. If the chair was empty, she was naked. If the chair just had a pair of high heels and a set of leather cuffs, then that's all she wore. Sometimes there were elaborate fantasy outfits; sometimes it was just a t-shirt and a pair of panties. But gradually they stopped enforcing. She learned what he actually liked to see her in, and he realized that she liked being naked as much he liked her naked, maybe more, even. So, that was their default.

She texted back: Understood. Anything else I need to know?

His response was authoritarian: If there was, I'd tell you. Get home.

She shivered in anticipation. There were any number of dastardly scenarios he could have dreamt up, alone all day.

*~~*

She walked into the house, and it was quieter than she expected. She wasn't sure why it unnerved her. If Symon was downstairs, waiting, then of course it would be quiet up here. She went to their bedroom and undressed. She washed herself quickly, just sponging off the little bit of grime from the day and freshening herself up.

She went to the chair, tucked between her dresser and the vanity she sometimes used. There was a pile of clothes, and a short note in Symon's angular handwriting.

The note read: "As usual, put these on in order. Leave your hair down. See you in a few minutes. Love, S"

Just under the note was a bottle of ibuprofen. She stared at this ominous sign, then swallowed the recommended dosage with a glass of water. At the top of the pile of clothes was a red lace bra, followed by a matching red thong. Then there was a long white dress that buttoned up the front. It was made from a thin cotton, like a sundress would be, and had a empire waist so the skirt fell from just under her bust line. The neck was a shallow v, with a lace inset, and the sleeves fell to her elbows, made from the same lace; the hem came just at her ankles. The last item on the chair was a pair of white mules with about a two inch heel.

She dressed, surprised at how demure and covered up she was. It was an incongruous sight, when she thought about the way he'd acted the night before, and what she presumed was going to happen next. The dress swirled around her legs, easy and light. She assumed that it would be destroyed before too long. She hoped he hadn't spent much money on it. But she wanted one to keep, too.

Michelle went down into their basement playroom. They'd been in this house a couple of years now, and had converted the partially finished basement. There had already been a bathroom, so they just added another wall for privacy, soundproofing, a partial kitchen, cabinets and furniture. There was plenty of space, strong overhead beams, and now lots of storage for toys, utensils and supplies. They'd spent an entire week down here just after the renovations were complete. Christening it, Symon had said. She loved the privacy, and the freedom to experiment that the space afforded them.

But, sometimes, especially nights when Symon gave her the look she saw now, the privacy and freedom it afforded him caused her to be nervous.

She'd stepped through the door to the space, and he was sitting in an armchair between the tall cabinet that marked the end of the kitchenette area, and the space that was dominated by the bed. There were a matching pair of chairs, one with an ottoman, and a small table between. He wore jeans, a loose knit shirt, and a pair of loafers. He looked, for all the world, like a yuppie.

On the table next to him was a bottle of bourbon, two glasses with ice, and a large shopping bag from their favorite adult toy store.

His eyes widened as she walked in. "That dress looks even better on you than I thought it would," he said, smiling.

Michelle smoothed the front and then twirled around with her next few steps. "Thank you," she responded. "It's lovely. It feels nice too. It's just. Uh..."

"Not my usual style?"

She laughed. "No, not your usual style for me."

"You want a drink?" he asked.

"Sure."

He poured bourbon in each glass, and then circled her waist with one arm, pulling her onto his lap. She settled herself, and he handed her the drink. He took his and they both sipped. She leaned forward to put her drink on the table, and as soon as she started sitting up, he pressed his hand to her chest, leaning her backward onto his arm and shoulder.

As he talked, he glided his hand up and down her torso, unfastening one button on the dress with each downward stroke.

"Yeah," he said. "It's not what I'd usually pick out for you. But I have to be honest. I saw it in the window, on a mannequin, and immediately had some very evil thoughts."

By this point, the dress was unbuttoned below the band of Michelle's bra, halfway down her stomach.

"Did you, now?" she asked.

Symon unbuttoned two more, then spread the cloth apart, exposing her bra. Michelle sat, watching his face, trying to divine what he wanted. Trying to prepare herself.

He looked at her. "Yes. Involving you in this get up, a lot of rope, and a snake whip."

She caught his hand as he slipped loose another button. "And this dress winding up in shreds on the floor?"

"Something like that. But then I did more shopping. And then I waited down here, and thought a while. And decided I wanted something else."

"Oh."

"But I still wanted to see you in it. But..." Symon pulled out from her grasp and quickly unbuttoned the rest of the dress, leaving it hanging like a coat on her. "But, the dress is safe for now."

He caressed her breasts, then went lower and slipped his finger just inside the waistband of the panties. He reached for his drink, and she leaned over for hers. They both sipped a little more.

"So, yeah, the dress is safe for now. You can take it off. There's a hanger in the closet."

She slid off his lap and walked to the bathroom where the closet was. As she got to the door he said, "Actually, take everything off."

She turned and nodded. "That's more like it."

When she came back out of the bathroom, she basked in his frank appraisal of her. Whatever else he called her, or the derogatory speeches he made, he never insulted her looks or her intelligence. Even as her body had changed as they moved through their twenties and thirties, he never criticized her physique, her weight, her hair, or that she refused to wear makeup. She knew that in his eyes, she would always be beautiful. So she displayed herself for him proudly, and reveled in his look and his searching, probing fingers when she sat back down on his lap.

"I'm having one of those moments when I wish I was twenty again. When I could pop a purloined Viagra and some caffeine and be good to fuck for four hours straight."

"Ok, but they didn't have Viagra when we were twenty."

"I know that. I'm saying, if I was twenty now. If I was twenty now, I'd take a Viagra, down an energy drink. Then I'd tie you up and fuck you into exhaustion. As it is, I'm making other accommodations."

He reached into the shopping bag, rooting around for something specific. He pulled out a half inch wide leather band, about five inches long, with three closely placed snaps. He held it up, then handed it to her.

"What's this?" she asked.

"An adjustable cock ring."

"Really?" she responded, surprised. He nodded. "But I thought you hated the idea of these?"

"I was persuaded of their benefits," he answered, grinning devilishly.

"Listen, babe, and I'm not just saying this to, y'know, stroke your ego or convince you to go easy on me..."

He laughed, because they both knew that going easy on her wasn't an option.

"Yeah?" he teased. "What?"

"It's just that, stamina has never been an issue for you. Or, other things that cock rings are supposed to help with."

"Oh, I know. I didn't get this because I wanted help."

"You got it because?"

His eyes hardened and all the mirth disappeared from his voice. "Because I want to fuck you into exhaustion. And then do it again."

"Oh," she said, her voice small. She handed the leather back to him, and fortified herself with another sip of bourbon.

"I got other new toys, too. I thought I wanted to make you scream," he said.

"You thought?"

He was still playing with her body, his hands roamed over her breasts, down her stomach, dipped between her legs. He cupped her breasts, let them fall, dug his fingers into her thigh.

"Yeah," he said. "I thought that's what I wanted. Those wonderful full throated screams you make when I'm flogging you or something. You know, right before you orgasm so hard you squirt." His tone was blunt.

She blushed, nodded. Then realized what he'd said. "But you don't want that?"

He shook his head. "No. I need something different tonight. Something, I dunno, colder."

He sipped his drink, and she followed suit. "I got a new Hitachi. With some attachments."

"Ok," she replied, nervously.

"And some new clover clamps, and a few other things along those lines."

"What does that mean, 'along those lines'?"

"You'll see." He stroked her face, glided his hand down to her breast, and squeezed. Not his usual quick hit until she winced. But a long inexorable increase of pressure until his knuckles went white and she involuntarily tried to pull away. Then he clamped down harder, until her flesh couldn't give any more, until it was crushed into solidity in his grip.

"Count to a hundred," he said.

She started counting, rapidly, as fast as she could form the words. Before she reached ten he said, "No. That's too fast. Slow. Slower. Like you're counting off seconds."

"Eleven."

"No," he commanded icily. "Start over. Go to one fifty."

She started again, saying the number out loud and mentally adding 'Mississippi' to keep the correct pace. He held on to her, clamping down, gradually shifting his fingers so that his nails dug into her. By the time she got to fifty, her pulse had quickened. By one hundred she started hearing the moan in her voice as she spoke. She sat perfectly still on his lap. He stared at her, his gaze boring into her.

She said, "One hundred fifty."

He didn't let go. She looked at him, opened her mouth, closed it. Shut her eyes as he tried to ratchet up his pressure even more. When she started shaking, he opened his hand wide, dropping her breast. She gasped at the sudden release of pressure, the absence of pain as disorienting as the pain itself had been.

Tears in her eyes, she looked at him again.

"That's what I want," he said. "When you know screaming isn't going to help you any."

She shuddered again. Nodding, she said, "I know what you're looking for."

"Yeah?" he challenged. "What is it you think I'm looking for?"

"You want to make me miserable. To put me in agony, and make me orgasm anyway. That's the real control, right? Do all the things you know I'd rather avoid, and make my body respond regardless."