"Breakfast," you say casually, as if we're going out to eat, as if you're not standing here with your hands rudely shoved up my blouse, my bra askew, twisting my nipples so brutally hard that I'm on tiptoe, clutching your arm for support, eyes screwed shut, my entire body vibrating.
You've reduced me to two piercing points of feeling. The pain is exquisite.
It's all fun and games to you, toying with me, dangling me on the border of bliss and never letting me pass over.
Last night you jammed a dildo in my pussy while you callously raped my ass, cruelly pulling out before I reached my peak, stifling my complaints with your swollen dick. I pleaded with you to let me swallow, but you withheld that prize, falling asleep without conscience, leaving me wanting, unable to sleep.
When you woke this morning, your unjust cock rising with the sun, I thought you'd reward me. I more than deserved it. I had no qualms straddling you to take my rightful due. You owed me that.
Presumptuous of me.
Throwing me off, you made me pay for my mistake, confining me to the bed with my ankles trussed over my head. You were a machine, spanking my ass and thighs, my senses focused on your merciless gaze, the loud thwack of your hand, the heated tingle spreading in my flesh, warm and welcome at first, quickly becoming discomfort then outrage.
You smacked me relentlessly until my skin darkened from red to purple and I writhed in torment, appalled at the sick kinks in both of us that brought us to this.
When you untied my ankles I wailed as the blood rushed back to my feet, pins and needles prickling me as you spread me wide and attacked my bald pussy, hitting harder than ever, like beating a puddle given that I was dripping with the need to come.
How arrogant and superior you are when I'm frenzied and raw, weeping tears of defeat, begging to be fucked.
Of course you deprived me.
You made me get dressed, supervising to stop me from touching myself. My panties were soaked the second I put them on. My thighs were tender, slicked and slippery. Now I have bed hair and a seeping wet spot on the back of my skirt, in no condition to leave the house, but you know that. You've no plans to take me anywhere.
Releasing my nipples, you snap my bra back in place, the pain subsiding, the relief so intense I almost topple over.
One look from you and I know what 'breakfast' means. I don't need to be told to get down on my knees; I'm automatically there, mouth open like a baby bird, a slut-faced blow-up doll. Once I aspired to be loved, but these days I'm resigned to being nothing but a cum receptacle.
I've always savoured giving you head (one thing I truly die for), but somewhere along the line tenderness has been lost and I mourn for it. I want to taste you, I do, but it scares me that there'll be no sweet kiss at the end of it, no release for me. I wonder with more frequency lately why I let you abuse me.
Shirt off, belt and pants open, you come to me exposed, erect, strong and dangerous.
Every time I see you like this my doubts fade, my blood boils, and my juices flow.
You're always thinking – the wheels turning on some deep thought - and you're the master of self-control. I live for the moments when your foundations shatter, when the voice in your head blanks to white noise, instinct overwhelming you. Only then do I feel that we're equals, that you're just as much at the mercy of your sex as I am.
It's an intense turn-on for me, inciting you to that animal state, seeing the unguarded hunger on your face when you forget everything except the pursuit of orgasm.
Fisting my hair in your hands, you ram your cock between my lips, surging to the back of my throat, fast and punishing. I'm gagging, looking up into your eyes, tears streaming down my face. Feeding on my misery, you grow bigger in my mouth, backing me up until my head hits the wall. You hold me captive, slamming your cock into me over and over. All I can do is hold my throat open and suck harder, my tongue flickering over you, urging you to finish quickly.
Body seizing, you pull out and pump yourself, spurting white hot fluid all over my face, deliberately missing my mouth. Wiping your priceless deposit off my cheek, I'm desperate to taste you, but your hand tightens around my wrist and you whip my fingers away, cleaning them off on my skirt.
"Fuck you," I sputter. God damn you. I'm hurt, insulted, infuriated. You're lucky I don't jump up and plant my knee in your balls. I'm over it. I've had enough of your bullshit.
Standing on wobbly legs I turn my back on you, stumbling towards the bathroom.
You're right you know. Why would I want to swallow the cum of an iceberg, an unmoved, heartless pig? I'll wash you off, I'll scrub off every toxic drop, and if you ever try to face fuck me again, you'll get a guillotine of teeth. (Little do you know how much I'll suffer, far more than you, to be denied the taste and wonder of your cock in my mouth, at least, the way that I like it).
"What did you say to me?"
I freeze at the menace in your tone. I could repent but the damage is done, it's too late to take back my disrespect. I could bolt, but with the dead lock keys hidden, there's nowhere to run. A switch flips on in my head, a subconscious need to provoke you further. The more I push you, the hotter you get, the higher the chance that you'll lose your way and cave in to me, conceding me that elusive orgasm.
Then there's the terrifying, yet alluring, possibility that one day your beatings will go too far. It's all part of the rush.
Without looking at you, I reply, "What I said, was 'fuck you', but what I really meant to say was, fuck you, you cold-hearted, sadistic piece of shit." Put that mouthful in your Piecepipe and smoke it. I'll teach you for thinking I'm submissive.
There's a flurry of air behind me, and then you're on me, dragging me by the hair into the kitchen, pinning me face down on the table, holding me there while you rip my skirt and panties down.
Not saying a word, you release me and walk out.
It's an illusion of freedom, designed to put me in my place. Why cry and carry on when I'd the opportunity to walk away whenever I wanted? You're so devious. You know me too well. You know there are elements of anticipation and excitement building in me as I wonder what depraved punishment you have in store.
I know the rules.
Stepping out of my panties, I spread my legs so wide that my buttocks are stretched apart, my muscles starting to ache, the strain on my body amplifying every hurt and ill you've already inflicted.
The house is cold and silent. The minutes tick away while I stand absolutely still with my genitalia on display, open and vulnerable, my cheek pressed against the table, waiting.
After what seems an eternity you return, cool and aloof, hiding something behind your back. Before I can guess what it is you penetrate me with your fingers, slipping so easily into me that I'm embarrassed and ashamed. I can protest all I want but my pussy doesn't lie.
Impaling me on your hand you tell me what a dirty mouth I have, what a wet little slut I am, a leech who wants to suck you dry. The whole world knows I'm a bad girl, a dirty whore, a nymphomaniac cunt who thinks too highly of herself . . . everything derogatory you can think of.
With your inventive mind the debasements are endless.
It destroys me to hear you call me filthy names, particularly while you're manipulating me, making me ooze into your palm, lending credence to your words. Gripping the table, I wriggle and squirm, humiliated, transported to the most soul-destroying recess in my mind.
Your fingers withdraw from me, replaced with the arctic burn of your nasty tool, the icy fullness of the steel dildo you made especially for me, crudely rammed into my snatch, right to the hilt. Every cruel node you adorned it with tortures my inner passage as you twist the evil thing inside me, leaving me painfully sensitised and breathless.
I wish you'd taped my mouth, anything to stop the strangled moans of longing and anguish that spill out of me. I want your cock, the real thing, you inside me, you fingering my clit, you making me explode, please Master, please god, pleeease.
As if you could care less what I want.
Wrenching my chin up, you slip your fingers into my mouth, smearing my slut juice all over my lips, forcing me to lick your hand clean while you're fucking me like a corkscrew with your evil toy. Just enough, just enough to bring me to the cliff and leave me hanging there before ripping the dildo out of me and deep-throating me with it.
I'm a sobbing, quivering mess when you throw the dildo aside and land the first deadly blow.
Oh my god, my god, my god, my fucking god, you have never been so pitiless, never hit me with something as vicious or sharp as metal. My head hits the table as your belt welts my skin, the buckle cutting into my bruised ass, the pain so acute that, in screaming, I bite my tongue, blood filling my mouth with a distinctive tang. You've taken to me with your open hand, your whip, but this...this is beyond pleasure or pain.
This is annihilation.
You flay me a second and a third time, and I'm shocked to realise that the choked, tortured sounds echoing off the walls in the kitchen are coming from me. My mind clears and I suddenly detest you with a passion I've never felt for my worst enemies, fueling my determination to never let you win.
It won't be me who calls a halt to this.
Rage sustains me through the following hit - only just - but the beating is too much. My body breaks into a cold sweat and my soul cracks wide open. Flinching away to avoid the next blow, I succeed only in ramming my pelvic bones into the table's edge, adding more contusions to my body and worst of all, elevating your wrath. How dare I try to ease my suffering?
Drawing your arm back as far as possible, your belt whistles through the air as you bring it down hard across my buttocks in the most despicable, inhumane stroke of them all.
It's over for me.
Slumping to the floor, my body and mind shrieking, I'm scarcely able to curl into a foetal ball, past knowing who I am, no longer caring what happens to me. Right now I would gladly face death and embrace oblivion, anything to evade the profound devastation you induce in me.
You look down at me, really look at me, an expression crossing your face that my hazed, confused brain can't comprehend.
It could be remorse for breaking your plaything.
It could be triumph.
Then you're on the floor with me, rolling me on to my back, pushing my limp legs aside as you run your tongue through my sopping pussy. My bodyweight presses down on my wounds, and I howl from the shock of it, but the tiles are cool and soothing, numbing my burning, bloody skin. My body is so overwrought I can see the poetry of your head between my legs but I can't feel your mouth. I cant feel a thing until your lips and teeth latch on to my clitoris.
That's all I need.
All the pent up emotions and the knife edge of frustration you've balanced me on for days, implodes inside me. Powerless, I thrust my hips into your face and let go, endlessly pulsing around your fingers wedged in my pussy, your tongue working its way into my ass as my spend goes on forever.
My total surrender sends you over the edge, flying into the abyss.
I can't believe you're hard again, hauling me on top of you, drilling your way into me with my pussy fighting to expel you. Holding me tight, you fuck me right through my climax, lifting me and slamming me down on your cock like a rag doll, my body anesthetised but my pussy on fire, my cries incoherent, close to madness. You're frenetic now, wrenching apart my blouse, buttons flying everywhere as you maul my tits, your hips levering up into me.
I can't escape you and I can't remember the reasons I wanted to. All that matters is that you're inside me, filling me up, out of control, just as much a slave as I am. Your loss of self revives me. Biting hard on your throat, sucking your neck, I claw at your back, leaving my own savage marks as you drive into me one last time, your body jerking in tandem with mine when you flood my tight passage with semen.
Collapsing against you, I fold my body into yours, reluctant to let you go as silence descends over us. Schizophrenic I know. A moment ago I wanted to leave you, maim you, die, but now I'm struck with the irrational necessity of keeping you close, dreading the moment when you withdraw from me in body, mind, and spirit. It's almost as if you've given up a secret part of yourself and you resent me for taking it.
This is the telling moment for me, the switch from craving sex to feeling used, full of despair, needy for approval, searching for some kind of meaning in all this because without it I'm left with utter emptiness.
For some reason I can't fathom, now is one of those rare moments when your cock fades away, but you, you are still with me. Helping me to my feet, you support me to the bedroom. I'm not used to consideration. It plays havoc with my head, but it's an implicit part of your charm, like lightning spearing through storm clouds.
Cautiously I crawl on the bed, easing myself down on my stomach, exhausted, my body flaming in agony. I've no spirit left to cry; I've already given you an ocean.
Handing me painkillers to swallow, you wash my injuries and salve my skin, rubbing my back to gentle me whenever you touch a tender spot. It stuns me that your comforting hands were capable of such barbaric treatment.
I don't know what you think or feel when you clean the six cuts where your belt buckle drew blood. Nor when you lift my hips off the bed and plunge your face between my legs, slowly lapping every drop of your own salty cum from me.
This simple act (if I wasn't so tired and sore), makes me yearn to have you back inside me all over again.
When I least expect it you brush my hair off my face and gift me the longest, sweetest kiss, finally letting me taste you, all of you. Your kiss is a silent communion: It's you understanding the ordeal you've put me through and just how deeply you value my capitulation.
I know your dirty little secret.
You're not as heartless as you pretend to be, and that, dear one, is why I keep coming back.