Standing there, my hands shake a little. I'd sat in the car down
the block, rereading your message on my phone, confirming the
address, the time, hoping I wasn't all wrong for what you wanted.
The nerves… Fuck! That wasn't going to do me any good. I walked
to your front door sliding my hands into my pockets in attempt to
stop the shaking. I knock. Standing there, in that time between
knocking and waiting for you to answer, my hands started shaking
harder and I was just about ready to run. I begin to turn,
Then I hear the your footsteps and the turning of the latch, my hand clenches into a fist and when it opens, there's not a hint of a tremor. And then there you stand, looking just like your pictures, and when you see me you smile, and I know it's time for what you asked me here for.
Before you can get the door all the way open I lunge forward and seize your throat in my hand, pinning you to the closest wall and lifting you onto the tips of your toes. Your lips tremble open and you whisper "Fuck!", you scream it again after I slap your face and squeeze your neck tighter.
The sound of your voice helpless and vulnerable flips that last
switch inside me and I-
I can already feel the crescents of torn skin beneath my nails as I drag you by the throat to the ground. I never look directly at you - in this moment you're beneath my notice - but I can feel that your eyes haven't left my face for an instant. Crouching there above you, pinning your wrists and your face against the floor, my voice is iron as I remind you just who is in charge, remind you that you brought me here for a reason, that you wanted to be used. And that I intend to take you for all that your worthless body can give me.
You nod your assent and I grace you with the first look into your
eyes since I crossed your threshold. I see lust and desire and
more than a trace of dark feral need, and the slight rakish smile
I give you sends a tremor through your whole body. Before you've
had a chance to still yourself my lips have gone tight again and
my hand has left your throat and seized a handful of your hair.
With a firm yank I begin you drag you down the hall, and as you
kick and fight and squirm you grab onto my forearm and relieve
some of of the tension on your scalp - but not, I notice with no
small satisfaction, enough that this wouldn't hurt you at least a
Your heels are banging on the hardwood as we enter the living room, an open space with just enough furniture to get creative. I stop in the center and pull you onto your knees, forcing your head back and up so you can see my face as I lean down over your body. I take a moment to admire the marks I left on your neck, tracing them idly with a finger before slapping you twice more across your reddening cheek.
You gasp and quake and as my hand runs back along your neck and down towards the plunging neckline of your shirt, your breathing becomes ragged and shallow in anticipation. Before my fingers meet the fabric I meet your eyes again and ask you, with undeniable authority, what you are;
And you reply, without hesitation, "Yours."
Buttons clatter across the floor when I tear your shirt apart, and I grasp one of your breasts in my hand, caressing it lightly before crushing it in my grip and drawing out a sharp cry that I quickly silence with a tug of your hair. My fingers slip inside the cup of your bra to find your nipple already tightened and erect and waiting to be tugged and pinched.
Each squeeze makes you tremble and I keep plucking at you as I release your hair and run my hand down your neck slowly, nails dragging along your skin from scalp to shoulder where I clutch your collar and pull your shirt halfway off, leaving your arms trapped in your sleeves, and with a quick twist, twine, and tuck, your wrists are locked together behind your back and I've thrown you back down to the floor and clamped a hand back over your throat and I've torn the front of your bra in half so your tits come spilling out, one nipple swollen slightly from my forceful attentions, and you let out a shriek that's half surprise and half excitement and your chest heaves with each breath, your body arched up towards me like a sacrifice for my pleasure.
Once more I squeeze and knead at your breasts, rolling one nipple between my thumb, teasing the areola of the other with a nail, and I can feel the gurgling moan weltering up in your throat in my palm, so I ease back the pressure just long enough for you to give voice to your wanton desire, cutting you short after a few seconds with a clawing compression of your breast and a heavy, unyielding push on your trachea.
The writhing of your body under my grip boils my blood and I force your legs apart with my knees so your squirming grinds your hips against the front of my pants. I place a hand on your arse and increase pressure until you can no longer move, you resist but give in, knowing who's in control. In a last attempt to grab my attention you raise your arse up, making it clear that you want me. You want my body, my hands, my fingers, my tongue. You want to feel me inside you.
But you haven't earned that yet.