“You’re going to feel so much better, once you’ve been put in your place.”
His voice is comforting despite the clear threat laced into it. It sinks into me like a balm. If his voice is a balm, his words are a key. They unlock something inside me. A new chamber in my heart. Part of me I didn’t know existed. Part of me that was made for times like this. For men like this. A trap door falls open. Blood rushes. Lungs fill. Something major contracts. And just like that, a brand new part of me starts to beat.
He spanks me again. Rhythmic. Perfect. I walk the narrow tightrope between pleasure and pain. When his hand lands on my flesh, I pulse and everything clenches. The sound I make isn’t a cry. It’s not high-pitched or distressed. It’s low. Low like a moan.
My eyes are stinging but they’re open. I’m looking out of the window at a Monet of blues and greens. Good feelings and bad feelings swell under my skin. They swell and collide until I think I’m going to explode. Finally, I realize I am going to explode.
“I’m going to come,” I groan.
“No.”
My orgasm screeches to a halt.
He said it quietly. Calmly. Absolutely. Two little letters. One big word.No.The word comes crashing down around me. So real and visceral, I feel like I could reach out and touch it. It’s hard. Solid. Like a cage. Like metal bars. Like a fence.
No.
Not a cage, not a fence;a boundary.
I close my eyes and feel as if I can see it all around me. It’s gray and concrete. I imagine myself pressing my hands against it. I could push it and pull it and I know it wouldn’t budge. It wouldn’t give an inch. I buckle under the power of the image. I fight against it, but it holds firm. Steady. I don’t notice that I’ve started crying until I open my eyes and the Monet in front of me swims. I let out a long, mournful wail as hot tears burst out of me.
“Please,” I howl.
“Please stop?”
“Nooooooo. Please don’t.” I’m sobbing for real now. Sobbing like I don’t ever remember sobbing. Good things and bad things are pouring out of me. I’m gasping and sputtering, almost choking on tears. “Please, don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. He picks up his pace. Sheets and sheets of tears track down my cheeks. It tastes like salt, but it feels like relief. Unbelievable, all-encompassing relief. Layers and layers of my bullshit fall away and turn to ash at his feet. When he finally stops, I’m still dressed like Winnie-the-Pooh. My ass feels bright red and blotchy and so does my face. I’m almost naked. Inside, I’m stark naked. Completely undressed. Choking and sniffing as he runs his hand reassuringly up and down my spine.
“Do you remember what I said I was going to do to you?”
I hiccup and nod.
“What did I say?”
“Y-you said you were going to spank my ass before you fucked it.”
“Is that still what you want?” I nod again. “This time, I want you to say it.”
I don’t hesitate. “Fuck me, please, Asshole.”
I can feel him smile at my use of manners. For once, I don’t mind. I don’t have the energy to mind. I have no snippy reply. No catty retort. I have nothing except a raging inferno inside me that urgently needs to be quelled.
He walks over to his rucksack and retrieves the lube and a condom. I hear myself whisper, “Please hurry,” over and over. I know it’s pathetic. Right now, I don’t care.
Thank God, he does. Thank God, he has mercy on me. He hurries. He doesn’t caress me or torture me with soft kisses. He coats his fingers with lube and works two fingers into me at once. It’s a lot. It’s a quick stretch. I feel invaded in the very best way. He pulls out and applies more lube. I badly want to yell, “That’s too much lube, Asshole!” But my ass is still smarting and the hunger inside me has reached epic proportions. I can’t afford to waste time on negotiations. He strokes my hole, thorough and precise, almost surgical in the amount of pleasure he gives me. Then he presses more lube into me, until every part of my channel is coated. He stands behind me and keeps his fingers inside me. Still. Not moving. Letting me stretch, letting me open. It’s an action designed to prepare me. Purposeful rather than designed to induce pleasure. It makes me feel debased. Objectified. It’s horrible. Absolutely awful.
And fuck if my dick doesn’t love it.
I try not to complain but I’m aware of a sad, whining sound that I know can only be coming from me. At last, he withdraws, and I see his T-shirt land in a heap on the floor near my feet. I hear the chink of a belt and the grating sound of a zipper. Every sound elevates my desperation. I feel hot and deranged. Insane with lust. I hear the distinctive snap of latex and sigh loudly in relief. I arch my back and brace myself but instead of thrusting into me, he sits down on the sofa.
I’m confused for a second. I straighten up and he guides me by the knee so I’m standing directly in front of him. I cross my hands quickly, hiding my cock.
“Show me,” he says calmly. “Show me what you don’t want me to see.”
I want to turn and run. I want to put my pants back on and get the fuck out of here. I want to get back to civilization even if I have to walk the whole goddamn way barefoot. I can’t, though. Somehow, I’ve let myself be caught in his web. He’s woven it around me, trapped me with nothing more than an expectant look in his eyes. I curl my fingers around the hem of my top. I don’t need to look down to know that they’re shaking. Even though part of me is screaming not to; I lift them slowly. A bigger, madder, masochistic part of me wants the opposite. It wants him to see.
His eyes track downwards and I look down too. I know what he’ll see, but I still feel a sense of horror at the sight of what his rough treatment has done to me. My dick is so swollen, the skin on the head is shiny. Veins are pulsating. It's angry and red. Silvery ribbons of pre-cum stream out of me and onto my thighs.
