They had been planning this vacation for months. There were the discussions about where to go, when to go, how to coordinate their work schedules to get the time. She suggested the mountains; he lobbied for the beach. They both wanted someplace private; isolated even. Where they knew they wouldn't be disturbed by nosy neighbors or wandering kids.
They settled on a rental in the foothills, situated at the end of a spit of land that jutted into a lake. It was smaller than they'd planned on, and more expensive. So they had to compromise on the timing too, settling for that indeterminate part of September that wasn't quite summer, and wasn't yet fall. Whatever; the point was to get away. Get out of the city. Let loose. Play.
Two weeks to go and they were both stressed, trying to finish things up at their jobs so they could leave with clear consciences. They were both antsy, anticipating the pleasure of unstructured time, phones that were turned off, and inaccessible email. They were both tired and horny, having worked so many extra hours there was no time to spend together.
Add in the logistics of getting prepped to be away from home, and it became a volatile mixture. It exploded that Saturday afternoon in a marathon bout of violent lovemaking that included him leaving his full handprint on her breast. Which almost made her orgasm.
In the aftermath, they were lying on the bed she couldn't recall reaching, having collapsed side by side. She was riding that endorphin rush and listening as his breathing slowed. She was covered in sweat and utterly spent; in that wonderful twilight where she could just as easily roll over and kiss him, or curl up to sleep. Laying on her back, she stretched languidly, arms overhead reaching for the headboard, arching her back, rolling her head, and at the same time pointing her toes to touch the footboard.
As she settled back onto the comforter, he heaved onto his side, leaning up on his elbow. She opened her eyes as she felt him touch her breast, fitting his hand over its reddened twin. She watched him as he slid his hand slowly, gently down her ribs.
His touch was so light it might as well have been the movement of air. He glided over her abdomen, across her pelvis and down the inside of her thigh closest to him. Unthinkingly, she spread her legs slightly and he touched the opposite knee, gliding back up her thigh and then along her center line. As his fingertips grazed her pussy, it twitched. He cupped her breast and rolled his thumb over her nipple. Dipped his head and lightly licked up the sweat pooling at her sternum.
She ran her hand through his hair, and caressed his cheek. "You wanna go again?"
He laughed ruefully. "If I was seventeen still. Maybe."
Her gesture encompassed the detritus of the room, their discarded clothes, the whole afternoon. "I doubt you were capable of all that when you were seventeen."
He laughed again and brushed a hair away from her face. "I was not."
She smiled, touched his cheek and shoulder. "I'll take this version."
He bent and kissed her lightly. She settled her hands on his shoulders, now fully prepared to sleep in his embrace. But he was staring at her, and the look in his eyes told her he was searching for something. That he wanted to say something, or tell her something, but couldn't quite figure out how.
How long had she known him now? Is that why it sometimes felt like telepathy? She arched an eyebrow. "So. Vacation."
He smiled, because he'd known she'd read his intentions. "Yes.."
"Tell me. Anything."
He shifted his weight on his elbow. Stroked her side. "On vacation. I don't want to play."
"You DON'T want to play?"
"I don't want to PLAY."
She furrowed her brow and tilted her head. "I don't understand."
"I don't want to play. I don't want us to just pencil in some afternoon or day or two for kinky time, and then go back to watching Netflix or whatever. I don't want a game."
He paused, searching in her face to find understanding. Shook his head slightly and said the rest. "I want to own you. For the whole week, or eight days or whatever. Every hour. From the minute we leave this building to the minute we get back. I want to OWN you."
She started to make a joke that she was probably too expensive for him. But something in his face made her stop. Something in her brain made her quiet. Something about that declaration sent tingles in all the right spots. That was already unleashing possibilities, fantasies, confessions.
She breathed out slowly. "Ok, what are the rules?"
"I don't know. I hadn't gotten that far. I wasn't sure what you'd think."
She was nodding slowly. "I think it's an intriguing idea. But until I know the rules..." Her question trailed off.
He nodded. "Of course. I'll think about it, and we'll talk."
"Of course." She smiled, pulled him to her and kissed him. "But now we sleep. Yes?"
She rolled over on her side to face him, put her hand against his chest, and his found her hip. They slept like that until late in the evening.
At some point she had rolled onto her back, and she awakened to the sensation of him rubbing himself against her thigh, and nibbling on her neck and ear. As soon as she opened her eyes he kissed her mouth, hard, urgent, insistent. She spread her legs and he settled between them.
As she raised her knees he reached out to grab an ankle in each of his hands, and pulled her legs up so that they were braced on his shoulders. He slid his erection into her and shifted his weight, leaning down to force her knees toward her chest. She had moved her hands over her head, and he now grabbed her forearms in each of his hands, just below her wrists.
She was well and truly pinned, and wouldn't be able to move. But in this mood, he didn't require activity from her. He started to pull his cock out of her pussy, and then thrust it back in, forcefully. She sighed and took a deep breath. He leaned down, pressing her legs closer, bending his arms, and tapped the outside of her legs with his elbows. It was her signal to slide her feet as close to his neck as she could make them go. When she was positioned as he liked, he started moving in her, pulling out slowly but pushing in fast and hard.
He set up the rhythm he wanted, pulling out more slowly, but shoving his cock back into her as hard and deep as he could. It was uncomfortable for her, but she knew her comfort was immaterial to him now. She knew that what he expected was her endurance, and that any pleasure she felt was ancillary. He leaned down close enough that her chest strained to rise; when she tilted her head back so she could breath he gave her more space. It was more important that she look at him. He wanted her eye contact, wanted to watch the expressions change and wash over her face as he banged himself into her, as his hips smacked into her pussy, and as she listened to him.
He spoke to her quietly, in a low tone that reverberated in the small space between their faces. He spoke casually, and let loose a stream of objectifying and degrading language that in any other circumstance, out of anyone else's mouth, would have infuriated her. A litany of derogatory comments and insults about her, about her worth as a woman, and as a human in general. He punctuated each statement with another long hard thrust. He calmly and contemptuously explained her uselessness, and used his cock as the exclamation point.
With other people, in other situations, being on the receiving end of any one of these comments would have unleashed her anger. Shorter and less personal tirades had roused her to aggression in the past. But here and now, pinned in their bed, trapped by his body, his commentary only aroused her. His statements ricocheted in her brain. She was first bewildered as to why he would associate with such a wretch. Then overcome with desire to prove herself worthy to him. Then proud that she must be doing something right, since he was using her, rather than some other cunt.
Now his pace quickened, and he was repeating a few phrases over and over again as he fucked her harder. She kept her gaze locked on his, allowing the insults to flow over her. Now he was repeating a single monosyllabic word, as fast as he could get it out; now he wasn't saying words at all, just making little moans or grunts. Fucking her faster still, and her orgasm came as a surprise, hard and short. The spasm in her pussy tipped him over the edge and he slammed into her one last time, jerking and shuddering to a stop.
He moved his arms so she could put her legs down, and let go of her arms. He laid his forearms on the bed to either side of her head and shifted his body so he was laying completely on top of her. His torso on hers, his legs on hers; she was holding all his weight. She loved it, he knew, though he never stopped being a little concerned that she wouldn't be able to breath.
She ran her hands along his ribs, and that was his signal to stretch his arms out completely over their heads, so that he was not supporting himself at all. He touched his forehead to hers and they lay like that, breathing each other's air, while she wrapped her arms around him and his cock slid out of her. She hugged him as tight as she could, for a long moment. When she let go, he rolled off of her and sat on the edge of the bed.
She got up too, and walked into the bathroom. He stood leaning against the door jamb while she peed. He filled one of the sinks with very hot tap water and dropped a washcloth in it. When she was done she stood in front of him and let him wash off her face, her torso, and legs. He rinsed out the washcloth, soaked it in more hot water and reached between her legs to roughly grab and scrub her crotch. He rinsed off the cloth again, soaked it again and handed it to her. It was her turn to wash him off, gently. He turned and walked out of the bathroom, and she squeezed out the cloth again, soaked it and washed off the parts of her that he had ignored.
He said he was hungry and declared that they were going out. When she went back into the bedroom, he handed her a bra and panties, and pulled out a pair of her jeans while she was putting those on. He gave her the jeans, then picked out a top as she was putting them on. He tossed her his t-shirt: thin, light gray, old, worn, and too big for her. She held it up and looked at it while he was putting on his own jeans, commando style.
She was still considering her options as he pulled on his shirt. She sighed and put on the t-shirt. Glanced down and confirmed what she'd suspected; the bright red bra was clearly visible through the fabric. Not just the color was discernable, but the fact that it was mostly lace. That it had cups designed to create as much cleavage as possible; cups that exposed as much of her breasts as they concealed. She adjusted the bra so that the band sat where it was supposed to and realized that it was also at least a cup size too small. The grin on his face verified that his choice had not been random, or coincidental. She met his smile with her own, but shook her head.
They strolled to their favorite hole-in-the-wall Chinese place, sat at their regular booth, and he ordered their usual meal to share. The waiter greeted them by name and did a passable job of pretending not to ogle her chest. The group of frat boys two tables over didn't even attempt subtlety and she saw one point her out to the other four, saw them all gawping, leaning in together, laughing while looking at her.
After their food arrived, he stretched out, tapping her knee with his foot so that she would spread her legs wide. He'd taken off his shoes, and he placed both his bare feet right against her crotch, pressing into her so that she'd slide back and give him enough room for them on her bench. His legs were long enough that this was an easy, comfortable position for him. But it crowded her against the back of the booth, and put steady pressure on her already tender vulva. When he was comfortable, he nodded, and she closed her legs as tightly as she could around his feet. It was his favorite form of public possessiveness, because he could play with her if he wanted and most of the time no one noticed.
The dynamic between them had evolved organically. She hadn't been looking for that kind of relationship and had never bothered to ask him if he'd sought it out. Each of them had recognized something latent and complementary in the other, and they had done a slow dance of pushing boundaries and gauging reactions. Of hints, double entendres, requests that might have been jokes, jokes that were answers.
One afternoon they were making out, and he'd twisted her shirt around and used it to bind her arms behind her back; had spanked her ass until it was burning and his arms were shaking; had demanded that she beg his permission to cum. Later she'd knelt front of him, arms still bound, scratches and welts raising on her skin, his jizz dripping from her chin and hair. She'd thanked him, and he'd called her his wanton hussy; she'd cried then, said "yes, please, thank you." Now she was an willing enabler of his authoritarian streak. He rewarded her submission with all consuming, body shaking orgasms that left her as high as any junky.
They had an unspoken agreement to keep their power exchange strictly private. They hadn't looked for like minded couples, gone to any clubs, or joined any scene. He kept her bruises and welts hidden. Their friends and families knew them as a modern, egalitarian couple whose relationship was founded on mutual respect and deep trust. Neither of them saw that dichotomy as contradictory. They were pieces of a puzzle that had to be fitted together to see the full picture.
That was why they needed this vacation so badly. Living in that apartment building severely limited their privacy. Their jobs and other responsibilities limited the time they had to explore. There was only so much they could try, with thin walls and downstairs neighbors. Only so far they could go, knowing that they'd have to be ready and presentable for work in a couple of days. But with eight days, complete privacy, and another week to make plans, they could explore options that had just been fantasy. At least that was the argument he was going to make to her.
"One hundred and ninety two hours."
"What?" She'd been absentmindedly chewing on an egg roll, acutely aware of his heels grinding into her crotch, and the frat boys still leering from the other table. They had talked about a dozen things other than the vacation, and his statement seemed nonsensical at first.
"One hundred and ninety two. That's how many hours in eight days. If we leave at five on Friday, and are back by five on the following Saturday, it's 192 hours."
"Ok."
"I'm just letting you know."
"I don't want to talk about it here."
"That's what I'm asking for: 192 hours."
"Noted."
He abruptly pulled his feet away from her, and the alleviation of the pressure felt almost painful. She thought for a second that he was angry. He shifted in his seat and reached out to touch her hand.
"You up for some ice cream when we're done here?"
"Mmm. I'm pretty full, but you go ahead."
He gave her his best lascivious grin. "How about this. I get a popsicle, and you help me lick it."
She laughed so loud everyone in the restaurant stared, and she didn't even care.
On the walk back to their apartment, she'd started feeling exposed again, and he had intentionally dawdled. As soon as they made it inside she went to the bathroom and shut the door. She needed a minute away from his presence, needed to clear her head. Even with the unknowns hidden in his request, she could feel something shifting in their dynamic. Even though she hadn't agreed, it felt like a new puzzle piece had appeared, like the picture of their relationship was changing. She collected herself and decided on attempting normalcy, at least for the rest of the night.
In the bedroom she saw that he'd changed clothes and she could hear him moving around in the kitchen. She took off everything she was wearing, including that ridiculous bra, and pulled a favorite pair of yoga pants. She took a second look at his worn out t-shirt and decided to put it back on. Decided to give him a little more of what he'd been craving all day.
He was sitting on the couch, in his usual spot, looking at the news on his phone. There were two bottles of beer on the coffee table. He turned to her as she came in, putting down the phone and reaching for the beers. Handed her one as she sat down, and they both took long drinks.
He was staring at her, smiling at her choice of shirt, pleased with himself and with her. "So. There's just one rule."
"Ok."
"You obey me."
"That's not a..."
He interrupted her. "You do everything I tell you, as soon as I tell you. No arguments. No questions. No hesitation."
"But..."
"But nothing. That's the rule. From the time we leave here to the time we get back. You obey me."
"What if I don't understand something you want me to do?"
He shrugged. "Make your best attempt. If I decide you're wrong, I'll correct you." The word 'correct' hung between them, a threat and a promise.
She was having trouble keeping his eye contact, and took another long pull on the beer. "What do you want to do?"
"Everything."
"Oh, come on." She was exasperated.
He leaned in. "Every. Thing."
Now she felt compelled to look at him. He continued, "Bondage. Watersports. Tit torture." Her nervousness was rising.
He drank from his beer, and gestured with the bottle. "Objects. Exhibition. Every orifice. Pain. Videos. Role playing. Restriction."
She raised an eyebrow, unsure what that was supposed to mean. "Restriction?"
"You wear what I say. Eat what I say, when I say. Sleep when I say. You piss when I say, where I say."
"You want absolute control."
"Yes."
"And you want me to..."
"Absolutely surrender."
The look in his eyes consumed her. Her stomach fluttered and her pussy twitched. He leaned against the back of the couch, casually, as though he'd just told her about the weather forecast. She finished her beer, feeling the weight of his stare, and feeling herself compacted by it.
She remembered a picture he'd taken some afternoon before they'd moved in together. She was sprawled across a chaise lounge in her old apartment. Indentations from the ropes still clear on her breasts and arms. Several long welts visible on them and on her stomach. Her eyes half lidded and reddened. Her lips were swollen and parted; a line of drool and his cum was leaking out of her mouth. But the look on her face was serene, blissful, sated; she had felt a kind of happiness she hadn't realized she was capable of, that was addictive, that only he induced. Could there be more? Was it worth the price she might have to pay to find out?
They sat quietly together, and soon enough he was back to looking at his phone. She turned on the TV, leaned against him and they watched a few episodes of something. But she wasn't really paying attention.
Suddenly she realized how late it was, and how tired she was despite sleeping earlier. She shifted on the couch, to get up and go to bed. He stopped her by gently putting his hand on her arm. "I haven't planned it all. But I keep picturing you naked, on the floor, bound, bruised, bloodied, and covered in my piss and cum."
She nodded slowly, let out a shaky breath. "Ok. I understand. I'm not saying yes now. I'm saying I'll think about it."
"One hundred and ninety two hours. I need your answer."
"Tomorrow." The next day was Sunday, they day they usually relaxed. "I promise you I'll tell you tomorrow."
This time when she got up he let her go. She got under the covers, naked as usual, and curled up. But sleep didn't come as quickly as she'd assumed it would. Her mind was racing, his words echoing; his promises and threats, his inescapable sincerity.
She was seeing her own visions and finding herself aroused and frightened in equal measure. When he came to bed she was still awake, but pretended to be sleeping. He was also naked and settled in, spooning her from behind, possessive and comforting. Listening to him breath as he feel asleep relaxed her and soon she slept too.
She woke up earlier than she expected, and found him still in bed, sprawled out on his back, having kicked the covers off of both of them during the night. She looked at him, drinking in the sight of him. Sometimes she felt like she only saw pieces of him at a time, like she couldn't process the whole of him physically when he was awake. Like the force of his personality blinded her.
She got up as quietly as she could, but she had no sooner stood up than he greeted her. She said she was going to take a shower. He stretched, then rolled over on to his side, told her to do whatever, he was going back to sleep.
She was in the shower, having washed herself and her hair, just enjoying the sensation of the warm water, lost in thought, when she heard the shower door slide open. She turned, smiling, as he reached in and shut off the hot water. Standing under the now icy spray she gasped and shrank back. He grabbed her arm and positioned her directly in the stream of water. Held her there until she was thoroughly soaked and shivering, then abruptly turned off the shower completely.
Before she had time to react or say anything, he started pissing. Holding his prick so that his stream of urine streaked up and down her torso, he aimed for her face, aimed for her hair, covered her tits. The smell was strong, and his bladder had been filling all night long. He didn't say a single word to her, and when his bladder was empty he just shook off his penis, stepped out of the shower and closed the door again.
She stood there shaking; slowly gathered herself and turned the water back on, even hotter than before, and scrubbed herself all over again.
When she got out of the shower, he was waiting in the bedroom. He stood, strode to her and shoved her into the wall with a hand between her breasts. He clamped a hand over her mouth, the side of his palm partially blocking her nostrils, and held her head to the wall with all his body weight.
He slapped each of her breasts repeatedly, then caressed them gently and rolled her nipples under his thumb. He gathered the tip of her breast in his palm and pushed, crushing her nipple into the globe of her breast, crushing her breast into her ribs, grinding the heel of his hand around, until she gasped and tried to pull away.
He reached down and slid his thumb and index finger along her slit, then lightly rubbed her clit. Then he pinched her clit, hard, between thumb and finger. When she gasped again, he moved in closer and started rubbing and flicking at her clit, fucking her with his fingers. He pulled an orgasm out of her, her body responding to what he was doing without her thinking about it. She shuddered, her eyes closing, moaning.
He waited until she had calmed, and whispered, "You have twelve hours to give me your decision."
Then as abruptly as he'd started, he stepped back and walked away. It was 9:30AM. She stood leaning against the wall, arms behind her, trying to catch her breath.
On wobbly legs she moved to the bed and sat down, shaking, head spinning. Feeling her ground shift under her. She thought about what clothes to put on, considering his preferences and trying to gauge his true mood. She had a sudden vision of him reaching out to rip something off of her, of him relishing the sound of the fabric tearing. She found a old pair of yoga pants that were thinner material and already had a small hole at the back seam. She opted against underwear or bra, and chose a longish t-shirt of her own.
She made the bed and sat down again, just then realizing how much her attitude had already changed. Forget the whole time span of their relationship, in less than 24 hours she had started to act like he did own her, rather than being a participant in a mutual fantasy. She shook her head again. What the fuck was happening?
She found him at the kitchen table eating a breakfast sandwich, looking at the news on his tablet. He looked up and smiled at her, gestured to the counter, looked back at the tablet. "I made you one. And there's fresh coffee."
She got the food and coffee, sat opposite and regarded him. "What happens if I tell you 'no'?"
He shrugged, still reading. "You don't want to do that."
She couldn't tell if that was a threat, or a simple declaration that he knew what she was thinking.
Before she could say anything else, he said. "I've got a couple of errands to run. I'll pick us up some lunch. I should be back in a few hours."
He got up as she was acknowledging what he'd said. He dropped his dishes in the sink, and leaned over to kiss her. A gentle but deep kiss on her mouth, then a quick peck on the top of her head. He left the apartment and she sat there alone, making herself eat the rest of the sandwich.
As morning wore on to afternoon she was restless. She couldn't sit still. She found herself cleaning up, organizing things she wouldn't otherwise have bothered with. Washed the clothes, washed the dishes, she even washed the windows. There was a countdown in her brain and she couldn't force herself to think about what happened when it was over. She kept waiting for him to come back, sure that he'd be in a mood to fuck or something. But then doubting her assumption.
She tried reading. She tried TV. She tried watching porn. She tried masturbating, but nothing she did felt good. Finally, she went to the balcony and sat on the chair out there. It was far hotter than she liked, and the breeze just stirred up grit. But there was something about the discomfort of sitting there that actually helped her settle. She let her mind wander, playing back their conversations from the day before, letting her imagination run wild. Visualizing herself helpless, him standing over her, his piss raining down on her face. The more she thought about it, the more tantalizing it seemed.
She heard the apartment door open and went into the living room. He was carrying in shopping bags from stores she didn't recognize. She started to ask what he'd gotten, but he only answered that it was vacation supplies. He put those away in a closet, and held up the bag with food.
As they ate lunch he chatted away about some news he'd heard, some gossip at his work, the latest crazy viral outrage, never quite giving her space to talk. As she was putting the left overs away, he came up behind her and grabbed her ass with both hands, reached around and squeezed both of her tits, leaned down and nibbled the back of her neck. She felt herself responding to him again. He walked to the fridge, got two bottles of beer and went to the living room.
When she went into the living room he was sitting on the couch, legs spread wide and one foot on the coffee table. He pointed at the floor and she sat down between his legs, facing him. He reached out, tilted her head up and poured a beer down her throat. She chugged as fast as she could, but some spilled out over her cheeks, down onto her shirt. When the bottle was empty he slid the neck into her mouth, fucking her face with it, but gently. She was instantly wet, and felt her face flush.
He put the bottle down and started to drink from his own. Raising the bottle to his lips, he stopped halfway, and tilted his head. She reached out and unzipped him, and he shifted his weight so that she could get his pants down. He was flaccid, so she leaned down and took him in her mouth completely, her lips touching his ball sack and pubis. Her tongue stroking around his head; she sucked lightly. He slid forward on the couch a little, so he could lay his head on the back more comfortably. She heard him drink from the beer, then turn on the TV.
As he flipped through the channels, she moved her hands up and down his legs, concentrating on his thighs, then over his lower abdomen and under to caress his balls. She was continuing to lick and slide her tongue around his penis, in circles around the head, with fast sideways motions on the underside. She felt him getting erect, increasing in length and girth, so that she couldn't hold him completely in her mouth. She started sliding her mouth and tongue along his length, taking long licks from the base of his cock to the helmet of his head, and covering him in her saliva. All the while he was sitting there, unmoving, drinking his beer and channel surfing. It was such a mind fuck. It tripped all those perverted triggers in her lizard brain, and she felt her arousal growing.
She kept moving her mouth on his cock, sliding her pursed lips up one side, over his head and down the other. Pausing to take long licks at his balls, kissing and sucking lightly at his skin. Now he was fully erect and she covered his whole cock in licks, letting her saliva coat him, her mouth and her hands. She slid him as far in her mouth as she could, and used her hands to stroke the rest of his shaft. She pulled up and fixed her hands to her lips, so that when she slid down again it would feel like one continuous motion for him, a makeshift pussy from her mouth and hands. She made good use of her tongue, flicking the underside of his cock, where the thickest veins were. Then circling his head, tapping her tongue on the very tip, licking up the precum when it dripped out.
She could hear him breathing more heavily and gave herself over to the simple pleasure of pleasuring him. Trying to elicit sighs or moans, and occasionally nipping him with her lips, or letting go of him completely. She wanted this to last; not some quick half assed blow job, but real cock worship.
She slid him into her mouth again, and felt him put his hand on the back of her head. She opened her mouth and lips as wide as she could, and he shifted his hips to thrust into her farther. She was holding the base of his cock in one hand, and he was filling her mouth, filling her throat and she could barely get air. She held herself there for a long minute. He let go of her head and she pulled off, gasping, a long string of drool still linking her mouth to him.
As she was catching her breath, she used her hands to jerk him off, using both in tandem along his length, and then in opposition, her hands hitting together in the middle of his length, the one moving up to squeeze and rub his head, while the other moved down around and squeezed his balls. She bent down and licked his balls, sucked them gently into her mouth, all the while working his shaft with her hand. She reached around and ran a finger under his nuts sliding firmly toward his asshole.
That's when he grabbed her by the hair, pulled her up and twisted so she was facing away from him. He shoved her over the coffee table and she felt him grabbing at the crotch of her yoga pants. Felt his finger break through and heard a long tearing noise as he ripped the crotch of her pants in half. Before she could completely make sense of anything, he was shoving his cock into her from behind. Kneeling behind her, fucking so hard that it was making the coffee table slide across the floor. He was slamming himself into her, wordlessly grunting, with one hand pressing her head into the table.
He didn't like that the table kept moving, so he twisted them around and shoved her head onto the floor. He kept his hand on her head, pressing down, but also grabbing a fist full of her hair. One of her hands had wound up under her, the other was behind her back, and he grabbed that forearm with his free hand and used it to anchor her to him as well. Using the full force of his body, he fucked her hard and fast, completely abandoned to what his body wanted.
She was riding the sensations of his cock jamming into her, the slap of his hips against her butt, the feel of his hand grinding into the back of her head, and her head grinding into the rug. She was close to cumming when he pulled out completely, used the fist in her hair to twist her back around and shoved his cock down her throat. He fucked her throat, seemingly not paying any attention to whether she could breath, but then he was cumming. He filled her mouth and throat and she swallowed, trying to keep up with each spurt, trying not to spill any. As his orgasm finished, he slid his fading erection farther into her throat and stayed there until he was flaccid again. She swallowed around him and cleaned him off with her tongue and lips.
He stood up, pulling his pants up to his hips, and knocked her backward with one foot. She was laying on her back, knees bent and spread, the massive rip in her pants leaving her pussy completely exposed. He ground his foot into her pussy, sliding the sole of his foot along her slit and sticking a toe in between her lips. Pressed down with his foot again. Then he stalked out of the room.
When he came back, he'd changed into sweatpants and a different t-shirt. He had the old gray shirt she'd worn the night before in his hands. Gestured for her to get up and told her to strip. As she did, he collected her clothes and handed her the t-shirt. It was long enough that if she stood very still the hem fell below her pussy.
He took her clothes back to the bedroom, leaving her to think. When he came back in he stood behind her, caressing her hair, stroking her cheeks, sliding his hands over her breasts, along her sides, down to her crotch. He started whispering again, this time it was all praise. A long litany of compliments, endearments, and declarations of love and devotion. All the while he was touching and stroking her, grazing her nipples with his finger tips, dipping a finger into her still soaking pussy and massaging her still tender clit. She leaned back against him, hands hanging at her side.
He was whispering, repeating. "Do you want to cum? Shall I make you cum?"
She nodded, shuddering. He moved them back to the couch and pulled her onto his lap. Had her turn to face him, straddling him; then he placed her hands on his knees, behind her. He pulled the neck of the t-shirt down and maneuvered her breasts up through the opening. Lifted her breasts and bent down to suck on her nipples, suck her nipples and areolas into his mouth, and used his tongue to flick at her nipples and make them hard.
When she arched her back he kissed her neck, under her chin, down her jaw line to her ear. All the while using his hands to squeeze and massage her breasts. He was talking to her again, complimenting her on her wantonness. Praising her talents as a cocksucker. Declaring the beauty of her tits, her wet and eager cunt, her tight asshole. Saying how lucky he was to have found such a good slut. Asking again and again if she wanted to cum.
He moved his hands lower, playing with her ass, tapping her asshole with one finger. The other hand in front, fucking her with three fingers, and rubbing her clit between thumb and index. His hands working in tandem. All the while asking if she wanted him to make her cum, but not giving her time to answer. She was moaning, her breath coming in long shudders as his hands kept working in her. He could have brought her to orgasm at any time, but denied it to her. Kept asking her if that's what she wanted, but never let her answer. It was a particularly intimate kind of torture.
Without realizing it at first, she started begging. She looked at him, she tried to keep her eyes open. She asked please, please would he let her cum. Told him she loved him. Told him she needed him. Told him she wanted him, wanted his hands, his cock, his mouth, his approval. Told him he could use her. Begged him to use her, if only he'd let her cum. He let her get close. But always veered off just before she did. He watched her struggle, reveled in watching her trying to find the right words to convince him, when she didn't even know the game he was playing.
He watched her as she was writhing on his lap, moving his hands enough that she couldn't grind on them and get herself off. He pulled his hands away from her crotch, wiped them off on this old t-shirt, and stretched his arms out along the back of the couch. Waited until she realized he wasn't touching her any more. It was 3:30PM. When she opened her eyes, it took a second for her to truly focus on his face.
He said, "You have six hours to tell me your decision." Then he pushed her off of him and went out to the balcony.
Without really thinking about it, she reached down and rubbed her clit, fingered herself and eventually found an orgasm. But there was something wholly unsatisfying about it. She had a fleeting thought that she'd disobeyed him somehow, and would be punished for it later. Except that real punishment had never been a part of their dynamic before, so where did that idea come from? She lay there on the couch, rearranging her shirt so she was a covered as possible. She realized that at some point during the afternoon, she'd made her decision. Or mostly made it. There was one thing she wanted to clarify, one compromise she wanted to suggest.
She went into the bedroom, and pulled on a pair of panties. She really wanted to change this shirt, but sensed that there was something important about it to him. She went out to the balcony and stood next to him.
"You have something to tell me?" He asked the question arrogantly.
"I need a clarification. I have a counterproposal."
"No counterproposal. This isn't a negotiation."
"Of course it is."
He scowled and started to protest, but she stopped him. "You don't want an automaton. You don't want an unthinking bimbo who might as well have been lobotomized, who doesn't know any better than to agree."
He was looking at her hard. She went on, "You want me to struggle with this. You get off on my being conflicted about it. Watching me convince myself is as much of an turn on to you as everything that happens if I say 'yes'. Don't even try to deny it."
He couldn't deny it. So he just nodded slowly and said, "Ok. What needs clarifying?"
"That it's just the two of us. That you're not planning to share me, or make me watch you fuck someone else."
He was genuinely surprised by her statement. He was surprised that he hadn't thought of that himself, and just as surprised that she had.
"No. All of my plans involve just the two of us. Physically, anyway."
"What does that mean?"
He tried to be nonchalant. "There's a website. I might upload some video."
"No."
"Excuse me?"
"Take videos if you want. Take pictures. But nothing goes on the internet."
"You can't stop me."
"No. But I can leave you. And I will. Is that particular fantasy worth it?"
She wasn't sure when she'd grown her spine back, during this rollercoaster weekend. She watched him watching her; watched him realizing she was serious; watched him be the one recalibrating their dynamic.
He conceded, "Ok. Nothing goes on the internet. What's your counterproposal?"
"One hundred and forty four hours. Six complete days. From Friday to the following Thursday."
He was shaking his head, but she continued. "For those six days, I obey you completely. No argument, no hesitation, no question. But I get Friday and Saturday to be myself, to do what I want. Six days will be all about you. You'll get to explore however you want, and take me with you. But I need time off too. I need time to relax, to not have to think, to not worry about performing or doing anything correctly."
He was shaking his head. "You won't have to think. You'll just have to do. I'll be doing all the thinking."
"Again, that's bullshit. And you know it," she said heatedly. "For you to get satisfaction, I have to do things right, the way you want. I have to know what that is, what you mean. I have to know when you want some resistance, even if you're demanding complete obedience. For me to get satisfaction, you'll have to be in the mood to do what I need. Every command is a negotiation. Which means I have to think, I have to plan, I have to cooperate. Because, I know you, and I know you want me to submit because I want to. You don't want submission out of fear, or reflex. You want my acquiescence, not docility."
He was standing very close to her now, their gazes boring into each other. He was thinking that all this time he had underestimated her. That somehow he had misunderstood some fundamental part of their dynamic. He felt the ground shifting beneath him. He believed that something even better was going to come from this.
But he held his ground. "Six days isn't enough. There's too much in me."
He reached out to stroke her cheek. "I'm afraid of half measures. Either we stick with penciling in an afternoon or a day, or I get the whole time. I need the freedom."
He hesitated, still cupping her cheek. "If it's the whole time, then it can be separate. It can be a world we create while we're there. Something we inhabit fully; we can see if it fits. If it doesn't fit then we take it off when we get back here, and go back to what we've been doing."
"What if it fits you, but it doesn't fit me?"
He nodded, solemnly. "Then we'll know, and we'll have other decisions to make."
She sighed. "Ok. I'll tell you at 9:30."
He followed her back into the living room, watched her shove the coffee table back in place, pick up the beer bottles and go into the kitchen. He was realizing what a powerful force she was in his life, how much being with her had changed him. He wondered if she had any idea.
The rest of the evening, they were both quiet. They were distracted, but pretending not to be; edgy with a veneer of calm. He heated up the lunch left overs for dinner, and they ate in the living room, watching some random documentary. She got them bowls of ice cream for dessert and they both drank a couple of beers. Sat close together on the couch, touching, but not talking. She was still wearing just his worn out t-shirt and panties.
Sometime after 9:00PM she reached over and kissed him deeply. Pulled his shirt off, pushed down his pants. He let her, surprised at how quickly he got erect. He slid her panties off and pulled off that old t-shirt. She straddled him on the couch, like earlier, but this time she was in charge. Sliding herself onto him, riding him, slow and gentle and first. Then greedily pumping herself against him as he ran his hands through her hair, kissed all over her face and neck, and stroked her back and ass.
She bucked faster, and found his mouth. Arching her back, grinding against his thighs, it was his turn to just hold on and allow himself to be used. He felt her cum around his cock, her spasms triggering him to thrust into her several times and find his own orgasm. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly to him. She leaned against him, arms around his neck, her legs clenching against his. She was nuzzling his neck, and he turned his head to kiss her.
It was 9:25PM. She whispered, "One hundred and ninety two hours."
He held his breath.
"Yes. I say 'yes'."
