What might have been

We meet. It’s the first time we are meeting. It’s early in the day.

You have given me your sexual bucket list. My charge is to cross off as many items on it as possible.

I have gotten to know your body – tall, dark, curvy – with the images you have sent me. You have gotten to know my mind with the words I have sent you.

Within minutes of our meeting, you have stripped for me. I have spun you around, pressed you, hard, against the wall, and the blows have begun raining down on your ass. I’m not often one to rain down blows, but our interactions have left me frustrated, angry, and aroused, all in equal measure. I’m resolved to mark your ass, to send you home with more than bruises, with welts, unable to sit for days without remembering our time together.

As I rain down blows, first with my hand, then, with my belt, your cunt is dripping. Your eyes – your very pretty, very big, very brown eyes –  are watering. I spin you around once more, and push you down, hard, on the bed, pressing your face into the mattress with one hand as, with the other, I shove several fingers, hard, deep into your cunt. You let out a gasp (or is it a moan?) as my fingers press deep, deep into you.

They meet no resistance, of course. Your pussy is so wet that, no matter how many fingers I force into you, it feels as if you need more.

You are gasping just a bit for air. I’m pressing your head hard into the bed.

“Do you want to breathe?” I ask, as my fingers plunge deep.

Your head nods up and down slightly, as much as my hand will allow it to move.

I grab a fistful of your hair and yank your head up.

“Breathe!” I say, and, a moment later, force your head back into the mattress.

(This is an unaccustomed level of roughness for me. You know this if you’ve read this blog. But you’ve motivated me. Inspired me. And the truth is, I’m enjoying it.)

After a bit more fingering of your cunt, I pull your head up again, I pull your whole body up, by your head, and turn you so you’re facing me.

Gently, I stroke your pretty face.

“I’d like you to kneel for me now, please.”

This is a return to my more accustomed politesse.

I think you mistook my politeness – my “please”s and my “thank you”s – for weakness, for a certain less-than-dominance.

It is not. You should understand that. I will treat you respectfully. I will say “please” and “thank you,” because I do respect you. Even if you are, if you want to be, nothing more than a collection of holes and surfaces for me to penetrate, slap, spank, spit on, come on, you will nonetheless be respected by me as that. That’s just how I am. But if you mistake my politeness, my respect, for weakness, you will be sadly, sorely mistaken.

“I’d like you to kneel for me now, please.”

If you’re true to form, you’ll say something bratty, resistant, maybe even mocking. But before you’ve finished your sentence, my hand will cross your face, hard. Again, tears will form in your eyes.

“I’d like you to kneel for me now, please,” I say a third time. “I don’t want to have to say it again. And I don’t want to have to force you.”

You hesitate. You’re taller than I am. You had been concerned about this, concerned that I might not be able to command your respect, your fear.

I gently place both hands on your shoulders, and forcefully, I push you down as, with one leg, I pull your legs forward at the knees. They buckle, You fall.

I grab a fistful of your hair again, and point your pretty eyes up at me. There are tears in both of them.

“Do you want my cock?” I ask.

You don’t reply.

I ask again.

You don’t reply again.

“Don’t fucking move,” I say, as I let go of your hair for a moment. For the first time, you look like, maybe, you’re starting to believe me.

I slowly unbuckle my jeans, and lower them. My cock, hard, curved, springs free, and I let it bounce softly against your cheek.

“Do you want my cock?” I say.

In spite of yourself, you nod, slightly.

“Use your words,” I say.

“Yes,” you say, quietly.

“Yes?” I ask.

“Yes. I want your cock,” you say.

“Do you think you’ve earned my cock?” I ask.

You don’t answer.

I slap your face, hard. “Do you think you’ve earned my cock?” I ask.

You shake your head “no.”

“That’s right,” I say. “You haven’t earned it.”

I yank you up by your hair. I press you once more against the wall, and begin, once again, to rain down blows on your very pretty, very round, very red ass.


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