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Playing House

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I smiled when I saw the house.

The corner streetlight reflected on the metal numbers screwed to the front door. This was the place.

I slipped through the front gate and into the garden, walking quietly around the side of the house, carrying my bag. There was a back gate, locked, but reaching over I easily found the bolt and slid it open; stepping through I closed it behind me.

The rear garden was small but tidy enough. I was more interested in the lounge window than her geraniums. Removing a long-bladed file from my bag I slowly slipped it in between the cracks of the window until I encountered the catch. A twist of my wrist and the window opened an inch. I paused, holding my breath, listening.

I couldn’t hear a thing over the beating of my heart. Ahh, anticipation old friend, how I’d missed you. Not long now.

I slid both hands under the opened window and pulled. The damn thing wouldn’t budge. I pulled again, and with a jolt the window shot upwards, it and my thumb slamming into the frame with a bang. I danced around sucking my thumb while I listened again. Still nothing. It was loud down here but perhaps the sound hadn’t travelled — or she was sleeping heavily tonight.

I looked into the lounge. There was a sideboard beneath the window, and I carefully set aside two picture frames before placing my bag on top and climbing in afterwards. The window closed much more easily from this side.

The lounge was simply laid out; a sofa, a couple of chairs, a clock that I could just make out: 2.20am. I took off my coat and dropped it on the chair. It had not been particularly cold outside, but the coat was black and covered my otherwise-uncovered arms. Beneath it I wore a black t-shirt, black jeans.

I didn’t hang around. The stairs were easy to find; I climbed quietly. It didn’t matter now if she awoke, but I preferred to wake her myself.

Her bedroom door was open; I could see in as I climbed the stairs. I entered. The bedroom was half-lit, the streetlight outside shining through the partly drawn curtains. I could see her bed, I could see her. She was still asleep, her breathing soft and even. The clothes she had worn that day were thrown over a nearby chair, but the room was tidy. Good, I did so hate tripping up on things while I worked.

Carefully I set my bag on the floor, pulling the two sides apart. I had opened it earlier so there would be no need for the noise of a zip. From the bag I pulled a length of chain, wrapped in black cloth. I moved cautiously yet it still clinked, the noise muffled by the cloth surrounding it. She did not awake.

I slowly took a step forward towards the bed. This was the bit I liked. I wondered when she would detect me…perhaps she would sleep until I touched her. Perhaps she would hear me. Perhaps she would sense my presence and awake.

Her dark brown hair lay untidily across the pillow, her face pale and serene in comparison. The duvet covered her to the shoulders and I could see the naked skin of her throat and neck, and a feminine flimsy-looking shoulder strap of some night attire. This made me smile again for some reason.

Time for some fun.

I reached forward with my hand, brushing a fingertip down her cheek. For an instant she responded, her cheek angling slightly towards my hand, then her eyes flicked open, wide, the shock evident even in the half-light of the window.

“Good morning,” I said. I noticed that her eyes were quite beautiful.

My hand was immediately at her throat, wrapping around her neck, holding her to the bed and pinning her, squeezing her throat so she could not cry out. I climbed onto the bed, sitting astride her, holding her body down. I wasn’t gentle.

It would not have been comfortable.

I wanted her distracted, worrying about whether or not she could breathe. While she thought about that, I had the seconds I needed to pass the chain through the bars of the headboard. The other end I passed over her head. She must have seen its black form pass across her face, because her eyes widened even more and a second later she began to struggle. I held her easily and reached to the other end of the chain, at the head board, fastening it with the lock that I had prepared. She heard the click.

She managed to free one arm from under the duvet. I caught her delicate wrist in my hand but she fought me, twisting in my grasp. I clenched my fist tighter around her, wincing as my much bruised thumb painfully complained. Momentarily driven by the pain, I pushed her hand to the bed pinning it roughly with my knee. She whimpered. She struggled some more. It was helpful of her, really.

I let her think she was winning. I let her raise her head from the pillow. As she did so, I slipped the chain beneath her head to finish the loop around her neck, and then drew it tight. She heard another click. She struggled harder.

I pushed her back down to the bed, my hand still squeezing her throat. I imagine she wanted to breathe freely by now. I held her for a moment to prove that she was helpless. She wasn’t getting the message, struggling still.

“Be still,” I said. She ignored me. She was writhing under the duvet, almost succeeded in freeing her wrist from under my knee. I looked at her wild, open eyes. “Be still,” I said, putting great emphasis on the second word. It had no effect, she struggled on. Exasperated, I raised my hand and slapped her once, twice, forehand and backhand sharply across the face. She stilled, emitting a small whimper. “Better,” I said.

She looked up at me, her eyes glinting with tears in the half-light. Her hair was tangled across her face, and her cheeks were slowly gaining a little colour where I’d slapped her. It suited her.

“I’m going to remove my hand,” I said. “If you cry out, you’ll be punished. Nod if you understand.” She hesitated for a moment, and then nodded once, brusquely, reluctantly. “You may struggle if you wish. However, you should probably know that I have chained you by the neck to the bed. Please try not to break your neck.”

Her eyes flashed with anger which made me laugh as I removed my hand.

I stood up from the bed, freeing her, then took the duvet in my hand and in one movement pulled it from the bed, throwing it to the floor behind me. She tried to catch it but was not quick enough, her hands left grasping at empty air. I looked down at her body, naked but for a sheer night shift that had risen up most temptingly during her earlier thrashing around. As she felt my eyes on her body her hands moved to pull the material back down, covering herself. I laughed again.

She began to tremble then, realizing perhaps for the first time just how vulnerable she was.

I took a moment to suck my thumb, which by now was throbbing slightly. I wondered what she would make of this — some man had broken into her room, chained her to her bed, stripped the bedclothes away and now stood there sucking his thumb while he regarded her. She didn’t offer her opinion; I didn’t inquire.

She opened her mouth to speak.

“What are you going to do with me?” she asked, her voice very quiet, a pleasing tremble in the timbre.

I didn’t reply. Instead, I picked up my bag and placed it on the bed beside her. I removed from the bag certain implements I felt I might need: a flogger, a butt plug, a knife, a ring gag, a ball gag, a spreader bar, a small Tupperware box in which the ice cubes had not yet completely melted — always useful to have options. Her eyes seemed fixed on the ring gag, her look one of horror. Interesting. I pushed the bag to the floor.

She looked at me. “What are you going to do with me?” she asked again, her voice a little stronger this time, but with a clear undertone of apprehension.

“I don’t know yet,” I replied. “I’m sure some things will occur.” I looked down at her, “You don’t mind if I wing it, do you?” I asked, ever the solicitous gentleman.

She didn’t seem to know how to answer that one.

I walked to a dresser off to one side and turned on the small lamp there. It lit the room well enough with a soft, yellow bulb. She watched me all the while.

I walked back to the bed and picked up the knife.

“No, no, I don’t mind if you wing it,” she said quickly.

“Thank you.”

I slipped the blade under one strap of her night shift and she froze as she felt the cold metal on her skin. I turned the blade and the strap parted easily, the other followed. I smiled as I nicked the top of the shift between her breasts, paused to place the knife on the bed-side table, grasped the two sides of her shift and, from the cut I had made, ripped it down the middle.

Her naked body lay before me for the briefest of moments before her one arm came across, covering her breasts, the other reaching down to shield her pussy from my eyes. But I had already seen that her breasts were the perfect size to fill my hands, her nipples were erect, her belly was flat and her skin smooth. Her pussy was shaven. It seemed appropriate.

“You don’t want me to see?” I asked, my tone mocking.

She glared at me.

“Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal,” I said. “We’ll let you decide the outcome tonight.”

She looked at me with surprise, “What do you mean?”

“A fair test. If you want me to stay tonight, I will. Otherwise I’ll go.”

“You’ll go?” she asked, not a little confused – and did I sense disappointment?

“Mmm, sure,” I replied. I pointed out quite reasonably: “I would hate to intrude somewhere I’m not wanted.”

She looked at me, the defiance back in her eyes. “Then I want you to go,” she said.

“Really?” I asked, surprised.

“Yes!” she said.

“Are you sure?” I asked, incredulous.


“Oh,” I said. “I would have thought you would want me to stay.”

“No!” she said.

“Oh. ” I looked glum. “Well, if that’s the case…then…I suppose that’s the case. Shall we do that test, then?”

“What’s the test?” she asked, suspicious, “I will win any fair test. And it must be fair, you said it would be.”

“Oh it is,” I replied. “It is this: If your body has not responded to me, I’ll leave, and apologise profusely for ruining your night attire. If, on the other hand, your body has responded to me, you’re mine to do with as I wish. Agreed?”

“No!” she said instantly.

“No?” I asked. I may have smiled.

“The test isn’t fair!” she cried.

“Yes it is,” I said, my tone reasonable once again; after all, really, I was being quite fair. “Your body is deciding the outcome. Your body is part of you, is it not?”

“Yes,” she muttered, sullenly.

“Then you agree,” I said, matter-of-factly.

“No!” she said.

“Why?” I inquired, politely.

“Because my body doesn’t rule me! My mind rules me!” she said triumphantly, as though she had made a good point.

“You’ve made a good point,” I said. She looked pleased. “However, in this case I don’t believe that your mind actually knows what it wants. Its opinion can’t be trusted. It is unreliable. We must therefore, sadly, go to the alternative. Your body.”

She looked at me, aghast. “That’s not true!”

“I am convinced it is,” I replied.

“You’re wrong!” she declared.

“It is possible,” I said, “but I do not think it is likely. In any event, it is what we will do — it seems most fair. Your body can’t lie, but your mind can, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes,” she replied, reluctantly.

“There seems to be a difference of opinion over the reliability of your mind,” I pointed out.

“Yes,” she replied, resigned.

“Therefore, in the interest of a fair test (which you most emphatically insisted upon), we have no choice but to use your body.”

She turned her head to the side, closing her eyes. She nodded once.

She already knew she’d lost.

“Good,” I said.

I ran my fingertips up her inner thigh. She didn’t move the hand covering her pussy. My fingers brushed lightly over hers. Her head moved a fraction, her expression tensed. I ran my fingertip down the line of her fingers, covering her womanhood. I wasn’t in a rush. Anticipation was still my friend, sitting beside me, watching; I could almost see the smile on her face. Isn’t Anticipation a woman?

I felt her fingers part a little. I wonder if she’d done it deliberately or sub-consciously.

I stroked my fingertip up and down the line of those fingers, the only contact between us. Somewhere outside a car drove down the road, making us notice the silence. Before the noise had faded, her fingers had parted a little more.

I pushed my fingertip between her fingers before she realised what she had done. Instantly I felt the slick wetness of her. She moaned, ashamed and humiliated, her face turning more to bury itself against the pillow.

Her hand was no resistance to me now, yet I touched her only lightly. I ran my fingertip up and down between the lips of her pussy, feeling just how very wet she was. My finger was coated instantly. Her body twitched as my fingertip flicked over her exposed clit.

I lifted my hand from her body and raised the damp finger to her face. Slowly, I ran my fingertip down her cheek, leaving behind the slick residue of her arousal.

“It appears you want me to stay,” I said. “You are therefore mine to do with as I wish.”

She shuddered.

I leaned down, slid my hand into the dark tresses of her hair, pulling it back and angling her head up. She whimpered as she felt her hair pulled painfully. I covered her lips with mine, muffling the small noise, and pushed my tongue into her mouth.

I found her tongue with mine; there weren’t many places for it to hide. It moved against mine a little, like the slow flutter of a butterfly’s wing. My tongue was invading her mouth. I kissed her for a long moment, then stood back.

“You kiss submissively,” I said.

“You kiss aggressively,” she replied. I laughed.

“You’re going to rape me,” she whispered.

“No, no, I wouldn’t do that!” I declared. I mean honestly, what sort of monster did she take me for?

She turned her eyes to mine. Where her cheek was wet it momentarily glinted in the light. It made me smile, but I thought it might be rude to mention it. “You wouldn’t?” she asked.

“Certainly not!” I said.

“You’re not going to fuck me?” she asked. Disappointment again?

“No, I am going to fuck you,” I said.

“But that’s rape, you bastard!” she said, her temper flaring.

“No, lass, rape is non-consensual. You’ve already consented, via our little test.”

For some reason, this didn’t seem to mollify her temper.

I let her vent her frustrations for a couple of minutes, taking a mental note of some of the insults I hadn’t heard before. She was quite imaginative, which was pleasing. When she began to repeat herself I decided I’d had enough.

“Be quiet,” I said. She ignored me. I raised my hand to her face, palm open, ready to slap her. She quietened.

“Now, earlier you lied to me,” I said. Again she looked confused, but then in her defence it was quite late at night; she clearly wasn’t at her intellectual best.

“No, I didn’t!” she said.

“You did,” I insisted, “when you said just now that you wanted me to leave. Clearly, your body wants me to stay.”

Her glare was my only reply. My, but she did seem to have a passionate temper.

“It is slightly surreal to be having an argument over the importance of honesty with my naked and chained victim…” she flinched at this as though I had struck her,” …but manners are so important, are they not?”

“Yes,” she replied, somewhat resigned to my delightfully perverse logic. It’s all too easy to win an argument at (about) 2.40am with a naked and aroused woman.

“So I will punish you for lying,” I said.

I suddenly had her attention, which is not to say that it was lacking before, but more that somehow it seemed just a little more focused. She watched me with those beautiful eyes, which widened further when I reached for the flogger.

“Turn over,” I said.

Reluctantly she did so, and I admit to taking quite some pleasure as her arms moved, revealing her nakedness again, and that lithe body rotated as per my instruction. Thoughtfully, I pulled the remains of her night shift from under her as she turned, so that she would be as comfortable as possible. It seemed like it had once been quite a good quality piece of lingerie. Shame. I dropped it on the floor.

“Put your arms up above your head,” I said, and was pleased that she obeyed with but a second’s hesitation. She had quite a nice ass, actually. Her legs were pressed tightly together.

I shook the strands of the flogger out, letting the tips fall in a rain at the small of her back. Her body tensed at the light touch. I lazily flicked my wrist once, wind-milling the flogger over her, letting the tips of the strands thud lightly against her upper back. Her only reaction was to push her head forward into the pillow. The nape of her neck was most appealing, vulnerably exposed to me.

“Comfy?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied. The reply was a little muffled by the pillow, but I suspect that it was said through gritted teeth. Where has civility gone in our society?

I flicked my wrist again, faster. The tips of the flogger tails thudded into the smooth skin of her upper back, scraping along, then flicking around to land again, and again, and again.

I watched her as I worked, listening to the rhythm of the tails, thud, thud, thud, watching her arms pushing against the headboard, hearing her breathing over the swish of the flogger. I noticed her legs were not so tightly pressed together as they had been before. There was a glistening of wetness at their juncture. I suspected that at some level she may not have been entirely objecting.

I twisted my wrist to send the tails of the flogger spinning faster, and let them slap into her back with some force. She gasped, most satisfyingly, so I did it again.

“Your back seems a little red,” I observed, as once again I thudded the flogger into her. I didn’t get a response.

“Does it feel warm?” I asked politely. Thud. No response.

“I asked you a question,” I reminded her. Thud, with enthusiasm.

“Yes, Sir,” she said. I barely caught it. Thud.

“Pardon?” Thud.

“Yes, Sir,” she said more loudly. Thud.

Hmm, ‘Sir’. I quite liked that. I pondered her pleasingly submissive un-asked-for response as I practiced with the flogger a little longer, seeing just how fast I could make the tails spin and still land in the right area of her elegant back, the right length of impact, the right sound and swish. It was a satisfying game to play, spoilt only by the fact that my sore thumb, wrapped around the flogger, was beginning to throb again from the effort.

I felt a change was called for.

I lifted the flogger over her and with a swing of my wrist bought it down, causing all the tails to slap at once against her red back. The thud sounded quite different. Apparently it felt quite different too: she jumped, gasping, her head coming up. I did it again, and again she gasped.

I paused, watching her for a moment, letting her anticipate it. Then I did it again; the gasp was louder, her body writhed slightly.

“Does that hurt?” I asked.

“Yes, Sir,” she managed. I think her teeth were gritted again.

I did it once more. A soft cry escaped her.

“Does it serve to remind you that lying is wrong?” I asked, definitely not wanting her to forget the lesson. My question was accompanied by another loud thud.

“Yes, Sir,” she managed between gasps.

“Good,” I said.

Again I paused, letting her wonder when the next would come. Another thud, another satisfying cry was forced from her lips.

A longer pause this time. Then with the full strength of my arm I swung the flogger, letting the tails thud resoundingly but harmlessly into the bed beside her. Her body jumped, tense with anticipation, expecting the impact that hadn’t come.

“Woops.” I said. I admit in hindsight that might have been a bit mean.

“Your back seems quite red now,” I noted. “Does it feel warm?”

“Yes, Sir,” she said.

I reached for the Tupperware box, and, easing off the lid, extracted an ice cube. I held it in my clenched fist above her back, waiting for it to melt. I didn’t have long to wait. A cold drop ran down my clenched fingers and fell, splashing onto the red skin of her back.

“Arrrgh!” she cried, writhing. I don’t think she’d been expecting it. The effect was quite fun.

“Better?” I asked.

“Yes, Sir, thank you,” she replied. She was really quite good at talking through gritted teeth. At least she said ‘thank you’ – but then I’ve often noticed that a woman’s civility frequently improves after a flogging.

I decided there’d now been enough playing.

“Are you wet?” I asked, knowing full well the answer to my question.

“Yes,” she whispered, her head pushed forward into the pillow in shame.

“Spread your legs, lift your ass. I will check,” I said. I also picked up the butt plug.

The response was not as quick as I would have wished. Once more, the flogger swished through the air and landed with a thud, this time across her untouched ass. She gasped in surprise and then was pushing her ass up through the tails of the flogger, spreading her legs.

I dropped the flogger on the bed. I didn’t think I’d need it again now, but it was still close to hand. I paused for a moment to admire the view. She was indeed most wet, most aroused. She was very vulnerable, naked, chained by the neck, ass raised in the air, legs spread, back red and sensitised by the flogger.

I reached between her legs and pressed my palm lightly against her pussy. I felt her body tremble in response, but beyond that she did not move. I waited; it didn’t take long. Merely a few seconds passed before I felt her pussy pressed firmly against my palm. My hand, of course, had not changed its position. Again, I wondered if her body had acted with or without conscious direction…but then her head pushed once more into the pillow, and I heard her moan in frustration and shame. She knew what she’d done, then. Good.

I spread my fingers over her pussy. They were all slick as soon as they touched. She was most definitely wet. I spread her wetness around: over her inner thighs, already moist and hot to the touch; up over her ass, caressing the curve of each cheek; across and down the backs of her legs, wiping her wetness over her. I wanted her most clear on just how wet she was.

Next I took the butt plug and pushed it up against her smooth pussy lips. It too was instantly slick. I wished I had seen her expression as she had felt the cold metal against her. Damn. Next time.

“Turn your head, look at me,” I said. There were still other expressions to observe.

I waited until she had twisted her head around. Her hair was entangled across her face. She watched me from between it as I reached down and smoothed it away, to the side. Her face was red; there was the mark of tears on her cheeks. There was no longer any defiance or anger in her eyes.

I slowly slid the butt plug up through her pussy lips, over her perineum, watching her the whole time. It moved easily; she was slick. She bit her lip as she felt the hard, cold object moving towards her ass. I paused at her asshole, letting the cold tip of the plug rest against her. She closed her eyes.

“Open your eyes,” I said. She opened her eyes.

I began to push the butt plug inside her ass, watching her face. She closed her eyes, in shame, turning her head away.

“Look at me, open your eyes,” I said. I waited until she had turned her head back and had opened her eyes. There were tears in them.

I continued to push the butt plug slowly inside her ass, watching her face as I did so. She didn’t again try to close her eyes or turn her face away. Her lips were parted, her breathing shallow; a small murmur as she felt it enter her. I stopped with the plug half way inside her, the widest point of it stretching her opening. I watched her face awhile. Then I pushed firmly, and the rest was gone inside her. She gasped.

“Turn over,” I said.

She turned, quickly, without hesitation, the chain at her neck clinking slightly as she moved. It seemed she was learning.

She looked up at me, lying naked on the bed, a butt plug inside her. She wriggled for a moment, trying to find a comfortable position for her back. I stood over her, looking down at her. I took my time examining her as I grasped the bottom of my t-shirt, pulling it over my head. I noticed her legs were no longer pushed tight together, but lay easily a little apart. It seemed the spreader bar would not be necessary tonight.

I pulled off my shoes then unfastened my jeans and pushed them down, kicking them off. Now we were both naked.

She had watched me all the time while I had undressed. She hadn’t shown fear or resignation, reluctance or aversion. Her eyes were on my groin now. She had noticed I was clearly hard.

I climbed onto the bed, moving between her legs. She parted them for me, welcoming me. I think at this point her mind was in agreement with her body. If I made to leave now I was sure I’d see her temper flare again.

I lay down over her, gently, my face inches from hers, our bodies pressed together. She looked up at me, her gaze steady. I looked down into her eyes. She dropped her eyes submissively, and for a moment I thought I saw a small smile play across her lips.

I ran my hands down her arms and gathered her hands into mine. I lifted her arms above her head and pinned them against the pillow. The chain ran underneath them, but I was not concerned for her comfort at this point. She knew herself caught, held. I ground my hips against her and felt her hips respond in turn, moving, searching. I smiled down at her. She saw, and turned her head to the side, eyes closing.

I positioned myself at her opening, feeling her slick wetness against my cock.

“Look at me,” I said.

She turned her head back and opened those beautiful eyes, looking up at me. I thrust into her.

I think we both gasped. She was so wet, so aroused, and yet so very tight — even without the butt plug she would have been. It took three thrusts before I was able to fully penetrate her, to lie against her body with my cock deep inside her. Our hands were clenched together as I held hers down against the pillow.

She had closed her eyes somewhere along the way.

“Open your eyes,” I said. “Look at me.”

Her eyes opened slowly; she was not able to meet my gaze.

“Look at me,” I repeated. I waited. Slowly her eyes came up to mine.

I moved my hips back and thrust into her again. Her chin came up and a small gasp escaped her, but she somehow kept her eyes on mine. It was beautiful to watch.

I did it again, and again. I wasn’t gentle; I saw no need to be. I fucked her, hard, and watched her all the while. She couldn’t keep her eyes open from the second thrust. She tried to open them again for the third, and then gave up. I let her.

I fucked her slowly; I was in no hurry. I would withdraw slowly to the very opening of her then thrust back into her. And do it again. Each time she would tense, each thrust I made sure she felt to her core.

I held both her hands in the one of mine and slipped my free hand into her hair. As I fucked her I pulled her head back, covering her mouth with mine once more. I raped her mouth with my tongue while I thrust inside her, holding there, grinding my hips against hers. She whimpered into my mouth, her tongue flickering delicately against mine. She tasted most sweet.

I let my free hand trail down her smooth skin to her breast while we kissed. I found her nipple hard, standing erect from her breast. It fit perfectly between finger and thumb and I rolled it between them, pinching lightly. She moved as best she could, pressing her breast up against my hand. I got the message. My finger and thumb tightened on her nipple, squeezing, pulling. She gasped a little and I felt her hips squirm underneath me. My finger and thumb tightened again, pinching hard. A small noise of pain escaped her lips. It was cute.

I slid my hand back up over her breast, her shoulder, her neck; brushed my fingers almost tenderly across her cheek. She turned her head and kissed at my hand, then took one finger between her teeth, tugging at it gently. I felt her tongue lick delicately at my finger tip.

Then there was only pain as her teeth sunk into my finger. I yanked my finger from my mouth, cursing. I looked down at her as I clenched my finger into my fist to still the pain in my finger. She looked up at me, defiant, provocative. Fine.

My other hand grasped her hair, pulling back her head, lifting her face. My hand cracked down, slapping across her cheek. She yelped, and I felt the tremor run all the way down her body to where her pussy encased my cock. Her head was turned to the side; a red mark was growing on her cheek. Slowly I turned her head backwards, twisting my hand in her hair. I made to hit her again, back hand, across the other cheek, twitching my hand but not actually striking. She flinched. Then I struck her. Again she shuddered, her whole body responding.

“Is that what you wanted?” I asked harshly.

“Yes, Sir” she whispered.

I shifted a little over her, clenched my hands around hers, holding her helpless, and really began to fuck her in earnest. There was no sound save for our breathing, the slap of flesh on flesh. She was wetter than when I had stopped, despite being inside her unmoving all that time. Her cheeks glowed, her eyes sparkled. One would almost think she enjoyed being slapped.

“Do you enjoy being slapped?” I asked as I fucked her.

She turned her head into the pillow and screwed her eyes shut. No other answer.

“I asked a question,” I said, grinding my hips against hers as I moved inside her.

“Please don’t make me answer that, Sir,” she gasped, her face burning with shame.

“Do you like being slapped?” I insisted. She moaned.

“Y..y…yes, Sir,” she said, and then her body was writhing as her orgasm hit and she gasped, pressing herself back into the bed as her hips ground against mine, her hands clenching in mine, her breasts rising and falling with her breathing, a slight sheen of perspiration covering her smooth skin.

I waited until she had finished.

“Was that difficult to admit?” I asked. She nodded.

I began to fuck her again. She writhed.

“No, no! I’m too sensitive!”

I ignored her.

“Please,” she begged, as I fucked her. I ignored her still, my breathing becoming ragged with the effort I was putting in to fucking her hard. Slowly her protests turned to moans, and her body pressed against mine as we moved together.

I could feel my own orgasm rising as I moved inside her. My muscles were beginning to tense, my body seeking release. I felt her respond, her own body becoming more urgent as a second orgasm began to build.

We came together, bodies tensing, joined as one for a fleeting moment of pleasure.

I lay inside her for a while, listening to the pounding of the blood in my ears. Eventually I moved, rolling off her, lying close beside her, our bodies touching.

We lay quietly for a long time, waiting for our breathing to return to normal, the hammering of our hearts to quieten. One hand was still in mine; her hair fell partly across my face. I didn’t much feel like moving it right now. We lay together and watched the ceiling, listening to each other breathe.

Some minutes later she spoke.

“How did you get in?” she asked.

“Through the window,” I said, “I fixed it before I left this afternoon.”

“Oh,” she said, “I hadn’t noticed.”

“I figured you wouldn’t.”

My heart had stopped hammering, my breathing normal. I glanced across at the naked girl beside me. It had been a good night.

My thumb chose that moment to remind me of its presence with a particularly vicious throb. Damn, the endorphins must have worn off too.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” I said. “Next time I’m using the front door. I smashed my thumb when I forced the window and it’s been fucking killing me.”

She giggled.

Charming. No bloody sympathy.

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