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Reluctant Bride

Category: BDMS
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She tried the dress on for the fifteenth time that month, and once again hoped that this time she’d feel different. As she stared into the full length mirror that had been moved into her room, she noticed how the whiteness of the dress seemed so much brighter against her pale skin. How her red hair and blue eyes seemed that much more pronounced by the additional paleness wrapped around her body.

Her eyes traced her collarbone in the mirror, the off-the-shoulder collar having looked most fetching when she’d first tried the dress on in the store. She could almost feel the tangible pressure of her eyes against her skin. Almost. It made her tingle.

Her eyes travelled further down her reflection, caressing the fitted bodice of the gown. It wasn’t a style she normally went for because she’d always felt self-conscience about showing off that much of her cleavage. She wasn’t overly busty, but she had enough of an endowment that if the top was cut correctly, she was constantly paranoid about falling out of it. No, she never would’ve gone for the sweetheart cut fitted bodice if it hadn’t been for the persuasive saleslady, not that she particularly regretted it now. No, she had regrets, but not that one. From the way the dress was cut, she could feel her breasts being pushed up, away from her body, as if they were being presented for appraisal to an appreciative onlooker. Perhaps they were. Perhaps the dress was cut that way to allow her fiancé at the alter to reconfirm that her goods were the same ones he’d bartered for when he first gave her the ring. Yes, that could be it.

As she thought more about the cut of the bodice, she absently noted how securely the material held her body. Almost like a protective lover would wrap his body around hers as he slept. Protective. Possessive. She could faintly see her nipples begin to harden through the binding material of the dress as her body registered her passing thought. Her conscious mind shrugged off her reaction, allowing her write it off to a draught in the room. She shook her head gently to herself, smiling at the idiocy of it. A draught, in an enclosed room. Granted, it was the fall, but she liked to keep things warm—remnants of her many years of living in warmer climes. She’d gotten acclimated.

Shaking her head had caused her hair to swing gently to and fro behind her, grazing her exposed back. The feathery caress caused her nipples to harden even further, but again, she ignored it. She could’ve ignored much in her introspective reverie, but she had always been quick to notice changes in the play of light around her, and the change in the shadows in the corner of the room caught her attention, even as on the edge of her vision as it was. As she turned to see who was in the room—because she was certain there was another body in her bedroom—her first thought was that it was her fiancé, and that it’d be just her luck that he’d see her in the dress and know all of the deepest fears it represented for her. In the split second it took her to turn around, she forced herself to compose her face into the joyful, exuberant bride-to-be she knew was expected of her before giving her fiancé cause to worry.

He was like that. Before her mother had passed, she had referred to him as A Good Man with the implication to her daughter being that she should marry him immediately and get pregnant as fast as possible so she’d have her hooks in him for life. At first, she’d thought that’s all she wanted. That all the bullshit she’d put up with in her younger years was behind her; that she no longer craved the darkness she’d seen in men’s souls that had ignited her passion like the headiest of aphrodisiacs. No, she’d convinced herself it was nothing but a phase, one that she had put behind her as she became more mature and had a better understanding of what real relationships entailed. She’d thought she was happy. So much so that when he’d finally asked her to marry him, after they’d dated an appropriate length of time and had progressed through all the requisite precursors in a Committed Relationship, she’d said “yes” as enthusiastically, and as sincerely, as she believed possible. As the intervening months dragged on, and the wedding preparations had mounted, the permanence of her impending reality crashed upon the shores of her consciousness with ever increasing frequency and intensity like a hurricane in the Gulf, building and building as you hope and pray the winds of mercy and good fortune will dissipate the storm, or at least swing it away from you.

As the date got closer and closer, her panic had gotten worse and worse; so much so that she’d begun having nightmares. She’d wake up screaming, tasting imaginary blood in her mouth from having chewed her arm off in her desperation to escape from her intended. Every time it happened, she’d given thanks for her fiance’s goodness, that he had not insisted they live together before the wedding. She wouldn’t have been able to look him in the eyes as he held her, all concern and good intentions, while she blatantly lied to him about everything being alright and there being nothing for him to worry about. No, for all the blackness in her own soul, she still couldn’t bring herself to do that to him—to lie to him about something so integral to his own future, at least not if he asked her directly. In her mind, dancing around the issue was different. That wasn’t lying, it was being optimistic, and she knew how much he prized her eternal optimism.

She had almost completely turned around when she first heard his voice. “The maid of honor said the dress was something else, but I’m not sure who she did a bigger disservice to: you or the designer.” The surprise of it nearly threw her off balance, but she subtly recovered and continued to pivot. When she was finally facing her future brother-in-law, she replied rather saucily, “I wasn’t aware you made a habit of keeping up with the latest wedding dress trends. You are, by far, a man of rare and varied talents.” He gave her a look, which in her younger, more corrupt days, she would have considered “suggestive” or “knowing,” but now she wrote off as her future relative’s playful roguishness. Her mind lingered, unbidden, on the half day’s worth on growth on his face and the slight swell of his eminently kissable lips. She could begin to feel the familiar darkness spread throughout her body, making her breasts swell and tingle as she felt her eyes grow heavier with lust. She gave herself a swift, sharp mental kick to the ass to forego the more obvious gesture of shaking her head, which she knew she’d have to explain to him.

He didn’t know why he’d done it. Given her his “of-course-little-girl-wouldn’t-your-grandmother-like-some-pretty-flowers-you-can-just-ignore-my-big-sharp-teeth” look. The look that clearly said he had a predator within him that would be all too pleased to play with a fresh-faced young thing like her. She was his younger brother’s fiancée, and more than that, she was wholesome, from what had filtered back to him from the rest of the family. It wasn’t that he and his brother didn’t talk about things like that, it was more that, he knew he and his brother didn’t have many overlapping…interests, when it came to women, and therefore, they were conversations that best went unsaid so’s to preserve both their dignities. For a moment though, when he’d first walked in on her, silent and unannounced, he could’ve sworn he’d seen the vestiges of the look he got when thinking about sex, and it was certainly not a wholesome look.

In their pregnant silence, full of things to be said and things neither wanted to admit out loud, she forced herself to think of neutral things like babies and cauliflower and carpet samples. Things as far away from the cut, five foot eleven man standing in front of her as she could think of. She could feel herself being drawn into his blue-brown eyes by the almost tangible gravity of his gaze like a speeding comet whose course is forever altered by its interception with a larger astral body demanding accommodation. The back of her mind tried drawing thoughts of her fiancé to the fore like how his clouded grey eyes seemed gentler than the roiling fury she could read on the edges of irises on the man before her. It’s only normal, her brain told her, to play the “what if” game, but you know the grass is never greener. She had to agree. She’d never cheated, but had had several friends who had, and their stories were always the same: it wasn’t worth it. She’d never understood it before, what drove people to do it; she’d always felt safe on her moral high ground that “shaking it off” was easy and you shouldn’t even notice other people in that way when you’re in a relationship. In her mind’s eye, she could see her own little personal devil laughing itself off her shoulder at her naiveté, at how she’d blithely boiled down one of life’s messiest, complicated issues into an overly simplistic theory for no other reason than it suited her.

She could sense the minutes ticking away, and she somehow knew that if she didn’t say something soon, they would reach the point where action would be required and that would not lead them down any roads to happiness. “So, it’s only bad luck if the groom sees the dress then? Won’t he pester you for details when you tell him you’ve seen it?” Logically, she knew she was just filling the air; that her fiancé could probably care less about what the dress looked like, let alone would pester his older, somewhat distant brother for details about it like a fourteen-year-old girl.

“Oh, he won’t pester me, but that’s only because he hasn’t seen you in it. I’m actually debating whether I should tell him just so he doesn’t punch me on the altar when you make your entrance,” he replied genially.

“Like he’d really care,” she answered him trying not to let the simple words convey the longing she suddenly had to actually see her fiancé take a swing at his brother for even potentially having untoward thoughts about her. She’d never been one to find jealously attractive, but the right degree of possessiveness and sheer male dominance had always turned her on. Early on in her relationship with her fiancé though, she’d learned it was a good thing that she’d been born with a healthy imagination because she’d frequently envisioned him possessing traits that turned her on in her fantasies that he’d never possess in a million years in real life. Like the dominant presence her future brother-in-law exuded as naturally as he breathed.

He could almost detect the longing in her voice, the longing for things that were definitely on the other side of wholesome, but he told himself that he was reading more into it than was there. He barely knew his future sister-in-law since he and his brother had been about as close as most brothers with five years and widely divergent interests between them could be, which was to say, friendly in passing. In fact, he had been considerably shocked when his brother had asked him to be best man: he was sure the kid had at least one other person who would’ve been better suited to the task. His brother’s sincerity had sold him though, and he’d said “yes.”

In a lot of ways, he wished he hadn’t. It wasn’t so much that he minded spending all the additional time with family, but getting to know his sister-in-law had been killing him. He couldn’t explain it, but he always got the feeling when he saw her at the various pre-wedding things he’d gotten roped into that she wasn’t as at ease with things as everyone else around her, at least everyone else but him. For some unknown reason, it made him want to seek her out. If he believed in “kindred spirits” and all that other metaphysical b.s., he might have said he felt compelled to talk to her, like it was Fate, but he didn’t. Instead, he did everything in his power to avoid her unless it was absolutely impossible. He knew he was not a man of moderation, and part of him worried about what would happen if he got to know his future sister-in-law because he could tell he was the only one in the family who’d really be able to claim that fact.

She couldn’t bear to look at him any longer in his brooding, pensive silence so she began to turn away from him. Part of her wanted him to leave immediately, the rational part of her, but the part that she thought she’d peacefully locked away years earlier called her a coward. Told her that if she was as happily vanilla as she’d attempted to delude herself into believing, then why would it matter how long he stayed in her room with his tumultuous eyes and demanding lips and his intensely commanding presence flaring off him like sunbursts since she no longer found that attractive, right? She shuddered. With two weeks until her wedding, she didn’t need this complication in her life. She didn’t need this type of crisis of purpose. As much as she tried to tell herself that there was nothing to fear, that he didn’t have any effect on her, she knew better. She knew that her knees started going weak when she thought about his tempestuous eyes boring into her. In her mind, she could envision him running his gaze up and down her body much as her own had, appraising her assets; using his eyes to make her nipples harden and her pussy begin to drip. She didn’t want to continue down this path, but it’d been so long since she’d had a real man to fantasize about that her imagination went haywire. There was nothing she could do, but go along for the ride and hope she didn’t embarrass herself.

Her mind chose to linger on his lips next. They weren’t the overly pouty, cupid bow kind of lips; they weren’t the kind of lips that would leave pillowy soft kisses against her forehead or her eyes. His lips were the type that would demand she kiss them back, the kind that wouldn’t take “no” for an answer; the kind that would latch on to her nipples then suck on them like a hungry baby desperate for milk, that would suck on her clit like a vacuum while she screamed from the mix of agony and ecstasy the intensity of it would put on her body. If it wasn’t for the dress, she’d have checked to see if she was really as wet as her fantasy was suggesting she should be. She hazily thought about the fact that it’d be beyond inappropriate to do something so personal with her fiance’s brother in the room, but the part of her that had broken free of its internal imprisonment thought that maybe he’d like it, that maybe if she did it she’d get to feel those sinful lips against her body for real.

He hadn’t been entirely sure what to do when she’d turned away from him. The sane part of his mind told him that she probably wanted some privacy, but the devil in him kept him planted in her room. His voyeuristic curiosity led him to walk closer to her so he could get a better look at her face, although he made sure not to be so obvious as to stand in front of her. From his parallel vantage point, he’d watched her eyelids drift shut as a range of distinctly unwholesome thoughts ran clearly across her face. He couldn’t imagine what could have caused her reaction. Surely not him? His dick began to harden as his predatory sexuality began to flow over him. This has nothing to do with me, he tried telling himself, to no avail. Even though he knew it was a bad idea, a hideously stupid idea in fact, he felt all of the delicate control he had employed around her begin to vanish like gossamer spiderwebs blown away by a stiff breeze as he began to appraise her as a man.

Even though the material of her dress was fairly opaque, looking at her profile with the sun behind her, he could faintly make out her erect nipples. His dick hardened even further as he thought about how easy it’d be for him to remove one of her breasts from her dress so he could chew on the growing nub. He wondered if she’d scream from the sensation or if she’d moan her appreciation. As he continued to watch her bosom strain against her dress, his hands began to ache from their desire to reach inside her dress and caress her breasts as firmly as her bodice. He could almost feel their milky softness spilling into his palms as he looked at her. You know she wouldn’t stop you, his mind told him. He wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe that she’d sigh and moan as he manhandled her with a freedom he had no right to. Before his brain had caught up, he found himself standing within inches of her back, her hair acting as the only real barrier between his breath and the back of her neck. As his gaze quickly slid over her collarbone though, he noticed his exhalations had raised the faintest of goosebumps along her skin.

She’d noticed the slight shift in the air as her “fight or flight” sense kicked in. Subconsciously she knew she was trapped with a predator, although part of her wondered whether she should be more concerned about him or the fact that that knowledge had her practically panting like a bitch in heat. Without opening her eyes, she knew he was standing behind her—both from the gentle breeze his exhalations were creating against her skin and from the way she’d sunk a little deeper into the carpet as his additional weight depressed the spongy insulation. She couldn’t remember the last time her body had felt so electrified, so amazingly in tune with her surroundings. For the first time in practically forever—in the presence of an animal no less—she felt safe and carefree. Her body sagged as she let out the breath she’d unconsciously been holding, and in doing so, allowed all the tension she’d pent up since she and her fiancé had gotten “serious” to flow out of her body.

He’d never seen someone go limp so quickly; he’d barely had time to register that she was falling before her soft, supple body made contact with his chest. His arms wrapped around her reflexively: both to keep her steady, but also to minimize whatever potential threat she could pose to him. She let out a particularly contented sigh, and in doing so, caused more of her weight to fall against him. He was a fairly strong man, but the unexpectedness of her downward slide gave him little time to brace himself for support, so he was left with the awkward choices of suffocating her with her breasts or sliding gracelessly to the floor with her. He bent his knees to make the transition from standing to sitting marginally easier, and in doing so wound up leaning substantially over her shoulder. Between the snickerdoodle scent of her hair and the amply unobstructed view of her cleavage, his dick hardened to diamond-cutting proportions, and it took everything in his power not to drop her from the unexpected intensity of his hard-on.

His kinks had never particularly run toward the corruption of innocents, and while he could tell she wasn’t exactly lily-white, she didn’t really scream submission-trained bondage slut either. She looked more like the type of girl who liked teeth and nails occasionally and thought that gave her the right to be called a “bad” girl; and perhaps in her circles it did. Such mild slap and tickle hadn’t gotten him hard, especially not this hard, since he was in his early teen years and hadn’t really learned what BDSM was yet. He’d never particularly been interested in “stealing” women away from other men either. It was such a pedestrian past time in his opinion, besides which, most of the girls who played those games didn’t have the discipline or the attention to be properly trained. So what was the point of wasting his precious time on an unworthy endeavor? Part of him wanted to write it off to the fact that he hadn’t had sex in a few weeks having recently gotten bored with his latest pet, but he had trained his body for years and no longer suffered from such unexpected incidents. It could just be that you like her, his mind errantly supplied. She’s my brother’s fiancee’s, he mentally fired back, not to mention she’s almost certainly not into my brand of fun.

Falling against him had seemed like the most natural thing in the world for her to do, like she had some skin memory of having done it before so she knew that he’d catch her. As his hands had wrapped around her ribs, the friction of his arms tugged at the material of her bodice, which in turn created the most delicious sensation as the stiff material rubbed against her nipples. Her body had come alive again between being trapped in his embrace and having the most sensitive areas of her body casually tormented: if didn’t matter if he’d intended to do so or not. She knew there was no way her fiancé would have gripped her so tightly or that he would’ve begun sinking to the floor with her—he’d have been too worried about wrecking her dress so close to the wedding. His delicateness about things like that had always bothered her, but she’d contented herself with the belief that that’s how Good Men acted. After years of depriving herself of the kind of manhandling her body craved, she wasn’t surprised to find that such minimal, completely unintentional, actions had gotten her hotter than she could remember. In her blissful contentment, she’d sighed, sinking even deeper into his embrace almost forcing him to grope her as her uncentered weight threw off his equilibrium. Instead of dropping her, which is what she was certain her fiancé would’ve done from shock, her fiance’s brother firmly, albeit gracelessly, sank to the floor with her.

When they finally reached the floor in their awkward tangle of limbs, silk, tulle, denim and cotton, all she wanted to do was lay on the floor and nuzzle against the warmth of his chest. Her brain had barely registered the lazy play of his fingers through her hair before she felt the familiar tautness of her hair being wrapped around a person’s fist and the sharp, quick sting of her hair being pulled. She didn’t even think about it as she moaned, “Oh, sir,” in the most appreciative way she knew how.

He couldn’t explain why he’d done it, why he’d knotted her hair around his fist. One minute he’d been idly contemplating how her hair felt like the smoothest satin as it flowed like water through his fingers, and without even thinking more about it, he’d yanked on it. The honorable part of him wanted to say that he wanted to give her an excuse to slap him, to clear his mind of his sudden and irrational attraction to her. His inner devil though knew that he’d wanted to test her, had wanted to see if maybe she wasn’t all sunshine and milkshakes like he’d originally believed. He wanted to believe that his resolve would’ve held if she’d responded like he thought she might have—that is to say, if she had just moaned a little or morphed into the vanilla-interpreted, porn-inspired version of BDSM. Her acceptance, and even appreciation, of his dominance over her threw him for a loop though, and in his momentarily stunned state, he’d kissed her.

She’d been right about his lips—they demanded she kiss them back. As she opened her mouth wider to eat at his mouth, she felt the insistent tug at her hair combine with the combative ownership of his tongue in her mouth, and knew that her inconsequential mesh thong was doing nothing to contain her pussy’s bountiful moisture from running on to the tops of her thighs. How could her milksop of a fiancé be brothers with this feral, demanding beast of man, her brain screamed at her. This was a man who knew what ownership meant, who could properly cherish and protect her the way she needed to be looked after rather than caving to societal standards of how to “properly” treat a woman. The faintest glimmer of teardrops began to show at the edge of her eyelids as she quickly began to get frustrated with the fact that she’d seen heaven in this man, only to be condemned to hell in two weeks to know that he’d forever be so near and yet so forbidden to her.

One errant teardrop had slid silently down her cheek, which he wouldn’t have noticed if his hand hadn’t grazed against her face as he fought to control the intensity of their kiss. Without meaning to, he let out a low, guttural growl as he pulled away from her, a sort of tense defensiveness branded into his eyes. He braced himself for her hysterics at having cheated (however minor) on her fiancé his brother, for her outrage at him disabusing her in such an uncouth manner, even for her terror at the thought that he might take advantage of their compromised state to exploit her physical vulnerability even more; however, he was completely unprepared for her anguish and frustration.

“Don’t stop, sir!” she keened plaintively. “Please, don’t stop!”

He had pulled away from her just enough that he could look square into the shimmery blue depths of her eyes: he was stunned. She meant it. From the most fundamental core of her being, she wanted to submit to him, she wanted him to totally possess her. As his consciousness fully registered this knowledge, his body became more acutely aware of soft swell of her heaving breasts pressing into his chest as her sapphire blue eyes pleaded with his hard brown ones, and her engorged lips—all swollen and red from his vigorous ministrations—formed the most perfect “O” of interrupted passion he had ever seen. His dick throbbed insistently, desperate to be free of his button fly jeans, instead buried deeply in her inviting velvety pussy. The longer he sat with her tangled up in her dress in the middle of his lap, the more difficult it was for him to justify why he shouldn’t just ruck up her gown and fuck her like an animal on the floor right there. Subconsciously, the violence of it held a certain appeal to him, but he was more principled than that: he wouldn’t just fuck her for the sake of fucking her.

“Get off me and get up,” he snarled.

The relief and contentment that clearly danced across her face reassured him as much as her pleading had that he hadn’t misread the situation; in fact, it reassured him more since she’d had a few moments to clear her head of the passion that might’ve motivated her earlier uttering. It pleased him to see that who ever had trained her before had done a thorough job because as soon as she realized he had seen her brazen expression of happiness, she immediately lowered her eyes as she attempted to back herself off his lap in the safest, most expedient way possible. As the pressure of her body eased off his groin, his mind began to clear a little as he stood up and began thinking of the next steps to take as well as the potential consequences of each choice.

He didn’t know how duplicitous his soon-to-be sister-in-law was, but he’d found it prudent to expect people to try to get away with something naughty rather than to do the “honorable” thing. With that in mind, he needed to assume that despite whatever happened today, she was going to go through with her wedding in two weeks, and he’d need to live with the knowledge that he’d sullied his brother’s wife. Although he didn’t especially mind the idea of lying to his brother—it wasn’t like he expected them to get closer after his wedding obligations were dispatched—it bothered him that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to give up his sister-in-law. Granted, he still didn’t know if she’d even be worth it, but something in the back of his mind told him that going through with this would rock his understanding of the universe. Could he be content to see her at the five or six mandatory family functions he appeared at every year and not touch her? Could he guarantee he wouldn’t try, even if she appeared to be happy and especially if she appeared unhappy? Would he try to seek her out, outside the prying constrictions of “family togetherness”? Would he turn her down if she came to him?

“You’ve presented me with a bit of a quandary, slut,” he said sternly to her downward hung head. The fact that she knew enough not respond pleased him immensely, but made his decision no less difficult. “I’m going to ask you a very simple question, and if your answer pleases me, I’ll show you just what a generous master I can be. Do you think you can answer a simple question, slut?”

“I’ll try to answer you in the manner most likely to please you, sir,” she answered meekly. Although her eagerness thrilled him, he needed her to speak the truth since her answer could very well destroy her and his brother’s lives. He gripped her chin firmly in his hand and tilted her face up to look at his making sure to speak distinctly as he did so.

“I do not want you to try to please me, slut. I want you to speak the truth because what I’m about to ask you will have very serious repercussions. Do you understand me?”

She attempted to nod, but he needed to hear her say it. He needed to hear her own her confession to what she was about to do. “Speak!” he barked.

“Yes, I understand, sir,” she squeaked out as best she could with him gripping her jaw.

“Very good, slut,” he said gently as he affectionately ran his thumb against her jaw. He let the gravity of what he was about to ask her wash through his eyes before saying, “Why do you want to submit yourself to me?”

He released her jaw and stepped a little bit away from her to let her collect herself before answering. As he watched her emotions run across her face, he sensed her confliction and mentally prepared himself for a warm shower and some unbridled free rein for his active imagination.

The last thing she expected him to do was demand she be rational, especially given the havoc his presence was wreaking on her poor, weak body. She desperately tried to think of the best way to put her desire without sounding like some childish amateur or some cheesy five dollar grocery-store romance novel. Inhaling deeply to steady herself as well as prepare for his likely ridicule and outright rejection, she said, “Because being in your presence even for as briefly as I have been, having you lord your power and authority over my body, marking it and claiming it as yours, has been the most alive I’ve felt in years. Because you reminded me that if I marry your brother, a part of me, an integral part of my soul, will die and I’ll just stumble through the rest of my life maimed—as much as if I lost an arm or an eye or a foot—until I finally die, unfulfilled, having squandered my life for a dream that was never really mine. Because I think I’ve finally met a man who actually knows what it means to be a Master, who I could happily and dutifully serve without my sacrifice merely turning into a pitiful, sophomoric power trip.” As she wound up her speech, she stared firmly at the floor waiting for him to walk out on her, to tell her it’d all been a set-up to test her fidelity and that the family had always known she wasn’t pure enough for its favorite son. She waited, with baited breath, to see the first small sliver of genuine happiness she’d experienced in countless ages, get crushed under the hobnail boots of reality.

Although her answer pleased him greatly, before he allowed himself to celebrate, he needed to be absolutely clear on one final thing. “Slut, do you still intend to marry my brother?” She looked up sharply and the look of abject horror made him inwardly smile, but again, he needed to hear her voice her decision, to know she owned it. He looked at her expectantly, quirking an eyebrow to suggest that her response would be appreciated at any time. “Sir, how could I?” she asked, somewhat aghast. “How could I marry him, knowing that yours would be the body I craved, that I would seek out your embrace like a horny little slut and that you would have to continually punish me for being such a nasty, wet whore to let you use me how you will only to return home and pretend for your brother that I’m his unsoiled princess? You would have to force me from your bed, from your embrace, your dungeon every time because I would never want to return home!”

Even though he didn’t have that much height on her, he could still clearly tell that her already swollen breasts had continued to firm up as her heaving bosom looked to rip itself free of her wedding dress as she passionately decried her intention to wear it for its intended purpose. Her agitation made the blue in her eyes that much more vibrant and her intermittent panting from her spirited outburst left her mouth open in a highly suggestive manner. As he silently appraised her body’s response to her enflamed emotions, he also noted the almost painful thrumming in his dick and the heaviness of his balls from his mind’s subconscious comparison to things he could do to her to make her body respond the same way. Things that would ultimately be infinitely more pleasurable for both of them.

As much as he wanted to possess her in the basest way imaginable, he knew that she wasn’t coming to him solely for sex, she was giving up her future life because she needed him to dominate her, to own her. The first command he gave her in recognition of his ownership over her was barely more than a whisper: “Come here.” She responded quickly and obediently, but she had not been able to keep her face completely free of the excited glee she felt at having him want to own her. He knew such unwarranted displays of emotion had to be broken immediately, otherwise her later humiliation and submission would not leave as indelible an imprint as he knew they must.

After she had walked the short distance necessary to stand in front of him, he deliberately circled around her making sure that his gaze held just the right amount of disdainful leering that she would begin to fully comprehend her true objectification. His coolly detached appraisal was not the only way he sought to punish her for her facial transgression though. As he stopped behind her, he slid one arm protectively across the front of her collarbone, allowing his hand to slither effortlessly into her bodice so he could fondle her breast. The soft, milky white orb felt heavy in his hand as he carelessly jiggled his new property; however, his momentary playfulness did not distract him from his real goal—her taut, sensitized nipple. With unforewarned viciousness, he sharply twisted the hardened nub, eliciting a sharp, yet otherwise soundless, inhalation of breath from her. Her self-restraint in not crying out pleased him tremendously, and to reward her, he lightly kissed the back of her neck as he gently massaged her disabused breast.

“I’ve always been a fan of screamers,” he mentioned absently into her hair, “but I rather like your discretion. It could give me so many more opportunities to play with you in public.” He paused for a moment as he mulled several ideas over, each one designed to capitalize on her preferred silent responses. As he got more caught up in his fantasies, he began kissing her neck with more passionate intensity, all the while continuing to hold a one-sided conversation with himself. “Would you like that, you little slut? Would you like it, if during the middle of Thanksgiving family dinner, I discreetly started to finger you under the table and for every sideways glance you elicited, I would deny you an orgasm? How about if I made you ride around on the bus one day while wearing a vibrator harness, and as long as the bus was in motion, I would keep the vibrator on, but whenever the bus stopped, so would the toy? What about if I made you wear nipple clamps attached to Ben-wa balls and told you that not only must you only use stairs all day, but that you must keep track of how many orgasms you have so that I would know how many times to paddle you that night? How badly would you like me to do all of that to you, you little whore?”

She’d been careful to keep her face as neutral as possible while he’d been describing everything he wanted to do to her, but there was nothing she could do to allay the aching in her breasts for their want of stimulation or to temper the abundant nectar her pussy was producing in anticipation of being fucked for hours on end with little to no interruption. As the thought of getting fucked senseless by the man behind passed through her mind, her pussy walls began to unconsciously contract in their desperate desire to squeeze something, anything, so long as it was capable of making her come hard over and over again. In her distracted state, she’d failed to notice that he’d removed his hand from the front of her bodice, and instead had both his hands gripping something in the middle of her back. Despite the sudden yank she felt against her back, the first real indication she had that he’d decided to expediently disrobe her was the screaming sound of material being forcibly torn away from its seams and fastenings.

As the stiffer material of her bodice began falling away from her, he got the distinct mental image of removing the shell from a hard-boiled egg, although he was sure she was an infinitely more enjoyable source of protein. After his hands made short work of the silk shell of her dress’s skirt, the seemingly endless layers of tulle hardly afforded him any resistance in his quest to undress her. When the last wisps of tulle finally slipped off her hips, he walked back in front of her to review his handiwork. In a bizarre way, she reminded him of the painting of Venus being birthed from the sea if Venus had been born wearing a cheap, black mesh thong. Despite the warmth in the room, her dusty-rose colored nipples were erect as they strained desperately away from her voluptuous breasts. His eyes glanced briefly over her toned stomach as he found his attention drawn to her barely hidden pussy. Now that her nethers were no longer shielded by a barricade of fabric, he noticed the faint, sweet aroma of her soaking loins. Mentally, he licked his lips at the idea that she was that much of a sopping mess and he had hardly even touched her. With that thought came his next inspiration for how he could best abase her further. He walked back behind her and stood close enough to her that she could just feel his straining, trapped erection pulsating against her ass through his jeans. Leaning just over her shoulder, he asked her in a honeyed growl, “When’s the last time you were fucked, slut?”

Between his proximity, his voice and the way he had phrased his question, goosebumps had broken out all over her skin as a tingle made a beeline down her spine straight to her pussy. Without looking at him, she replied, “I had sex last week, Sir.” He wasn’t sure if she’d meant her answer to be coy or modest, but either way, her response displeased him. His word choice had not been meant as a mere vulgar euphemism for sex; he really wanted to know when was the last time she’d been well and truly fucked. If he hadn’t been standing quite so close to her, he would’ve slapped her all but naked ass to reprimand her; however, since he felt that moving away from her would dissipate some of the sexual tension that was building, he decided to get a grip on her pussy instead. Whether she’d done it consciously or not didn’t matter, but as he moved his hand toward her crotch, he noticed that she widened her stance a little creating more room for his hand. He cupped her mons firmly, his fingers wrapping between her legs toward her ass. His mind absently noted that the heat of her core combined with the moisture seeping through her thong was causing his fingers to develop a humid stickiness about them. Since he was supposed to be punishing her and he needed to know how good her restraint was in the face of unexpected stimulation, he gently undulated his fingers against her lips.

When he had first grabbed on to her pussy, she had succeeded in swallowing her surprised squeak and had dutifully said nothing as her sopping core released even more of its molten juice; however, she couldn’t stop her intake of breath when his fingers began their almost unperceivable assault on her sensitized lips. She felt his fingers still almost instantly as his hot breath rumbled erotically in her ear as he said, “My, my. You’re a wet little whore, and yet you don’t seem to know the difference between having sex and being fucked. Either you lied to me before or you were pretending to have some type of modesty that you obviously don’t possess. Which is it?”

“I think I misunderstood the question, Sir. I thought you wanted to know the last time I had been with a man,” she replied in the mousiest voice she could muster.

“Ha! Slut, you should know the difference between fucking and ‘being with a man,’ as you so delicately put it, but since you seem to have difficulties with the English language, let me ask you this way: Would you describe what that man did to you as ‘fucking’ as in weak kneed, legs turned to jelly, couldn’t sit down or walk straight for three days, body broken fucking?” As his description got more graphic, his voice sunk lower and lower with each sinister suggestion to which her breathing had sped up just as incrementally until she was practically panting as the final “fucking” had rolled off his sinful tongue. It took her a few moments for her sex-addled brain to realize that he was actually waiting for her to respond to his question, and then it took a few moments after that for her to remember what exactly he had asked her.

“Honestly, Sir, I don’t think I’ve ever been fucked like that. I mean, I’ve had other ‘masters’—boys really—who’ve vigorously sexed me up, but I’ve never been with anyone who’s ridden me so hard that I couldn’t have gotten out of bed afterwards even if I wanted to.” He detected a certain wistfulness in her tone that for some inexplicable reason made him want to cheer her up, made him want to spin her around and kiss her face and let her know that he’d never allow anyone to disappoint her ever again. Instead, he squelched the impulse and merely whispered in her ear, “Well, then it seems we will have to remedy that.” With that, he released his hold on her pussy and stepped away from her back, which caused her body to inadvertently shudder at the loss of the extra heat against her back.

He had moved about foot away from her, partially to clear his head and partially to drag out the unnecessary foreplay that much longer because he knew that if he caved in to his true desires to fuck her without any further delay, he wasn’t sure that he’d ever be able to properly dominate her again. As the distance between them began to tenuously hold back his raging hormones, his rational self returned and reminded him that before the two of them embarked on any of the fun and games they both so desperately wanted, they needed to establish some ground rules. She quickly turned around when he asked, and they spent the next few minutes running through her safe word—his brother’s name—and her limitations. For the most part, she seemed amenable to his interests, and in the areas where she wasn’t, she wasn’t opposed to them from a voyeuristic stance, so he could still make her watch as he took his pleasure with others. It wasn’t perfect, but she was the closest he’d found to providing him with everything he wanted in a slave.

Since she had given up on her darker pleasures years earlier, she no longer had any of her old toys, and since he hadn’t expected to get involved in a playdate when he’d gone over to her place, he had neglected to bring any of his own: they were both hungry and resourceful though, and determined to make up for any of their temporary inadequacies of accoutrements. He tried to make use of his cooling libido to think of the best way to approach their predicament, and in doing so, he had absently wandered away from her toward the windowbox seat she’d had installed as a birthday gift to herself the year before. The seat was set back deep into the window, which made up for the fact that anyone taller than five feet couldn’t comfortably stretch out length-wise on it. He glanced over his shoulder to look at where she’d dutifully stayed in the middle of the room and looked back at the seat: it looked like she was just short enough to clear the ceiling if she stood on the seat. It was perfect.

“Slut, I want you to bring a chair over here in front of the window, but make sure it’s a comfortable one. I want to be able to settle in,” he said in the most bored tone he could manage. Upon hearing his request, she scrambled to move the chair she had in front of her vanity over to where he was standing. It was similar to a standard dining room chair except it didn’t have any arms and had an extremely overstuffed seat cushion, which made sitting in the chair as relaxing as sitting on a cloud. As she watched him seat himself on the chair, she debated if she should sit or stand and where; however, once he had settled into the chair, he made the decision for her.

“Ok, slave, I want you to stand in the windowbox and dance for me,” he continued in his same bored tone. The mundaneness of the request threw her off so that she did not respond as quickly as she otherwise might have. Her momentary pause worked well for him because it gave him the opportunity to inform her of the second part of his instruction: “Oh, and before you get up there, take the thong off. I want an all nude revue.” To make up for her earlier slowness, she quickly hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her thong and quickly slipped it off her hips before kicking the scrap of fabric aside. As she looked at the windowbox, she felt a moment of hesitation: she knew no one would see her since the window looked out on her backyard, and she had walked around her room topless frequently enough, but the idea of standing up there completely naked made her feel strangely vulnerable. She swallowed deeply and took a quick centering breath before raising her knee to climb up onto the seat.

As her leg stretched up onto the seat, she felt her passage stretch open allowing the slighter cooler air in the room to flow into her burning core: the sensation caused the walls of her pussy to gently contract, which in turn caused more of her copious nectar to trickle out of her thrumming core. All too soon, it seemed like she was standing in the windowbox, completely exposed to his scrutinizing observation. Even though she had an inkling about how he wanted her to dance, she decided to play it safe: “Sir, is there any particular way you want me to dance?” He knew she knew the answer was obvious, but he inwardly applauded her previous training because it was possible that he could’ve put her up there just to have her do the Chicken dance; however, he wanted to see just how much he could awaken her sexuality, just how much of her inner whore she’d let out to play—especially since she’d been pretending to be a “good” girl for so long. “Slut, I want you to give me a proper pole dance. Imagine you’re one of the showcased platform dancers, and you’ve talked me into taking you back to a VIP room. I want to see you earn your mark-up, slut. So I better find what you’re doing incredibly erotic.” He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d thrown the last part in there, it wasn’t like he was in the habit of not getting turned on by naked women pole dancing less than two feet from his face. The especially wicked part of his mind suggested that he was trying to turn her into some amateur porn star, but he quickly shrugged off the suggestion.

He was hardly prepared for her response. Despite not having any music to keep beat to, she began dancing like she was a stripper, which he was fairly certain she hadn’t been. Between her slow gyrations, which endeavored to keep his eyes indelibly glued to her ass, and her split-kneed dips, which left him with an incredibly inviting and unobstructed view of her pink pussy, it took all his will power not to unbutton his jeans right there to take care of his raging hard-on. He was so engrossed in her act that he had somehow missed that she had actually gotten down from the windowbox and was about to begin giving him a real lap dance. Although he knew she needed to be punished for her brazenness as well as for her failure to follow his instructions, he decided to wait until she was finished with her dance before properly reprimanding her.

She hissed through her teeth as she draped one of her toned legs over his lap since the stretching motion had caused her pussy to contract sharper than she expected. As she slid herself more fully into his lap, she began to grind on him keeping her arms on the back of his chair to give her a little bit of leverage in addition to positioning her swollen breasts right in front of his face. Once she had gotten over the initial reluctance of dancing in the window, her body had taken over; however, one of the consequences was that her extremely active imagination kicked in, meaning she imagined him participating in his lap dance far more than he was in real life, which frustrated her. Although she needed to feel his lightly calloused hands running all over her body, she knew she would break through whatever spell was being created by her dance if she simply placed his hands where her body most craved their touch. Instead, she needed to induce him to touch her on his own. In a seemingly effortless move, she flipped herself around in his lap so that she was facing away from him as she continued her slow, steady grind. She arched her back to make her engorged breasts stand out even more invitingly as she let her cascading red hair fall across his chest.

“You know, mister,” she began in a breathily suggestive voice, “there aren’t any bouncers in the VIP room,” letting the thought trail off provocatively.

“That fact had come to my attention,” he replied in an oddly dry voice.

“Well, you don’t have to keep your hands to yourself, if you don’t want to,” she continued in the same breathless voice. “It might make the dance even more enjoyable for you,” she continued, casting a saucy glance over her shoulder and winking at him.

Even though he knew she was just getting into her submissive headspace by becoming so into the roleplaying situation he’d created, the ease with which she did so shocked him a bit: it was almost as if she’d really been a stripper. Although his dick was aching to pound into her moist depths, he ignored the persistent throbbing in his crotch, in order to play along with her. Besides, he knew he’d fuck her soon enough; there was no need to rush things. In deciding to play along, he further decided to play the role of a hesitant, almost bashful, strip club patron—someone who would need to be lead along by the hand.

“Can I touch you anywhere?” he asked quietly.

“Where would you like to touch me?” she responded coyly.

Instead of answering her verbally, he slowly raised his hand until he cupped the underside of her weighty breast.

“Oh yes,” she moaned, “you can definitely touch me there.”

“How about this? Can I touch you here?” he asked modestly, as his palm gently grazed her rigid nipple while his hand swept up over her breast to lightly grip it.

“Mmhmm,” she mumbled, “That’s good too.”

“How about if I do this?” squeezing her breast in a crushing grasp as he asked.

She let out a keening moan as she ground herself even harder against his turgid cock, her soaking pussy leaving an clearly evident wet spot on the crotch of his jeans. He relaxed his hold in stages, casually massaging her breast as he did so. He was pleased with how wantonly she threw her body at him; however, she needed to be reprimanded for messing up his jeans by being such a dirty little slut.

Even though he didn’t have a lot of height on her, he had enough strength in his legs that when he stood up without warning, the sheer momentum of his action was enough to tumble her out of his lap, and into a jumbled mass of limbs on the floor. Before she had time to get herself sorted out, she felt his firm grip in her hair as her face was practically shoved into his crotch. With her nose practically getting denim-burn from its proximity to his jeans, it was impossible for her not to notice the distinct aroma of arousal that her pussy had deposited on them as she’d ground herself against him during her performance. His grip on her hair failed to ease up as he said, “You’ve stained my favorite jeans, slut. What are you going to do to fix this?”

There was no rational explanation for what she did in response aside from some innate sense of cheeky sauciness that wanted to get her in trouble: instead of answering him, she got as much of his pussy-drenched, denim-protected crotch in her mouth as she could fit, and began to suck her juices out of the denim. She opened her mouth wider to better accommodate his package, forcing her tongue to undulate along the fly of his jeans as she tried to reclaim as much of her nectar as she could. Although his mind knew that the sight of her sucking on him through his jeans should have been erotic, the sexual potential succumbed to the oddness of the sensation that her flexing, rolling tongue was creating against his denim-clad dick and balls. He gripped her hair tighter as he dragged her away from her impromptu ministrations.

As her mouth was forced to dislodge from his crotch, the slightest of whimpers escaped her lips before she managed to contain herself. The plaintive suggestion of the noise almost made him reconsider what he was going to do next, but he knew he couldn’t let her get away with her brazen sauciness. He deftly grabbed her wrist, and pulled her torso across the chair she’d originally given him to sit on, making sure that she grazed her erect, sensitized nipples on the chair’s edges. In pulling her body over the chair’s seat, he’d left her ass vulnerably exposed by ensuring it was left in a classical presentation style. As he looked at her prone form, he admired the gentle dip at the small of her back where the base of her spine flowed into the plump, enticing swell of her ass. His fingers lightly dragged across the perfect, twin moons of her derriere, temporarily leaving delicate red lines in their wake where his nails occasionally scratched against her skin. He barely raised his voice above a whisper as he said, “Every time you feel my hand against your skin, you will count for me. Do you understand, slut?”

She was unsure whether he wanted her to respond verbally; however, she didn’t want to risk his displeasure by assuming he wanted her to speak. Finding that a vigorous head nod had never gotten her in trouble before, she fell back on her old standby. The enthusiasm of her action caused her long hair to whip gracelessly against the floor, which proceeded to give him yet another idea.

He walked over by her shoulder and began gathering up her silky locks. Although he knew it would’ve been quicker for him just to lean over her prostrated body, he could tell she was on edge and did not want to give her any more reason to disobey him—like accidentally cumming from the feel of his straining cock pressing briefly, yet insistently, against her eager ass. As he closed his fingers around the last of her flowing mane, he began twisting her hair into a smooth, tight coil making sure to leave enough give in her hair that he wasn’t pulling her to her knees, while at the same time having a firm enough grip that he could control her head’s range of motion. The strain on her hair felt delicious especially given the fact that if he released her too quickly, she would wind up pinching her own erect aching nipples between the edge of the chair and the weight of her torso.

“Remember, count,” he whispered.

Even though she knew what he was going to do, the first sharp sting of his hand against her ass caught her off guard. She tried to suppress the involuntary shudder that shivered through her body, with little success—so much so that she forgot to count his first hit. The jerk on her hair was both immediate and painful.

“Do you know why you deserved that, slut?” he hissed violently against her hyperextended neck.

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry I displeased you. I was…” she pleaded softly before being abruptly cut off by an even harsher sting against her ass.

“I’m. Not. Interested. In your excuses!” he hissed again.

She knew she needed to do better to please him, lest he find her unworthy of his ministrations, so she breathed out the most appreciative “two” she could muster. Almost immediately, she felt the comforting warmth of his hand as he rubbed her ass in lazy, absent-minded circles. Even though she desperately wanted to relax into his lightly calloused touch, she didn’t want to risk angering him again so soon, so instead she kept a tight rein on her inner-most impulses. It seemed like forever until her ass felt the third delicious sting from his hand, but the slow radiating burn quickly ignited her body’s long-squelched desire for more.

He began alternating the tempo of his smacks, curious to see how long her concentration could hold out for, finally stopping his spanking barrage when he got to thirty. It was far more than he expected of her, but he was even more pleased that his assessment about her prior training seemed accurate. His hands lay idly against the swell of her ass as he pondered his next move.

The heat from her flushed face matched that resonating from her raw checks, but neither came remotely near the nuclear energy being generated by her desperate pussy. During the course of his ministrations, each slap had caused a subtle change in her nethers—a throbbing ache here, an increased seeping moisture there. Discreetly, she attempted to take a big enough to breath to see if her core’s moisture really was permeating the air around them as much as she thought. It seemed like she caught the faintest whiff of sex and longing, but she dared not try for another large breath lest he catch her and be displeased.

His cock was torn. On the one hand, it just wanted to break into her pussy, and feel her slick velvety walls squeezing against it as he fucked her like a rutting animal. On the other hand though, his cock knew that the mouth that had counted out for him in breathless longing sighs would gladly worship it with lips and tongue in eager anticipation of its milky cum. Decisions, decisions.

The anticipation of his next move was killing her, particularly as he was still completely clothed. She dared not presume that she had proven herself worthy enough to be fucked so soon, yet her insides trembled and her pussy ached at the prospect that he might end their encounter prematurely. Even if he only allowed her to worship his cock with her mouth, she would be happy as it would give her another opportunity to display her gratitude. In her mind’s eye, she could picture him: clean-shaved and cut with a thickness she’d only be able accommodate from her years of prior self-training. Unconsciously, she licked her lips imagining the faintly pungent odor of sweat and sex as she carefully sucked each of his balls in her mouth, gently massaging them with her tongue. The unbidden thought made her pussy reflexively clench in excitement, and almost brought a wanton yearning moan from her throat, but as much as she wanted to show her heartfelt appreciation for his ministrations, she knew better than to act on her own desires.

In her sexual reverie, she had failed to notice his careful study of her face, otherwise he was certain she would’ve made a greater effort to conceal the object of her carnal desires. Instead, he had watched as her mouth hesitantly parted; as her delicate pink tongue sensuously moistened her lips before she gently worried her bottom lip with her teeth; as her hooded eyes became unfocused at the thought running from her mind to her pussy. He sensed her suppressed moan through the almost unperceivable swaying of her body and the sound of her slightly frustrated exhalations. Her pussy would learn to be patient as he sought to make proper use of her mouth.

The sex fog in her mind cleared long enough for her to register the distinctive “pop” sound that can only be made by button fly jeans eagerly revealing a thick, turgid cock. Her neck dipped slightly as his grip on her hair loosened allowing the silky locks to fall to across her shoulder. Despite the seeming casualness of his action, she remained alert, awaiting whatever new demand he might make of her. “On your knees, slut,” he commanded firmly. She gingerly balanced herself on her knees, acutely aware of her precarious balance on the chair’s edge. Even though her head was technically higher, because she steadfastly refused to raise her gaze from the floor, she could not tell whether or not he had simply unbuttoned his jeans or actually taken out his erect member. Her body prayed it was the later, as that would bring her one step closer to having him plunge his quivering need into her equally needy depths.

Unbuttoning his jeans had inadvertently caused him to shift his weight back on to his heels, a feeling he hated because it always seemed like a defensive position, a position of weakness. He quickly straightened up causing a slight shift in the air around them; enough that she caught a familiar pungent stench of sweat and sex. Even though his tone had telegraphed disinterest, the scent emanating from his crotch could be explained by unfettered animalistic arousal. The thought galloped from her brain to her already molten pussy leaving her light-headed in its wake. Oh how she yearned to prove worthy of his desire!

Silently, he’d come to stand in front of her, carefully observing her every shiver and controlled inhalation. He loved the fact that he put her so on edge, but he wondered if her downcast gaze was contributing to its intensity. “Slut, look at me,” he said emotionlessly. Never in all his years of being a Domme had he witnessed a sub execute a more practiced move—the calculated side tilt of her head; the slow up-sweeping of her eyes; the innocently expectant roundness to her mouth. The look spoke volumes. About her need. Her worship. But most importantly, about the magnitude of her carnality’s intensity. Any pretensions of honor he might’ve wished to aspire to turned to ash in the presence of her need’s powerful heat. Despite being as strong-willed and well-versed in self-deprivation as he was, he knew as certainly as he breathed that no force of earth could prevent him from claiming the woman in front of him as his own, and he mentally praised and cursed his brother for bringing her into his life.

With all the turmoil his boiling blood was stirring within him, he surprised himself with the gentleness of his next words. “Do you wish to please me?” he breathed softly. Her reply came in the form of her eyes languorously blinking at him while her lips parted even more invitingly. “Show me,” he said simply, firmly placing his engorged cock in front of her mouth.

His hands continued to hold his dick as her clever pink tongue rapidly flicked against his head before the warm, waiting cavern of her mouth engulfed him. She breathed deeply through her nose drawing his unique musk deep into her lungs as her tongue continued to undulate against his smooth shaft. Because of her precarious perch on the chair’s end, she dared not move her hands to aid in her ministrations, so instead, she tried rocking her weight gently back and forth to better access the fullness of his cock. As she rocked back, she was careful to sweep her tongue protectively along the ridge of his head so as not to accidently nick his intimidating girth with her teeth. Because she lacked the use of her hands to help control the speed of her oral worship, she attempted to make up for it by increasing her suction. Even though she frequently got turned on by giving head, she had not gone down on her fiancé in several months: a fact her protesting jaw was intent on making her aware of.

He knew he was a difficult man to go down on because of his size, so he was especially pleased by her enthusiasm for the task. However, his euphoria at the sensations she was producing—sensations he had never felt this intensely before—could not cover up his awareness that her sweeping, darting, massaging tongue and vacuum-suction mouth were starting to lose the coordinated grace and fluidity they had originally displayed. As much as he wanted to force her to finish her performance despite her pain and discomfort, he didn’t want to risk injury to her, or potentially his cock. Thus, in spite of his rational understanding of his actions, it was still with some frustration that he forcibly pushed her away from his dick.

She wasn’t expecting the forcefulness of his shove, so as her mouth plaintively detached itself from his cock, the momentum of his action kept her motion such that she tumbled backward, landing splayed out on her back like a human buffet. While she managed to contain her tears, her voice belied her panic and heartbreak as she desperately whispered, “Master?” As her fear of displeasing him mounted, she mentally berated herself for the ineptness of her oral capabilities. The small, terrified sound that formed the word “Master” in her mouth touched him in a way he no longer believed possible. It made him want to sweep her up in his arms and breathe sweet nothings against her hair, all the while running his hands all over her body. Frankly, the sound petrified him.

His lack of response to her question along with the vulnerability of her position on the chair made her panic spike, but she knew better than to move without his permission lest she displease him even further. If someone asked her at this moment what her greatest fear in life was, she knew it’d be losing this man’s touch forever. Seconds ticked by, unfazed by the private dilemmas paralyzing the two people entwined in the room. Eventually, she no longer felt the intense heat of his body near her legs, and its absence made her want to shrivel up and die: she had failed his test and now he was going to shun her for her incompetence!

Stepping away from her had been wise because it had given him the breathing room—both physically and mentally—he needed to access the situation more objectively. His eyes cautiously swung over to the chair, soaking up the image of her defenseless body demanding he ravage it. He couldn’t deny his sexual attraction to her because it was almost like she’d been specially designed to his specifications. Besides which, he was a carnal creature. Sure, he had developed bonds with various slaves over the years, but in the end, they were relationships about fulfilling mutual physical needs. While he knew of some Dommes who lived with their subs, he had never thought about such an arrangement for himself because he could never picture his subs being in his life for any reasons other than sex. She was different. It wasn’t difficult for him to imagine her porcelain skin intermingled in his daily routine. In fact, even as the thought entered his consciousness, he could envision her porcelain skin wearing his plush terrycloth bathrobe, cuddling against him on the couch as he shared his favorite Sunday funnies with her. Just the idea sent an unfamiliar pang of longing and nostalgia coursing through his veins that he found almost impossible to ignore. It was settled. He would keep her as his own, to do with as he pleased.

With that he silently walked back over to the door, where he’d left his coat. Although he didn’t make a habit of keeping condoms on him when he was without a playmate, he’d picked some up recently in anticipation of perhaps having a meaningless drunken fling after the wedding reception. How fortunate for me, he mentally chortled. As he took the condoms out of his jacket, he was pleasantly surprised to see that his rock hard cock had barely softened despite the seemingly endless introspection he’d allowed himself to engage in. He quickly glanced over at his prize as he dexterously sheathed his thrumming cock, and noticed that she too appeared frozen in the introspective atmosphere. At that thought, his primal instincts began to kick back in—she was his; therefore, he should be the only thing on her mind!

His long strides brought him to the chair within seconds, and as he gazed down at her, he noticed the tension and frustration vibrating off her, keeping her frozen in place like marble. He deftly tossed off his shirt before roughly pushing his jeans down his muscular legs, pooling at his ankles. As much as he wanted to make this first time sensual, the sight of her displayed like some erotic diorama rapidly drove every thought that didn’t involve his cock violently pounding in and out of her velvety pussy now from his mind.

The force of his weight shocked her as he fell on her like a starving man, but soon the shock turned to exhilaration. He was forsaking her! The thought had barely registered in her mind when she felt the undeniable pressure of his impressive girth splitting her apart. His eyes nearly crossed at how tight she was: not quite a virgin, but not too far off, and he was incredibly elated that her molten core had continued to drip even without his ministrations. He shuddered to think about what would’ve happened if he’d forced himself inside her dry.

“Gah, you’re such a wet little slut!” he exhaled harshly as he finally felt the last of his cock wedged inside her vise-like pussy.

“Oh, Master!” she moaned joyously, “I’ve been wanting to feel your cock inside me so badly. Ever since we started talking in here, my pussy’s been drenched in anticipation.”

“I hope you like it rough, bitch, because that’s exactly how I like to fuck whores like you, who’re so eager to spread their legs,” he spat as he began violently thrusting his pelvis against hers.

“Yes, Master, please! Fuck me however you want! My pussy is yours to do with as you will,” she keened.

With that, he ratcheted up his already furious speed as he continued to push her legs both wider apart and further back toward her ears. As much as she wished to drag her nails down his back as a display of her hideous ecstasy from his cock, she was afraid of marring his back or drawing blood, so instead, she dug her nails firmly into the chair beneath her, holding on for dear life as the force of their fucking threatened to dislodge her. She wasn’t exactly sure what happened next, but somehow he’d shifted the angle of her hips, and now the base of his shaft was grinding against her clit with every demanding pound of his cock into her abused core. He sensed the frenzied fluttering of her inner walls, and knew she was about to cum. Vaguely, he thought about pulling out or changing her angle as punishment for orgasming without his permission, but his body rebelled at the thought of having to separate itself from her honeyed depths for even a nanosecond. Besides, it wasn’t like he wouldn’t have all the time in the world to punish her later. Just as that thought cleared his mind, he felt her pussy clamp down on his cock for dear life followed quickly by the type of visual starbursts only brought on by oxygen deprivation—the blissful result of his own orgasm. As his chest fell against hers in a meaty thump, he heard her faintly whisper, “Mine,” before succumbing in a catatonic sleep.

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ปั้มไลค์ wrote

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