Male dominant, female submissive, far more aggressive than I’ve been sharing lately.

The door shuts and I’m on you as you take off your shoes. One arm wrapped around you, the other grabbing a fistful of hair, yanking your head back as I trace my teeth down your jaw line and kiss the nape of your neck. As your body grows limp between lust & longing, I continue to force your body down, forcing you onto the ground.

With a knee to either side of your rib cage, I straddle you before releasing hold of your hair. Each of my hands finds your own and I gather them together, holding them both with my left. With my right hand, I reach for the line of your cleavage and, with a yank, as if I were starting a lawnmower, I pull back from your blouse and bra. Your shirt rips. Your bra clasp fails. Your body heaves backward with a violent thrust as your tits are exposed.

Be it the sudden violence or the sudden introduction of cool air on naked flesh, you reach to cover yourself. But I have your hands firmly held. You yank hard with your hands, just to test, but there is no give. And, cooly, I reach out for your right nipple, grasping it between my thumb and forefinger, pinching. Your eyes meet mine and we stare at each other as I increase the pressure. I cock my head, as if inquisitive, watching your face grapple with the pain. Before long, your eyes shut and you let out a moan. I release your nipple, only to grab your left breast in my hand, squeezing with all my might with my fingers.

Your eyes bulge in pain and your hips thrust, trying to dispel me. But I’m quite a deal bigger than you are, my dear, and I stay right there. The moan can better be called a yelp this time, but I’ve released your boob before too long, five angry, red marks left where my fingers were digging in. Your breathing grows harsh.

I leap to my feet, your hands still bound in my hand, yanking you upright. I release you hands and position myself behind you, wrapping my arms around you and kissing the back of your neck. I feel you growing weak in the knees and use that to push you forward, letting you drop to your knees. Continuing to kiss the back of your neck, I maneuver the remnants of your top and bra off and then whisper “put your hands behind you, holding onto each wrist,” before standing.

You comply.

I take your left nipple between a thumb and forefinger, lifting as I twist. Once your twinge turns to a gasp, I smack the underside of your breast, forcing the nipple from my fingers. Once the pendulum swing of your breast stops, however, I have your nipple back again. You whimper, and I repeat the motion.

A tear falls after the second round. After the third you release the hands behind you, caressing your battered breast. You eek out a whisper “I do have two breasts,” and with that, I pinch your right nipple.

“Keep your hands on that tit,” I instruct and then smack your right boob, this time ensuring that I never lose grip of your nipple. It’s twelve quick smacks until you cry out in agony and throw yourself down on the floor.

With your ass to me, I have but a single action to take. I unclasp the clasp at the side of your trousers & let the little zipper down. You gasp as I grab and yank, leaving you nude.

I place an arm beneath your belly and draw you up, lifting you from the ground. And then I’m sitting on the bed with you over my lap, one hand grasping both of yours, behind your back.

*smack*

“I don’t recall telling you to throw yourself on the ground, little one.”

*smack*

You cry something inaudible as I redden your ass. Each smack coming rhymically, every few seconds.

Twenty spankings in and my spanking hand starts to turn numb. I can only imagine the fire that’s has been lit upon your ass.

My non-spanking hand releases your hands and, instead, grabs a fistful of your hair, making you look straight ahead.

Twenty more spankings & I feel a little give under my left-ring finger . . . a small amount of hair has actually come out of your head. Your ass resembles a beet.

“Beg me,” I whisper.

“Fuck me” you scream.

“How?” I question, delivering spankings in faster secession.

“Fuck my ass. Pound my ass.” you scream out.

“My, my – we’ll wake the neighbors,” I say with a bemused tone to my voice and stand. You drop to the floor.

I work my way to my bag and pull out a bottle of lubricant as you kneel over the bed.

I undo my belt and let my pants & boxers drop to the floor. Still wearing my dress-shirt, I squeeze a dollop of KY onto my hand and begin to slather myself up. And then I’m behind you. And then I’m in you.

I do not enter slowly. I am not gentle.

I pump and both hands grasp your hair, creating a BDSM version of pigtails.

Each thrust takes me just to the verge of falling out of that other hole. I know, full-well, that you can feel every movement.

My orgasm comes hard and fast. I fill you and slide out. For a second, I watch white dripping from the nether hole before I smack your already-red ass. The first spanking elicited a shocked gasp — I fear you thought that my orgasm was the end. But, then I spanked again. And again, and again, and again.

You start to kick, almost involuntarily. Your tears come in rivers.

Instead of alternating butt cheeks, I start aiming the line of my knuckles for your crack.

I continue to spank. Hard.

You continue to cry.

Until there is no more cry in you.

And then I roll you over.

Fingertips bite into the flesh of each of your breasts and I pull. You squeal, but there is no protest. I twist the fleshy mounds before me, squeezing as hard as I can. Tears continue to stream down your face, but your eyes remain closed. Eventually, even your squeals stop.

And with that, so do I.

Hours later, you wake in my arms. I’m brushing your hair. You blink, shaking your head from a fog, as if hung-over, but the bottle of wine in the room remains closed. As I brush your hair, I kiss your forehead. You let your weight sink fully into me.

I drop the hairbrush and let my fingers wander down your front. Over the ouchy marks over your breasts, down your stomach, to the mound between your legs. The mound that has, as yet, gone untouched in this encounter.

I part the lips with my fingers. Your eyes were not the only place on you that was moist.

“Every day, I need pictures,” I whisper as my left arm wraps around your middle and my right hand toys with your clitoris.

“I need to see every bruise,” I instruct as my middle and index finger rub your button.

“I need to know what’s sore,” and those fingers split, running down the length of your lips before, again, finding your clitoris.

“I need to know when you need more marks,” I whisper, biting your ear as you climax.

“Yes, master,” you respond.