A bit harder than most I’ve been writing lately. Male dominant, female submissive. Trigger warnings for sensory deprivation and watersports.

Dinner saw your hands finding me under the table. Toying with me. Checking just how hard I was. But as you “checked the oil,” it was all a game of “prim & proper” above the table. Until minutes passed and you had to check again.

The waiter knew. And you didn’t care. Your eyes had that spark of “trouble.”

“Brat,” I said, signing the charge slip.

You responded by standing & shaking your ass the entire way out of the restaurant, always just a step in front of me.

We enter the hotel room and I pull you into a kiss. With our tongues intertwined, my hand works to the back of your neck, and then into your hair. And when you come up for breath from the kiss, my hand makes a fist, grabbing your hair and forcing you to your knees.

My other hand unzips my zipper and my teased erection strains against my briefs as my covered cock slips out of my fly. You lick through the cloth of my underwear and I throw my head back in satisfaction.

My grip on your hair loosens, for just a second, but that’s enough to have you up & on your feet, dancing around the room, playing a “na na na boo boo” game with my gaze.

But I don’t join in the game. I watch. Glare. Trying to make everything that tonight might encompass evident with little more than my look.

I step out of my shoes and unfasten my tie. I reach out to touch you, but you keep your body just out of reach — you’re watching me, trying to gauge when I might spring to action, paying more attention to figuring out what I might do than to the dance.

You knock over a lamp.

I unbutton and take off my shirt, leaving it over the back of the hotel chair, and then unfasten my belt. With a quick strike, the tail of the belt reaches your left ass-cheek. You jump.

I smile.

I let the belt hit the ground and you lift your dress, shaking your ass in front of me.

I unfasten the button about my waist and let my pants drop to the floor. Slowly, I step out of them and neatly arrange them over my dress shirt.

And then I pounce.

Clad only in my boxer-briefs, I jump across the room and tackle you. I can only assume I caught you in an off-guard moment, or you underestimated my leaping ability, as you offered no resistance. We fall to one of the two queen beds, and I begin kissing you.

As soon as my lips find yours, my right hand grabs your hair, once again, pulling your head back and you break the kiss, gasping. My left hand grabs your right, pinning it above your head. My knee slips between your legs, pressing down on your body.

I release your hair, my hand exploring the goods of the front of your body. You, again, struggle to get out – but I was anticipating the movement and my left hand, simply, holds the hand its holding more tightly. You stop your struggle with a little whimper and a flex of fingers.

I find a zipper under your left arm-pit and push it down to just above your waist. And with that done, both of my hands have your left hand in their grasp, and I’m forcing your left arm out of the dress.

With that done, it’s a simple matter for me to have the dress fall fully to the floor – your bra & panty-clad self on the bed.

Looking into your eyes, my glare in full force, I release your hand with mine, reaching for my tie. Your glare matches mine, but you do not move. “On your knees, pet,” I whisper but there no is immediate movement from you. So I grab your hair and force you to your knees.

And your hands are forced behind your back.

My tie is tied, tightly to your left wrist, before it’s wound around both your forearms and tied onto itself — effective handcuffs.

I tuck both thumbs into the cups of your bra and expose your breasts, letting the garment act as little more than a shelf.

And then I backhand your right boob. Hard.

I expected it to hurt, but I didn’t expect you to fall over. For the second time in the night, I jump, this time, hurdling the bed to catch you as you nearly fall off.

I carry you like the stereotypical groom carrying his bride to an open spot on the floor and place you, gently, on your knees. And then I backhand your left boob.

From every angle, I attack your breasts.

The entire time, you look me in the face. Tears well in your eyes, but you do not cry out (though you’re hardly shying away from wincing). Seeing this, I grab both nipples and slowly start applying pressure. You look at me, defiantly, as I squeeze tighter and tighter.

And you continue to look at me.

And I continue to squeeze harder.

And you close your eyes and cry out.

And I twist your nipples.

And you cry out louder.

And my cock grows harder.

And I release you. And you fall to the floor.

In the moment that I allow you to catch your breath, I walk over to the bed. “Come to me” I say.

And I watch as, your arms bound behind you, you struggle to get to your knees, then your feet, and you walk over to me.

With you before me, I reach out and grab, forcing your body over my lap.

I separate your thighs with suggestive touches from my thumb & middle finger and reach between. “So wet, so very wet,” I exclaim before sliding your panties down. It’s not long after your ass is exposed that your cheeks find themselves just as red as the breasts hanging down from my lap.

After 100-or-so spankings, you cry out and I stop. Reaching, again, between your legs, I part the lips, relishing in the moisture.

Just as your body starts rocking in time to the rhythm of my clitoral rubbing, I stop and withdraw my hand. Your whole body braces for impact, but it doesn’t come. You feel a tug on the panties from your knees and you open your eyes, relaxing your body, and I slide the underwear off your feet.

I pass your panties from one hand to the other and whisper “open up,” and your mouth opens wide.

I shove your underwear in your mouth and deliver the hardest spanking I’ve ever laid upon you.

Again.

And again.

Your body quakes. You cry. But with the gag, you do not cry out.

My cock grows yet harder, now pressing into your torso.

I stand, letting your knees hit the floor once again. I tug at the improvised gag, and you spit it out.

I take my time walking across the room, fumbling with a corkscrew and opening a bottle of wine. I walk back and offer you a sip. You drink, greedily.

“You’re pretty, even when your mascara is running,” I say, admiring the sweaty raccoon-eyes looking back at me as I place the wine glass on the desk.

Barely a moment passes and you blush a bit & avert your eyes. My fingers grasp onto a nipple. “Polite girls say thank you when they’re complimented,” I whisper, harshly, before forcing my own underwear down over my erect member and shoving said member into your mouth.

You’ve always been a wonder with your mouth.

I fuck. Both of my hands find a fistful of hair and force your head back and forth as my hips thrust. I fuck your mouth. Hard.

You nearly gag a time or two, but I do not stop.

It’s not long until I’m blowing my load deep into your throat. You’re swallowing every drop, because that’s what you do.

My limp cock slips from your mouth and stand behind you, releasing your hands. Then I heft you over my shoulder, fireman-carry style and walk to the bathroom, placing you on the shower floor. “Kneel,” I command.

And you comply.

I grab my flaccid cock, aim it in your direction, and pee. The warm stream first hits your chest, and you close your eyes as I take aim and douse your face. You turn your face to the side, and I continue relieving myself. The warm liquid dripping off your face, over your shoulders and chest.

And then the flow stops.

“Clean yourself up, you’re filthy,” I explain, closing the shower curtain and leaving the bathroom.

Seconds pass before I hear the water start. Steam starts to rise from the curtain and I re-open it. Fully knowing you were processing what we had just been through, yet my own perversions were guiding me, fully, by this point, I harshly whisper “I seem to recall telling you to clean yourself, not to dilly dally.” With that, I turn up the shower’s heat to a “just barely bearable” temperature and pour a significant glob of shower gel into my hands. As the water starts to turn the sections of your skin not yet red from beating red, I roughly knead your breasts. Your head moves into the stream of water and your hair is drenched as you cry out as I squeeze the soapy mounds.

But then my hands work their way south, over your belly and to your back-side. A fingertip probes the entrance to your ass and you brace yourself against the shower wall. After a finger-fuck, I’m hard yet again, and I fully step into the shower now. I grab my cock, place it against the tighter of your holes, and thrust my way in.

You cry out and arch your back. I pull your wet hair back and pump into your ass. “You’re taking it like such a good slut,” I whisper. And, as if powered by the encouragement, you begin to ride my dick, meeting each of my thrusts.

Exhausted, I cum, pressed fully into you. And I keep myself pressed into you until I, simply slide out in a flaccid state.

I dry myself as you compose yourself, but less than a minute later, the water is turned off and you re-enter the bedroom, a towel wrapped around you.

“On the bed, now,” I instruct and you drop the towel and lie down, ass-up.

“No, no — I want the other side of you,” I explain, and I flip you over. I arrange your left leg to the side and reach under the bed, pulling out a roll of saran-wrap. I wrap your left thigh three times in the plastic film before throwing the box under the bed, and then wrapping it around your right thigh. From there, the box goes back under the bed to your left thigh, and then your right thigh again before I break the film, keeping your legs parted, your thighs fully immobile.

Moisture glistens on your sex.

I then secure secure your midsection by wrapping the plastic wrap around your left arm several times, over your belly to loop your right arm, back over your belly yet again before going under the bed . . . then over the bed, then under the bed, and then over the bed, keeping your arms to your sides, your midsection held absolutely immobile.

From the bedside counter, I pull out a blindfold, affixing it over your eyes. Into each ear, I place an ear-plug.

You’re blind. Deaf. Unable to move. Your world is, simply, what I might be doing to you, and the anticipation of what might come next.

I pull out a small bottle of massage oil from the bedside table and then kneel between your spread thighs. For the next hour, I let a drop of massage oil fall onto your clitoris and then, with one finger, lightly touch that button with one finger, letting my finger ride the ledge of your clit’s hood, teasing the little nubbin inside.

The pressure is barely there, a drop of massage oil being added somewhat haphazardly — a drop now, three drops a few seconds later, a minute might pass before the next comes.

You moan, loudly, sometimes in deep sighs, sometimes in guttural utterances, throwing your head about. I’m left wondering if you’re even aware of how much noise you’re making.

I simply continue the light touches.

An alarm goes off on my phone, telling me that the hour has passed.

I take your clit between my thumb and forefinger and stroke it.

It’s only a matter of seconds before your body convulses. I hold my fingers against your clit until your body goes back to rest.

I let my fingers leave your body & step back, admiring the sight of you.

I lift your head and re-arrange your hair beneath your head. Keeping you bound, I brush your hair until the brush passes without any resistance.

Carefully, I take a knife and free your midsection before doing the same for your legs. You squirm in the newfound freedom.

I remove the blindfold. Take out the earplugs.

I lift you from the one queen bed, placing you on the not-yet-defiled bed in the hotel room. We climb under the covers and snuggle as I grow hard against your back.