A bit harder than most of my works. Male dominant, female submissive.

“I need life to stop,” she said, swirling her wine in her glass before her, refusing to look into his eyes. “I need the crazy to stop. I need a moment that stretches into forever. I need…” and then her voice seemed to falter, and she took a swig of wine.

“What was that?” he responded, tracing a finger down the line of her spine, his feet at the base of her bar stool, a smirk on his face.

“I need…I need to not think. I need to not plan. I need to just be. I need to escape,” she mumbled, as she downed the last of her wine.

“And how do you propose we accomplish this?” he asked, his smirk growing with every second. Unlike his companion, there was no hint of hint of nervousness in his voice, though amusement rang true.

“Make me yours,” she whispered as he ran his fingers along the back of her neck.

“I couldn’t quite make that out,” he replied, grabbing a small amount of her hair with his fingers and pulling it back, forcing her head up and making her meet his gaze.

“Claim me,” she whispered, looking into his eyes.

“Louder.”

“Claim me,” she said, loud enough that the bartender turned his head to look at them before he turned back to the close-up tasks for the night.

“Head up to the room, I’ll finish up here,” he said, standing from his stool and reaching for his wallet. She sat, transfixed, her gaze not moving from where she had just been looking at him. She now looked at an picture of Yogi Berra leaping into Don Larsen’s arms, but she didn’t take that picture in. Just what was she getting herself into?

She snapped herself out of her stupor, grabbed her purse, and hightailed it to the elevator. After initially walking the wrong way down the hallway, she u-turned, then spent what felt like forever digging in her purse for the little plastic card key. She let herself into the room, allowing the door to remain ajar behind her, and sat on the bed, unbuttoning the top three buttons on her blouse and spreading her shirt out, making sure “the girls” were prominently on display.

And then, she waited.

He came in and grabbed her hair, bringing her to her feet. His tongue forced her mouth open and then hit bit onto her lower lip. She gasped.

In a single motion, he sat on the bed without ever losing grip of her hair. Within seconds, she was over his lap, and he released her hair. His hands started exploring, looking for the release to her trousers, and he unfastened a button and a zipper along her side. With both of his thumbs, he forced her pants to her ankles before running his fingertips up her now-exposed thighs.

She shivered.

He took a moment to play with the top of her thong before, with both hands, pushing it over the line of her ass. And, without a further hesitation, he smacked her. Hard.

Almost out of instinct, she yelped and threw both of her hands over her exposed bottom.

“No, no, no — that just won’t do,” he said, before standing abruptly, letting her fall to the floor.

From the bedside table, he pulled out a set of handcuffs. “Give me your wrists,” he said, not unpleasantly. She held her hands out to him, and he fastened the bracelets about her, letting the cold metal press against, and then into, the skin of her wrists. He went back to his spot on the bed, but, this time, placing his leg between her arms as he put her over his lap. Her panties laid between her legs, stuck at her knees.

The spankings came hard, but irregularly. He started with three quick swats, his hand spanning both of her cheeks, before stopping, and tracing the outline of the handprint he was leaving. The next eleven came regularly as he alternated between the left & right cheek before him. She writhed, moans escalating to yelps, and his hand met her with metronomic precision.

And then, things turned harder. With each of the next ten blows, he wound up, his hand meeting that spot where leg meets ass, the line of his knuckles lining up with her crack. With each blow, he paused, if only for a small bit, before winding up to smack again. Her yelps turned to whimpers as tiny teardrops formed at the edges of her eyes before they fell down her face. But she did not sob.

His left hand reached into her blouse, into her bra, and pinched her right nipple as he rested her hand on her now, hot ass.

In the respite, he placed a single finger between her legs, allowing it to part her lips. Her netherlips were saturated, and her legs parted at the soft touch.

When the spankings next continued, her left thigh was the target, his fingers keeping contact with the recently-assaulted skin for as long as possible, before he wound up to smack again.

He continued, but pinched harder, as he marked the very top of that thigh’s pair.

When the number of spankings turned to fifty, she sobbed, openly. Her feet kicked wildly, looking for some place to anchor her body. He shifted his body to ensure that they’d not find the side of the bed, or the floor.

And then he smacked, straight down.

Firm blows.

The hardest yet.

As she kicked.

And sobbed.

Tiny, angry red marks started to show up at the main points of contact between her ass and his hand. With each blow, these grew more & more prominent. He started to feel heat emanating from her skin before the blows landed. The stinging in his right turned to numbness.

And he continued to spank.

It was only when she stopped crying out with each that he stopped, and when he stopped, he stopped abruptly. He stood up and forced her onto the bed, on her hands and knees.

He reached between her legs and forced the panties to the floor before unbuttoning his belt and fly.

“Beg me,” he whispered to the sobbing mound of sex in front of him. She did not respond.

He pulled her hair, lifting her upper body off of the bed with his right hand. His left hand reached in front of her and he pressed three fingers against her drenched clitoris. “Beg me” he whispered in her ear, tugging her hair back with each word.

“Please,” she sputtered between sobs, “please fuck me. Use me,” she whispered. And with that, he let go of her hair. She collapsed to the bed.

He grabbed her hips, one in each hand, and forced her body onto his member. He smirked, feeling the heat of her raw ass against his hips as he forced her onto and off of his shaft. What started slow quickly worked to a fevered pace. Her breasts pressed against the bed, and a button of her blouse popped off, as he forced her whole body forward and back – as he kept his own body quite still.

At one point she tried to lift her upper body off of the bed before crying out, her body growing stiff. She collapsed back to the bed soon thereafter. From that point forward, she, simply was a ragdoll.

Before long, his orgasm reached the point of no return, and he withdrew himself from her. As he let go of her hips, she dropped, once again, to the bed. He came, in a puddle, on her back, her blouse having ridden up.

And with that, she fell asleep.

Hours later, she woke. Her clothing had been removed, her make-up washed from her face. A bottle of wine sat, uncorked, on the bedside table next to an empty glass and a handwritten note; “I’ll see you in the morning,” it read.