He fastens the cuffs around my wrists, right one first. I’m right handed, so when my right hand is immobilized I feel immediately restricted, then doubly restricted when the left is immobilized too. He always does the right one first, whether we’re standing or lying, in bed or on the rack.
Today I’m on the bed, face down. I squirm my hips into the mattress, my dick already growing hard because I know that being tied face down means he’ll fuck me after.
He hasn’t blindfolded me but I’m not allowed to look over my shoulder, to turn my head and sneak a peek, so I can only see what he puts into my line of sight. What he puts into it now is a belt: leather, black. His. Not a toy from off the internet, but a functional tool that hugs his body every day, that lives close to the dick I love.
I kiss the belt. Leather has a smell and a taste. It’s a living thing–animal, not plastic or man-made. I wriggle my hips, which are free so he can fuck me after, so he can yank me up onto my knees and drive all the way in, and he laughs. He knows how much I love this.
I don’t need to be able to see him to know he’s hard too, but that’s what he puts into my field of vision next: his cock. And yes, it’s hard. I make my lips into a narrow O so that when he pushes forward, his cocks pops through them like it’ll pop through the tight ring of my sphincter later. We both love that moment of intrusion.
He doesn’t allow me his cock for long, but that’s part of the game. He wants me to beg for it, and I do, but I hardly know what I’m begging for because I do want to suck him, to feed on the fat tip and follow his long shaft with my tongue down to the heavy weight of his balls, but I want the belt too, and what comes after the belt. I want everything he has to give me and mostly I want whatever he wants, so I beg because he wants me to beg and I wait for the belt because he wants me to wait.
The first strike comes without warm-up or warning. He’s a sadist that way. I flinch and scream and roll my ass up and back and any which way to avoid the blows that keep raining down while he chuckles like a boy at his games–all burbling glee. His pleasure intensifies my pain, contrasts to it like ice to a burn, throws my suffering up in stark relief against the backdrop of his joy.
And oh, his strikes do burn. The belt laps like tongues of flame across the lower swells of my ass. It slaps with startling precision against the tops of my thighs. My moans, moving from something-like-pain to something-like-pleasure, and his laughs, as they transition into moans that match my own, play a symphony with the sound of leather against flesh, of flesh against leather.
I mash my face into the sheets we slept on last night, breathe in our joined musk, that smell of home. I grind my hips into the mattress. I’d love to come like this one day from nothing but the way he hurts me, but I know he wants me to save myself for our joining, and so I grind judiciously, pushing back to receive the friction of his strikes as much as I push down to seek the friction on my cock.
I’m almost at the point where pain becomes pain and he knows this, knows me. He eases up, giving me the slow burn now that he withheld at the start. I wish I could see him–endorphin-hazed, high on hurting me, hard and dripping and hungry to be inside me but drawing out the last moments of what we call foreplay. They’re so sweet, these moments.
I can’t stop my hips churning against the mattress and so he leans over me, the first touch of his body to mine as his chest slides along my back. He strokes his hand over my fiery ass and murmurs “shh, shh” against my ear, even though we both love how I whimper. It’s part of our game. We pretend that I’m wretched and that he’s comforting me and that he didn’t cause the wretchedness he’s comforting me for.
Then he slicks himself up with lube. He doesn’t slick me, so it hurts when he forces his way inside even though we’re still pretending that he’s comforting me with those soft murmurs and the tender hands that rub over the hurt parts of me as though they aren’t relishing the very heat they stir.
His cock is a thing that owns me, separate from him but encompassing all of him. Its thickness stretches me wider than flesh can open. It’s a foreign entity, my alien overlord, a conquering force that can only be accepted. It makes me weep with how I have to accept it.
I never cry when he’s hurting me, but this–this fucking–it gets me every time. I bury my wet face in the bed. My wetter cock dangles. It bounces with the motion of ass to groin. He has one hand between my shoulder blades, shoving my torso harder against the mattress, and the other on my hip, holding me, driving me, commanding me.
My orgasm wells up from that place inside me where the head of his cock bruises and batters. It’s formed from the roughness of strong thighs against sore ass, from the smell of slept-in sheets, from the sound of my own cries, from the weight of his hand on my back, from the dirty, awesome sweetness of this gift we give each other.
I come in burbling waves, the semen running out of me like tears, like it’s another thing he forces from me. I don’t own the trickle of white liquid that flows from the tip of my cock. I don’t own the cock that continues to batter me. I don’t own the ass that swallows his load.
But I own him.
He unfastens the cuffs and wraps me up, one arm around my chest, one arm around my waist. He tugs until we’re on our sides, and now he really does soothe me. Now my tears are real, but they’re the good kind, the kind that fall like summer rain on dry ground, and when he says “shh, shh” he means that he loves me, and that he knows he’s doing it right.
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