Resistance

"Turn over so I can flog you," he says. Matter of fact, of course I will obey him, I always do. I am a good girl, a good plaything.

I snuggle closer into his side. "I'm not sure that I'm interested," I say, also matter of fact.

"Oh?" he says, gentle amusement tinging his voice. "So now I'm supposed to require an interested girl? When did that happen?"

"No, no, I mean, I'm not so sure I'm interested in any of it."

"Huh. You mean you just want to be snuggled and loved on?"

"Yeah. We're doing okay like this." Barring the ravaging of my exhausted form several days earlier, we'd been getting by on snuggles, kisses, a brief flogging. My brain was becoming used to it, and I much preferred to just happily exist there rather than to fly off into the stratosphere only to have to come crashing back down.

"You don't get to choose though, do you?" His words drive the nail of desire deep into me, and I whimper, burying my face against his chest. "Do you?" he prompts.

"No, but." I squirm as he lifts my shirt, strokes my back and ass, slaps my ass a few times, lets his hands wander over my skin.

"I can take my shirt off for you," I offer. It's a good shirt; I am afraid he will stretch it out.

"This feels more invasive," he says, clutching me close to him. He's right, it does.

"I can put on another shirt if you wish to be invasive," I say. "This one is actually a good shirt." It matters not if he stretches my night clothes that only he will see me in, my good clothes are another matter.

"I'll let you take it off," he relents.

I sit up and do so, then slide back into his arms. "Thank you," I whisper against his shoulder. He is in the drawer, and he has cuffs. He wraps my wrists in the softness of them, firmly, even as I whimper my complaints.

"You're a complicated girl, aren't you?" he asks softly.

"Am I?" I ask. I know what he means, but it doesn't seem that complicated. Needs not met go away.

His hands are everywhere, stroking, slapping. His fingers wander between my legs, and I close them. "What's this? You think you can hide parts of you from me?" he asks. He is persistent, pushing on my knee as I shake my head. He strikes my inner thigh hard then, raining blows down on my inner thighs alternately, pushing them apart when I try to close them. He rolls atop me, holding my legs open, rubbing the hardness of his cock against my thigh that he had so recently been slapping. The soft cotton of his boxers abrades my abused flesh and I whimper, struggling.

"Is there a problem?" he asks, his voice taking on the tone that tells me he knows full well what my noises are about, but wants to hear me say it.

"It hurts," I squeak out, having become unused to even such a simple phrase.

"Oh, does it hurt? Has your leg gone all sensitive?" he asks mockingly, continuing to slowly press against me there. His hands shove my knees even farther apart and his head disappears under the sheet. His mouth is pressing against my sex, opening me, and then his tongue is inside. I groan, trying to close my legs, arching up to his mouth at that same moment, simultaneously begging him to stop and begging for more. His mouth is rough with me too, his tongue taking me; this is no gentle lovers' interlude, he is proving a point. My thighs fall apart and I move with him. We both already know he has won.

He stops. "Who do you belong to?" he asks, his face coming from under the sheet, hovering over mine.

I clench my eyes shut, refuse to look at him, shake my head. "Nuh-uh," I say. Defiant, even as he kisses me, as I taste my own arousal on his lips.

"Nuh-uh?" He is surprised, astonished even. He slaps my breast once, again. "I said, who do you belong to?"  Two more slaps, harder. "Who do you belong to?"

My resistance, defense from the need, is melting beneath him. "You," I whisper, my eyes still clenched shut. As if not seeing him will make this whole situation cease. It doesn't work.

"That's right," he says, his fingers pinching my nipple, making me arch up into him and moan. "Now why did I have to ask you that three times? I thought this was already established. You are mine." He kisses me again, sliding off to my side, his fingers occupying the space where his mouth has recently been. My hips move with his touch, and he is talking to me.

"What is this?" he asks, a fingertip dragging up through the wetness he has generated, stroking my clit that has been untouched for days. I groan, a deep, guttural sound from some hidden place inside as his slippery fingertip drags across that magic button. My hips move of their own accord. "A wet, horny slut, I have here. You want me, don't you?"

I shake my head, groaning still.

"That's okay, baby, you can say no all you want. Your pussy says something else. What does it say, baby?"

I shake my head, even more vigorously than before. "Nuh-uh," I whisper.

His lips are close to my ear, his fingers sliding inside me. "It says 'fuck me,'" he whispers, his voice causing goosebumps and an uncontrollable moan to come from me, not to speak of the manipulations of my sensitive bits. "Doesn't it? It says 'fuck me, fuck me.' Let me hear you say it, baby."

I shake my head again, but he is relentless. He presses his fingers deep inside, pressing against my g-spot repeatedly, making me groan deeply and curl into his touch. My wrists twist inside the cuffs, over my head. He presses into me until I come, panting, writhing. His voice is in my ear as his finger continues stroking my clit, making my body squirm, making me moan helplessly. "I like to make you come. I like to touch you here, feel you move, under my control with just my fingertip. This must be what it means to have someone wrapped around your finger. I understand it now.."

"Oh, God, fuck me," I beg.

"I'll fuck you, baby. That's what you're for, isn't it? Good fuck toy," he says, his fingers sliding back inside me and pumping away. I groan. "Good fuck hole," he growls, enjoying my responsiveness to his touch, his words. I am melting into him, a puddle of need, the very need that I have only recently banished. I don't care anymore, I just want this. Want him. Want us, entwined, enmeshed. What does it matter at that point which person is owned and which is the owner when both are one?

I am turning over onto my side, rubbing back against his cock as he presses it against me. "I don't know if it will go in there," he says as it presses just slightly into my opening. I am tight still, even after his fingers plundered me. I groan and wriggle my hips. "Maybe I should fuck you some other time," he whispers.

I grunt and shake my head, pressing back against him harder, wanting this now.

"Does your pussy need to be fucked now?" he asks. I moan in response.

"Let me hear you say it," he orders.

It is a struggle to vocalize, but he is requiring it of me and so I manage it, desperately. "My pussy needs to be fucked now," I moan, coupling the words with a little wriggle back onto him.

His hand is on my hip as he plunges inside me; we both groan with satisfaction. "Mmm.. I bet you'd say that more often if you could," he whispers.

"Yes sir," I agree softly, as we move together. Passion flows between us, wrapped up in sex. He feels divine; he is divinity visited upon me. Who am I to complain that I only get such treatment twice a week? Who am I to resist it when it does occur? Selfish, horny slut, that's me. Complicated? Yeah, I guess I am.

"Were you made to be fucked?" he asks.

"Mmhmm," I whisper.

"Were you made to be fucked by this cock?" he asks.

"I am for you to fuck," I pant, my hips moving, hard to speak through the pleasure he is causing.

"Mmhmm, that's right," he approves. He is grabbing my hip, my hair, and slamming into me over and over. I am crying out. Oh, fuck, that feels amazing.

He comes; or I think he does. I am lost in arousal, desire, need. I am not terribly attentive. I am Greedy Submissive right now. He removes himself from me, though, and his hand replaces his cock as I roll more onto my stomach, my head resting against my bound hands. He is still talking; as his thumb presses inside me, his fingers play with my clitoris. I am nothing but sensation; a hole to fill, an ear to torment. My brain reacts, setting my mouth to constant near-scream. He is pulling my head up by the hair. Yes, yes I am a fuck toy, God, yes, a fuck hole. This is what I am for. Nothing else. I was put here for this. Everything else is distraction. This is the distillation of my being.

I am screaming louder as his fingers continue working their magic - his hand is constantly tugging hard on my hair, my head lifted into the air, his words. A scream turns into a deep, panicked groan as my leg starts thumping behind me. "Come for me, slut," he orders, his voice nearly lost in the noises I am already making. That is all - I was approaching orgasm already but at his command it overtakes me. My neck muscles relax, the result being an increased intensity in the pulling on my hair, which makes the orgasm even more intense. I cannot control anything; I am controlled, I am free, I am screaming with pleasure too intense to bear, but bear it I must.

I collapse onto my face, his hands are gentle on my back, stroking my hair. I am softer now, accepting his touch gratefully, melting into him. We are part of each other, as it should be.

Sleep claims me, and when I wake hours later, wrapped in his arms, I am still cuffed.