“Fucking asshole bastard!”
Her head was yanked back by her ponytail.
“Were you talking to me, slut?” His voice was soft, dangerously soft, and amused. He was always most scary to her then. When he was in full control. When she wasn’t. Her heart raced, her breath caught in her throat as her eyes stared into his, as his eyebrow quirked up a notch at her hesitation.
“So, I’m an asshole bastard now, am I?” There was a pause, and she distinctly felt the soft heat of pussy juice trickle down the inside of her thigh. The heat of his breath against her cheek, the weight of his hand at her throat. Her wrists throbbed, wrapped tightly in the leather ties, but she didn’t dare to move. Her heart skipped a beat as his other hand pinched her nipple. He did it slowly, crushing the tiny bud between his fingers as if it were an insect. Her eyes closed as she moaned.
“Am I?” he asked again, a hint of impatience in his voice.
“Yes,” she whispered, “you are.”
“Good girl.” He stepped out of her viewpoint, but she heard the snap of his whip as he chuckled.
“Fucking asshole bastard. Has a nice ring to it, actually, slut.”
She didn’t, couldn’t reply. The stinging blow on her ass stole her breath, and though her mouth opened and closed, nothing came out but a puff of breath.
story writing has taken a backseat to real life lately. I have a bunch of things in my head, and Master’s tale to write (He wants it done well, not raced through to get it done, and has given me another extension…but not for too long), and some old things to finish up…and there just hasn’t been a moment to do anything. This little vignette was born from something aisha wrote about on Monday, about the physical manifestations of arousal when we’re faced with our Top. It’s not too long, and we don’t know much of their story, but I wanted to capture the images before they slipped into the ether.