Fist in her hair, he pushes her backwards across the room, his other hand arcing stinging swats against her tits. They bobble from the blows, she moans. It hurts, with an ache she can’t deny–and yet it arouses. The needy wench inside her that stirs to life at every visit with him uncoils her threads within her until she feels every pulsing panting riot of need. Every molecule sings with it. Every heartbeat reverberates along the prints of his palm on her breast.

He propels her backwards until her back bumps the dining room table. Eyes glowing, he pushes hard until she is fallen across it.

His words, bullet sharp, pin her to the table as effectively as rope.


“Don’t move.”

He moves around the table and she hears his belt releasing, the sound of his zipper stitching downward, the whisper of fabric over skin. Behind her, his hands hook her arms. She is pulled across the table, head hanging off like a broken doll.


One hand fists in her hair as his cock finds her mouth. The other slaps the belt down across her tender belly, her mons, thighs, and tits.

“Open your legs.”

She is reluctant, but his cock lurches forward, stealing her breath. His hand is a fist in her hair, holding her head, her nose mashed against his balls, the heavy smell of man piss an acrid burn in her nostrils.

She can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t swallow. Spots dance, her head seeks freedom. Her legs open, and he withdraws.

She steals a breath, only to push it from her lungs in a scream when the belt lands firmly at that junction of thighs, to that center of tender folded flesh.

Backwards, her mind is thrown, to the day she met this darkly dangerous man.  To the pain and torment and delicious pleasures He bestows.

His cock fucks into her mouth again, grabbing her ears and driving deep, holding, holding. He pulls away, satisfied with her capitulation,  accepting her submission as he uses her lips to harden his already rigid cock.


Dizzy she sits, as he pulls her close to the edge of the table.

“Legs around my waist. Support yourself as I fill you. You’d better be wet…”

Her smile bloomed. This was always her problem, being wet for him. Ever since that first day, that first time, he spoke and she oozed.

He tugged her until the spit-wetted head of his shaft pressed against her dripping hole, tugged her again, impaling her by slow inches, until she was filled with him.

His hands cupped her bottom.

“Legs around. Tighter. You relax, you fall.”

Her arms wound around his neck, as he moved her backwards again, until they fetched up against a wall. He used that momentum to bury himself that last inch into her. Pressing into her deepest space, stretching and filling her completely.

He fucked hard, her back pounded against the wall as he drove into her with hard, deep strokes.

She came, came again, felt her left leg losing strength as he drove her yet again into bliss, felt her body unfolding from his, undone, as the stars called her name.

He staggered with her weight, falling back, and back, until he fetched up against the couch. He fell backward into the soft depths, felt her falling into him, pouring over him, feeling the oxymoron of lovers–so blissfully empty, yet sublimely full.