I am hurt, angry, and feeling neglected, so I lash out, hurling complaints and demands at you. No matter what you say, what you do, how you hold me, my anger grows. I can see your face tightening, your expression becoming distant and angry, but I can’t stop myself.
Finally, exasperated with me, you sit up on your heels, arms crossed, mouth tight.
“Stand up,” you say, your voice cold and hard.
I stand, still crying.
“Take off your bottoms,” you order next. I ignore you, so you repeat yourself.
“Why?” I ask, sobbing.
“Do it. Now.” Your voice brooks no disobedience. I finally take them off, still radiating anger and defiance even though I’m obeying your command.
You grab the back of my neck and push me face-first against the wall, gently but firmly. You hold me there, your grip on the nape of my neck strong, commanding, masterful. You lean in close to my left ear and growl, your voice deep and menacing:
“When I tell you to do something, do it.”
I shudder, turned on by the rough hand on my neck, but still angry and hurt. It’s confusing to me and I don’t know what to do, how to respond to it.
“Lift your nightgown.”
I comply, reluctantly, and you pull my silky panties up out of the way, baring my buttocks. Your other hand is still holding me tight against the wall. You press your body against mine; I can feel your cock nestling into my ass.
“Stop crying,” you order me, but I don’t. I can’t stop it now, even if I wanted to, and I don’t, really, because I want you to know.
You whisper in my ear, and it confuses me again, how a whisper can be so soft and quiet, and yet so full of danger:
“Stop crying, or I will give you something to cry about.”
Of course, this makes me howl, and your response is swift and punishing, a harsh swat. I wail, and you spank me again. I sob helplessly, another swat. Another wail, another swat. I lose track of how often you spank me, deep into my wailing and keening. Then it stops and I gradually come back to myself.
“Strip,” you demand with that growl.
God, normally I would love this, the dominance in your voice, your hand hard on the back of my neck; but tonight, it just adds to my misery, and I find myself completely frozen, unable to comply. Another hard swat, the penalty for disobedience. I jump, then slowly pull my nightgown over my head, shimmy my panties down to my ankles, and stand with my head down, a submissive pose despite my reluctance to obey you.
Your hand turns me around and propels me forward until my knees hit the mattress. I crawl onto the bed, slowly, feeling no joy in my submission. “Down,” you say, with a light push on my shoulders. I kneel down in a presentation pose, your favorite for spanking me. I know what’s coming, and I wince, waiting for the first blow.
Instead, I hear you opening and slamming drawers. I flinch at the sound, at the controlled violence in your movements.
“Where are the floggers?”
“In the toy bag,” I sniffle, “under the bed.”
You are angry, really angry, I hear it in your voice. You’ve never hit me in anger or spanked me in punishment and I’m scared. I continue sobbing quietly. I don’t want to, I’m afraid of making you angrier, but I just can’t stop. And the fact that I can’t stop, that I’m probably making you angrier, just makes me cry harder.
You swat me again, hard, with no warning or warm up. I shriek and scream. Another blow, and I jump and move my legs closer together.
“Keep position,” you snap. I move them apart again, slowly, dreading what will come next.
“Next” turns out to be the heavy flogger. Christ, you can make it sting when you want to. I scream and cry and plead with you through a few fast blows–five, maybe ten. I kneel in the silence, sobbing, apologizing, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me.”
“I’m not mad at you,” you say. But I don’t believe you. And you know I don’t believe you, 15 years have taught you how to read me, but you also know at this point that nothing you say will convince me.
You push me forward, across the bed, and shove my knees farther apart, and I feel your cock just outside my entrance. Then you’re in me, taking me, hard and fast, and it doesn’t hurt but I cry anyway, because that’s all I seem to be able to do at this point. You set a demanding, punishing pace but I stubbornly stay still. I don’t want to enjoy this, I don’t want to respond, and I try my hardest not to, but it just doesn’t work. I was wet when you went in and I can feel myself getting wetter, expanding, stretching to accommodate you, and my mind, my traitorous mind…my mind finds it incredibly arousing that you are taking me like this, taking what you want when you want it, using me, because you can, because I belong to you, because you own me.
I feel myself start to rock a little, and I feel betrayed by my own body, which insists on enjoying the fucking machine you have become. You hit bottom, hard, and I gasp and lurch forward. You pull me back, hit bottom again, and I moan and thrust back, fighting it but losing the battle. After that you hit it with every stroke and I push back into you, helping you to ram into me harder, and I gasp and moan and the feeling keeps building, keeps building deep down in my cunt, the darkest recesses, pleasure and pain together so overwhelming that it takes my breath away. Lust, desire, arousal, submission, they swirl together to create the perfect storm and the pleasure is too much, too strong, too glorious and you plunge into me one more time and push me over the edge, and I come. I stop breathing for just a moment and then I moan, the sound skirling up into a helpless, ecstatic cry of relief and amazement and I’m mumbling, “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god…”
You grab my hips and pull me back onto your cock, hard, so hard I can feel your pubes brushing my ass, and again, and once more and you come too, explosively, rocking me so hard I nearly collapse under you, and still you pump into me until finally, with one sharp jerk, you hit bottom once more and shudder to a stop, gasping, doing that all-over shiver you do when it’s really good. I feel you collapse on me, your chest blazing hot against my back, your cheek on my shoulder.
We pant together, both of us exhausted and wrung out. You ask me quietly, almost gently, whether I feel better now, and that’s when I realize that I’ve stopped crying. I understand, finally, that you weren’t mad at me after all. I have begged for a rough scene, for menace and danger and a hard master, and tonight, when I needed a reason to wail, to scream, to let out all the bad feelings, that’s exactly what you gave me. And the catharsis has left me calm, peaceful, and soothed, the emotional distress gone.
You gave me exactly what I needed, before I even knew that I needed it, and all that is left is joy, and the knowledge of your love for me.