For Daddy

[FuckFantasy]

[This thread is closed, and intended for Light Ice and me alone. Feel free to watch, but do not, at any point, attempt to join in. My Daddy doesn’t exactly know how to share.]

Men have an uncanny ability to sniff out a woman in heat. Some primal, ancient skill, left over from the days in which mating was a means of survival. The scent of a woman’s desire wafts around her, seeps into her skin like a fine perfume, and sings a siren’s song to anyone within close proximity.

It’s been in my eyes all day, this look of secret, sly lust, just glinting inside twin irises. In the elevator, a man behind me stands closer than usual. Something in the way I strut draws him in, as if he can see beneath my short skirt and watch my glistening folds sully the pristine fabric of my scant panties. He can smell the need for sex on me; he can practically taste it on his tongue. His body heat surges into mine, and if either of us moved a few inches closer, I might have given him more than he could handle. It would be so easy to stop the elevator now and send the poor bastard back out an hour later, sated and trembling, a sad and sweaty mess for his wife to panic over.

But I resist. Only one man can give me what I need tonight. It’s the same man whose calls and texts I’ve been ignoring the entire morning. He’s had to go hours without hearing from his sweet, doting angel. He must be growing concerned. I shop free of guilt, I arrive home energized, and I bathe with a smile on my face. As the sun set sets and an explosion of stars lights the night sky, I dress carefully. A red, French lace basque molds over young, perfect breasts, pushing them together and lifting them up erotically. Delicate satin straps with a bit of pull play up the flawless milky creaminess of baby doll flesh. An accompanying thong nestles between spankable, slappable, grippable cheeks with cock-stiffening allure. Nude stockings with vampish seams stretch over miles of flexible stems, and stay secure with exquisite garters. Black, patent leather pumps adorn my feet, one four inch heel spiking the warm mahogany of the dining room table as I walk on top.

It’s after 8:30 when I hear your key in the lock. The house is dim. Silent. You’ve come home exhausted, stressed, and agitated. You need a warm meal, a hot bath, a listening ear, and a pair of skilled hands to massage the tension from your stiff muscles. You need someone to cater to you: A pretty little thing who will cluck and coo as you rehash your hellish day, someone to administer loving kisses so all your troubles fade away. You need a quiet night so you can have the energy to wake up again tomorrow and repeat the daily grind all over.

I couldn’t care less about your needs.

A crystal glass of heady pinot is my only other accessory as I sprawl out across the bare, solid table, resting on one flared hip. I’ve been sipping slowly, with painted, candied lips. There isn’t any for you. I’m far from drunk, but worlds away from the usual. Sticky juice has been occasionally retrieved from beneath my lacey thong with a graceful middle finger. I’ve been tasting and re-tasting my slick sex for an hour now, in between long, sensuous gulps of crimson wine. I can hear you call my name. I make no attempts to let you know I’m home. Smoldering greens flash in the twilight, catlike and watchful.

You find me at last when the chandelier overhead is flicked on. You’re handsome but mystified. I’m unsmiling as I raise the thin rim of my goblet to plush tiers and take another sip of burning liquor. My voice a throaty interrogation, but the words are clear:

“Where the fuck have you been?”

The ‘eff’ in that wicked syllable is dragged out, the ‘u’ spat with a rising octave, the ‘ck’ delivered like the cracking of whip. The glass is set down, but I don’t move a single muscle from my place atop your table.

 

[Light Ice]

I have always found you beautiful. It is important that I start there because what will follow, what spills from this one moment, may shatter your confidence in just how adored you really are. A kept woman. A doll. It has been my great pleasure seeing that your needs are met and that my house, our evenings, our weekends, our vacations have been little slices of fantasy and romance to indulge the many shades of your feminine heart. I do this because I adore you and because I find you beautiful. It isn't just the dark shine of your hair under the dim light of the chandelier or the feline glint of your eyes beneath dark, tended lashes. The lean line and gentle curves of your body are a dressing to what makes you a darling doll, a sweet heart. A vision.

Your beauty lays in the quickness of your mind and the abundance of your affections. So much love, so much desire, lives there within you. I wonder, often, how you did not burst before we met. I imagine you without someone to lean upon, to trust.

I'd have thought you were joking. Snide, but humorous, were it not for your eyes. Narrowed into angry slits, they cut their way across my face, stern and unabashed with their endless impatience.

Without your eyes, Angel, I would not realize that the table's cleared surface serves as far more then a convenient place for me to stretch you out. It is a sign. It is a statement. It is your appetite, your time to feast, and your night.

I do not recognize the red lace that binds you. Not at first. It is a sultry little wrapping, accenting bountiful breasts and that narrow waist. On the table, stretched out like a blade of long-grass, you allow me to appreciate the true line of your shape. Lazy but confident. Sensual but classical.

The final straw is the wine. The last bottle from a case saved from our very first tour together. A piece of us. An embodiment of the commitment made that day. You drink it with casual arrogance and hold it away from you when idle, as though the emotions swirling in its burgundy waves are prey for you to predate. Cold. Crisp. Bleak.

Yes. The final straw is the wine.

"What the fuck did you just say to me?" My words are flat. They do not rise. Shouting has never been a tool of mine in an argument. I attempt to keep myself reasonable. "You know where I've fucking been. I've been killing myself while you fucking shop."

Spoiled. Rotten. I blame myself as I speak to you, watch your face. I expect to take control, to spark your reason.

"Fuck you. You heard me." You reply.

I don't know why it's enough. A million times after this you could curse at me, degrade me, and I would respond with reason. Rational. Cold, calm, and collected. My anger, even at its worst, would never be an issue on every other night.

But I snap. I unhinge.

It's been a long time coming.

The keen tilt of your head adds a pointed emphasis to your question. It also lets your dark hair sway close to the table's edge so I can catch it, reaching out with uncanny quickness to fist the dark silk between my thick fingers. How many times have I stroked your hair while I spoke of my adoration? How many times have you asked me not to stop until you fell asleep?

I do not stroke it today.

I yank it. Hard. The stretch of it testing the roots, threatening to tear, as I drag your lace-clad body clean off the table and attempt to roughly throw you to the floor. Thoughts begin to come with more difficulty. My mind slips away.

Something primitive comes out to play.

 

[FuckFantasy]

"What the fuck did you just say to me?"

I'm unflinching. You don't scare me in the slightest. The exhaustion on your face is fading into outrage, but my gaze never breaks.

"You know where I've fucking been. I've been killing myself while you fucking shop."

I tilt that darling head. Predatory, wanting to drink in every word, and savor it in the same way I've been swallowing down the last remnants of what should have been an anniversary bottle.

My reply is cold and brittle, shattering the image of red hot dolly all dressed up for play time. That's why it's so fitting when you stomp over, and grab a fistful of glossy jet black silk. Your every movement telegraphs what's about to come, and I don't give you the satisfaction of a sharp, feminine shriek. Something feral leaves my lips instead. It's an acknowledgment of what you've done, a calculated reaction in the form of a low, sharp groan. Pain shoots through my knees as I tumble down onto the hardwood before landing on my side with a thud. I can control my screams, but I can't hide my shallow, labored breaths from you. The wind feels knocked out of me. I lay there on the floor at your feet, rasping for a moment.

"I guess you had a bad day again." It's delivered without humor, devoid of all sultriness. I catch my breath and whip around, pulling myself up as my pulsing scalp lets out a cry of discomfort. Heels momentarily wobble, but I manage to fully stand at the head of the table, your hulking form to my left.

One bare, graceful arm reaches out for my glass. Breasts heave in their mind-blowingly expensive confines. I wonder if I shouldn't tell you how much this exquisite little number cost you today. I mull it over quickly, knowing you'll move for me again soon.

No, I have better ways of putting you in your place tonight.

Lips are pursed at you, the same pair that blew you a kiss goodbye this morning. A fine spray of white, frothy spit is shot into the glass. One hand clutches the stem, as if I'm about to begin swirling the goblet around to allow in air, to let the flavors of our favorite poison find their true potential. Instead I flick my wrist and throw the contents, the liquor and the saliva, right into your livid visage.

Droplets of sanguine red run down your face, looking like blood, smelling of oak and warmth. My right knee throbs, and I lean in casually on one chair to support myself. "I could give a fuck," I add, hissing your name and dropping the glass to the table.

The good girl is gone, and in her place is a seething, wild bitch who won't think twice about knocking you back down the next time you strike.

 

[Light Ice]

There's a moment, fleeting, when everything I see is veiled in a wobbling, shadowed veil of red. It is a snapshot, a flicker, a scant instant before my eyes managed to snap closed to shield themselves from your spitty cocktail. I always took pride in what a bad little bitch you could be. I'd encouraged it in you. Helped you take it by the hair, as it were, and drag it out when the pressures of life outside our little oasis threatened to overwhelm you. A defense mechanism. A means to control. So few would ever expect something so ugly from you.

You're just too fucking pretty.

And that's the problem, I realize. You've become too aware of it. Too acutely certain of the sway those full breasts hold on wandering eyes and just how potent the swish of your hips can be when I'm nearby. My appreciation, more than my work, has been a little too sweet and a little too abundant for your own good. This is going to be a harsh lesson. A hard moment for us both.

I know it because in that moment the wine is a curtain, airborne, liquid stretched by the snap of your wrist before it strikes my face with enough force to knock my glasses sidelong and paint the hard lines of my face...

In that moment you are smiling. Triumphant.

I react without thinking. I'm a rational man. I adore you. There hasn't been a solitary moment I have ever been tempted to strike a woman. Something about you, something about -this-, has broken me down.

The hand in your hair tightens, jerking back, bowing your neck so that your pretty chin is forced skyward.

It's companion, the big empty mitt at my side, paws your face so hard that it knocks spit from your lips and leaves an angry red blush in its wake. It strikes so hard the tremor of impact would certainly have knocked you clear off your feet, lifted you like a doll and thrown you over in a tussle of lace, silk, and hair. But instead, it rocks you against the merciless brace of my hand in your hair, wobbles your pretty little legs on those slutty fucking heels, and leaves you open-mouthed infront of me.

I realize, even as wine drips down the hard, wolfish lines of my face: no man has ever struck you before.

My glasses fall, forgotten. You adored them, you said once. They don't fit me now. I suddenly feel as though I don't need them, my eyes sharpening just fine onto the saucer-wide greens of your own.

"You stupid fucking slut."

My shirt, a Ralph Lauren, was a gift from my sister. It is a ruin. An utter loss. Another memory, another token, that you have seen to rob me of. Why? For what reason? My rage consumes the questions, chews them up. I realize that it doesn't matter and that I don't care, not at all. I do not care that this is the first dress shirt that I have been given, or bought for myself, since I transformed my body from a willowy husk to the powerful mass that it is now.

I'm so strong. You're so feminine. The next action seems natural. The arm whose hand lays buried in your hair swings back, yanking you tight to my side. For a moment I feel your lace-clad breasts heaving against me, lifting and falling with sudden, ragged breathes. I feel your heart thudding relentlessly in your chest, spiking, going up a notch. And then you're gone. No longer there.

Because I've thrown you out of the dining room and into the living room like a rag-doll, watching you strike the end of the chaise and go toppling over it, landing hands and knees with that perfect ass up in the air.

"Get in the bedroom." I order.

I cannot see your face but I know what is coming. Defiance. The game is deadly serious now. I know it. Sense it. But even now, even as anger runs hot through my veins and pounds behind my ears, my prick hardens. Steadily. Creeping down the leg of my khaki's, outlined clearly in the fabric. It is the realization that I want you, that I still want you so badly, that shatters my thoughts for a second time.

I am fucking livid.

"You ungrateful, rotten little bitch."

 

[FuckFantasy]

I remember a time, long ago, when I challenged another man to wipe the arrogant smile off my pretty little face. I remember being confident that I would enjoy whatever rage he threw my way, that he couldn't possibly hurt me to the point of breaking me down.

Be careful what you wish for. It's a calm, collected thought that rings out amidst the frenzy of agony screaming inside my head. Kohl-lined eyes scan wildly for yours, meeting you in a sideways glance. I'm being dangled by inches of my own hair. Come-fuck-me pumps, ones I've worn a half dozen times to seduce and tease you before, scrape listlessly against the floor, my knees buckling, hands swinging this way and that. I'm trying to grab for your stained shirt, pull myself up against your broad shoulders, anything to steady myself.

I start to stand and your palm cracks the flawless curve of my cheek until I see spots. Streamers of spit fly onto your button-down, mingling with wine droplets. You wore it on our first date. You'd made my breath catch in my throat, you'd been so clean-cut and handsome. My vision clears and I look at the shirt again. It's garbage now.

I'm not sorry.

"You stupid fucking slut."

The throb of your cock could never go unnoticed. Not even when pain this fierce sets my head aflame with heat, or when I'm shrieking so hard I let out a small cough. Breasts rub against your chest, and I wonder if wine stains will show up on the ornate lace cups tomorrow. I don't have long to think about it.

"Oof!" I land clumsily, the chaise softening most of my fall, but the quick tumble over making me gasp. Hands fly out in front of me, automatically, trying to catch myself. One wicked pump goes sailing over my head and I narrowly miss landing on the narrowed heel.

"Get in the bedroom."

I can't talk. I'm the queen of snarky comebacks and sharp-tongued retorts. We've spent hours talking cattily and laughing gleefully, as I've revealed my caustic side within the comfort of our shared adoration. I want to say something biting, but my throat is burning.


"You ungrateful, rotten little bitch."

The other heel is kicked off. I grab either shoe in my hands, stand up and walk on trembling legs to the doorway of the dining room. I'm a mess already. Hair disheveled, face cherry red on one side, the straps of that darling lingerie falling off narrow shoulders. I stand in stocking feet, greens boaring into your hazels from across the way. I don't need to speak a word tonight - the fire in my face is the most cutting insult of all.

Bring. It. On.

My body twists and I send a spiked heel flying towards your head, extending my arm as far as it will go. It flies over you, slams into the wall, and falls down to join your broken glasses. An ugly, black scuff mark now wrecks the once smart paint job.

A low, feminine grunt escapes my lips while you barrel towards me. I won't miss again. The second shoe is tossed with more precision, whacking you in one shoulder. I don't wait around to see your reaction.

"Next time, hit me like a real man would."

And then I flee, running back through the living room on unsteady, slippery feet.

 

[Light Ice]

Long legs. You have such gorgeous, long fucking legs. They cut out before you and part the air, stocking-clad feet slicing down onto the floor with a dancer's precision. You do not slip once. I could watch you run all day long, I realize, because in that feral moment of fight or flight there is something pure, beautiful, and athletic about the way you move. New. Something I've never seen before.

But I am not appreciating it as much as I could because I am after you, faster. Stronger. There is some small part of me that recognizes that I should have caught you in three strides, not seven. The precise number noted because already, even in this short distance, my right knee begins its quiet protest against the movement. Bone on bone. A dry, metallic grate. The pain of the heel striking soundly against my shoulder is comical compared to this.

When I do catch you it's by your hair, again. I have loved this mane for so many reasons, for so long, that it is familiar in my fingers now. There was a night, a particularly wicked night, when saddled between my thighs your lips descended on my prick with sultry, sweet rhythm. A slick, wet suckling that drew from me one of our most impressive climaxes to date. It ripped from my prick with such force that a great deal of it splattered and splashed in the dark silk of your hair, streaking it white. You'd laughed lovingly at the time. Proud, I think.

Planting my feet, I let nature take it's course. That brief instant before you truly realize how thoroughly you are caught is enough, enough to keep you from planting your own little toes into the hardwood and stop yourself from finding the end of your leash.

You scream. It is not pretty.

Those long legs keep going. Momentum. Brutal, pure, and physical. They kick out as your head yanks back so hard I wonder if I've killed you, broken you beyond repair. The lace that you wear heaving, straining against your breasts, as the force of the sudden stop arches suddenly and ferociously through your body. Hit you like a man would?

Strike you?

Ruin that gorgeous face?

Never. Not ever. There are other ways to wreck what is, to me, the most beautiful thing that I have ever known. Cruel, self-satisfying ways that will come tonight as easily as anything.

For now, you flop at my feet, hands clawing at mine, trying to relieve some of the pressure on your scalp. I cannot imagine the burn. The sparks that shoot down your scalp somehow tangible to me through my rough fingers. I could indulge in this, dangling you, a shrieking mess of woman.

But I do not. I drag you to the ottoman and sit, feeling your feet kick at the floor in a desperate attempt to free yourself.

"You want to address me, you silly bitch, you call me Daddy. Until you get that much right, we're going to sit right fucking here."

Well. I sit. You get dragged over my lap like a child. I can feel the soft valley of your belly across my thighs, hear you, wild like an animal, as I pacify you with vicious little clenches of my fingers in your hair. The basque does nothing to protect you. Not that much could.

-SMACK-!

The first crisp clap of my palm to your ass rocks you so hard into my thighs I nearly send you clear over them, heaving that deliciously soft cheek up. Another, more violent the first, finds its twin. The flawless globes already glowing a scarlet, darkening as strike after strike lands. I wonder if I can turn that flawless cream to crimson, match the lace of this gorgeous thing that you have bought yourself.

"Listen to me, girl." I say. Aware my voice is low, quiet. I realize that I really believe what I am about to say. It chills me. "There is nothing you can say, or do, to keep me from hurting you tonight."

I wrench on her hair, force her chin to lift, force pain to light through her scalp in time with the next series of swats. Ten. Fast. Hard. Like a machine-gun against her tender flesh as my rough fingers and calloused palm do the work no belt, no whip, no chain could ever do. The strength of the blows vibrates through my arm, into my shoulder, ripples my powerful chest. My shirt tears at the armpit, unable to handle how wide my swings are becoming.

And still, it's not enough. You're not ugly enough. The shrieking, battered mess that I am turning you into is not enough to keep my prick from throbbing painfully under you. The great length, the tremendous thickness of it, jabbing into your belly. It is more the menace then my hands could ever be.

 

[FuckFantasy]

I’m flying. I’ve never run so fast before. Legs that have coiled tightly around your waist in the most intimate of moments carry me like lightning towards the entrance of the foyer. An electric thrill rushes through me: You’re coming for me, and I’m just narrowly escaping you. If you could see my face, lover, you might just be amused at how wide my green stare is, how a small smile of disbelief begins to tug at the corners of wine-stained lips.

You might just stop dead in your tracks, if you could see how much I was enjoying the little game I’ve initiated. My favorite part of any film is the chase scene, and so far? I’m winning.

I’m about to leap over a low end table and make my way to the next room – I can do this. I feel my body begin to propel itself up when everything begins to abruptly rewind. I’m still running, still jumping, but I’m going backwards, and my view of the stairs and front door is suddenly cut away. I don’t understand at first. Adrenaline blocks out pain at the most curious of times. Then a blood-curdling scream escapes my once smirking mouth, announcing the torrent of spasming jolts on my scalp.

Shimmery stockings begin to slide across the thick carpet as you yank me back, sending waves of heat through my soles. I remember the tiny rug burn on my knee from our rough housing a week ago. You had let me win after wrestling on the floor, my delighted laughter punctuating our every playful tumble, twist, and turn. ‘Do you surrender?’ I’d asked smugly, straddling your chest and whipping the glasses off your chiseled face before slipping them onto mine. Your smile was adorable, even cuter than your begrudging admission of defeat.

I won’t be returning the favor tonight.

I remember a dance scene in a film, where the male partner had grabbed his woman by the hair and slid her across the floor, her hands resting atop his head while he dragged her neatly. I’m not nearly as elegant in my movements. Razor sharp nails claw at your fingers, while animalistic groans interrupt your calm, rational directions.

Daddy. A word we’d stumbled over together one torrid, lust-driven night. No one had called you that before, and no one had really allowed me to say in a way that meant possession for both of us, rather than for you alone. A drawled, two-syllable nickname I loved to use as a means of boosting your ego, goading your desire, or simply illustrating my affection. You never have to ask me to say it; it’s something I give willingly. But because you want it tonight, I will deny you as long as possible.

Even when you stretch my half-naked build across your powerful lap, I won’t give in. My ass rises up voluntarily to meet the palm of your hand: I want you to spank me. I need you to. When the first thunderous crack sends welts across my firm flesh, I writhe hard against your thighs, and jostle that stiff erection. Another blow, and the feeling of my lovely thong riding up those melon-sculpted cheeks, fabric twisting roughly between the soaked – oh, so deliciously soaked – folds of my hot slit. Teasing my clit, making my pussy ache for the fat, eight inches of prick throbbing beneath me.

“Big!

CRACK

“Strong!”

CRACK

“Hockey!”

CRACK

“Player!”

It’s a mocking cry that doesn’t last for long. Your slaps start to grow rapid and all I can do is scream a high-pitched chorus of “Ow, ow, ohhh, ungh, OW!” as calloused palms destroy my perfect skin.

But then I get an idea. That’s what you love about me, that my mind is always working, and I’m far too stubborn to ever quit while I’m ahead.

Hands reach up and pull down the arm whose fist is curled inside my wild mane. A few ringlets momentarily block my view, but I don’t really need to see what I’m doing, so much as feel. I twist my head into your palm and bite down on your forearm. The pain surges through my head, and I can feel a few strands of wavy brown snap, snap, snap into your fist. But somehow I can take it, because my incisors are digging into the exposed flesh of your toned limb, with growing, alarming pressure. The sadist in me loves the sudden calm that goes through my body, and I can feel my power growing, as we both realize how deep my teeth are inside your sun-soaked flesh. When your spanks cease and your voice begins to cry out in pain, I arch my back up and pull away from you. I’m cussing, spitting, growling, and then throwing you, the strongest man I’ve met in ages, backward against the coach with all the force I can muster.

“Do you surrender?” I hiss sarcastically, straddling your lap, pushing you by the chest, and digging the manicured nails of one hand into the side of your neck.

 

[FuckFantasy]

-----

 

[Light Ice]

I know this place. Nails, small fingers, but mostly the brace of your sleek thighs. There have been long nights on this couch, just like this, sans nails and teeth and spit and wine. Once, not long into this thing that we share, you rode me so slow we were both a shaking mess at the end. I came silently, teeth gritted, prick flexing inside the tight grip of your body as your hips danced. The molten heat of my cum flooded you and you slept against me with it still inside you, seeping out. A small, sultry reminder of what had sent you to your dreams.

Surrender, you say. Yield. A vicious little grin painted on the soft pout of your lips. Lethal. Feral. Mocking.

I reach with the arm you've bitten. A welt grows along the smooth skin around the angry, white-red marks of your teeth. Enough to make my call out. Enough to break my grip on you and give you the chance to pin me this way.

For a moment I indulge. I cannot help myself. It seems no small irony that the woman that I adore, this sultry little doll whom ordinarily could find your littlest of whims tended to, was now a roaring little wench. The heat from your body poured into mine, through the thighs of my pants. It drives me to distraction. It takes away from the work of that hand as it closes around your throat.

The column in my grip is perfection. Creamy skin. Long and feminine. I have kissed it a thousand times and caressed it nearly so. Today I crush it, close it. My strong fingers constricting as the golden-green hazel of my eyes finds your own.

"On your knees."

Outside the world is dark. Here it is darker still. The night slips down as I let my hands do what your body seems built for. A hand in your hair and the other with you, guiding you to your knees. My features cold.

And still, beneath you for those last few seconds as I attempt to smother Daddy's Little Girl with the vice-like grip of my two hands.

 

[FuckFantasy]

For the first time, those glittering greens widen in something other than excitement or rage. A meaty thumb presses into the hollow of my throat, and you couldn't even call me compliant when I move for you. I have no choice but to go down on my knees before you.

The truth is that your cock is calling my name. I've fantasized about it all day long. Its girth and the way it feels freshly shaved against my bare, sweet cunt was what drove me to drop hundreds of dollars on the salacious lingerie barely clinging to my curves. I wanted you to lose control, physically, emotionally, mentally. I wanted to tap into your coldness while stirring up the molten lava of your desire.

Your hand around my throat leaves me momentarily obedient. A breathy, shocked gasp fills the air between us. Beautifully made up face twists in pain, orbs bulging, knees bending to accommodate your steely movements.

"Daddy?"

A soft whisper. A break in my wantonness? A flag of surrender? You allow me to settle on my knees, and when your fist begins to soften its grip, just slightly, that's when the sneering grin returns.

"Go fuck yourself." I stare up at you, not in devotion or adoration, as I've done so many times before, knowing how much you love gazing into my eyes while I service your hot shaft. Challenge, like never before, settles within my glinting pair, before I reach up and begin squeezing your thick bulge with one greedy hand. Harder, harder, not stroking - fingers just digging in and pressing, roughly.

 

[Light Ice]

-SMACK-!

It surprises me how easy it is for my hand to arc down, cut the air, cut the space between your flawless cheek and my calloused palm. An instant. A harsh, brutal moment that serves to punctuate, if anything, just how far gone I am. The slap jerks your head wildly to the side, dark curls flying, leaving your face red-streaked and slack-jawed. I am aware, looking into your green eyes, that I have nearly put you out. The nasty glint you'd harbored there for me is now a fuzzy, dull and unfocused haze.

Your lip has split. A single drop of blood wells along the swollen pout.

Some part of me recognizes just how fucked this is. It screams, even as I reach for your slender wrists, that striking a woman is an act a million times beneath me. Wrong. Evil. Your body is limper now, if only for the moment. Compliant by default. Even the small hints of doubt and regret do not keep me from binding your hands behind you, above the delicate small of your back. My belt rasps when I drag it from the loops, singing sadistically as it slides free. The leather is tight and strong, cuts into the soft cream of your skin where I circle it around.

I have to bind your hands. The tightening grip of your fingers did not escape me. The sensations, powerful sensations, of your digits crushing along my impossibly hard prick made it a necessity. You are teetering on your knees. Drunk from the impact of my slaps.

I bring you back forcefully. Tighten my fingers in your hair. For a moment your face remains serene. Passive. Dazed. Looking into those elegant features, reddened as they are, it's easy to see that Megan Fox has nothing on you. Nothing. Raw beauty, pure beauty, is as rare as it is precious. Any other day and I'd tell you so. I'd stroke your cheeks with my strong fingers and remind you of what it meant to be adored. What it meant to adore.

But not tonight.

Instead, I silence the devil that resides between your pouted lips. That voice. Sinful. Wanton. Educated. And tonight? Insufferable. I smother it with the fat and spongy crown of my prick. I smother it by stuffing your face with the hard length of my cock, forcing it along your soft tongue.

And you look up at me, slack-mouthed. Refusing to suck. Defiance once more sharpening in your eyes.

"Fine with me, bitch." My voice is a low growl. It frightens me.

Strong hands tighten on your cheeks, fingers curling under the delicate bones of your jaw. Holding you. Pinning you so that when my hips ram forward the hard length of my prick punishes your throat, stretching it, burying itself deep while your eyes tear up and salty sweetness begins to run from the corner of your eyes.

I do not relent. I hold you on my shaft. Strangle you. Choke you with my cock meat.

I wait until your eyes roll back and you go limp before withdrawing, leaving you gasping raggedly, trying to stay conscious.

Only to claim your throat again.

"I would remember how to suck Daddy's dick, slut. I'd remember before he chokes you to death on it."

 

[FuckFantasy]

I have the distinct feeling of spinning and tumbling. I can feel my head roll back; I can sense my body falling into the deep, quiet stillness of unconsciousness. And then a dark, dim image appears before me: Blond framing a misshapen blur of a face. A violent pull at my scalp and someone lets out an abrupt gasp of splitting, pleading pain – it’s me. I haven’t fallen, I haven’t slipped. I’m on my knees, swinging down then up again, and suddenly all your chiseled features snap into focus before me.

What’s truly terrifying is that I could see your rage before the darkness even managed to clear.

‘Fucked up’ doesn’t even begin to describe the nasty tableau we’ve created on the living room floor. Red lace cups of that extravagant lingerie have slipped down, and those bouncing, outrageously soft breasts have spilled out. When a mitt-sized hand twists into those tousled curls and yanks my body forward with a lecherous driving stroke, the tits bounce and slap together. Lewd skin smacking choruses in time with the sickening sound of cock being force-fed between lips that just can’t seem to wrap around the insistent head. The metallic taste of blood hits my tongue, further provoking my gag reflex – as if the eight inches of mind-blowingly stiff fuckmeat being forced down a sylphlike throat weren’t enough. Mascara-streaked tears run down the glowing red and swollen cheeks of a once porcelain face. I’m so completely dizzy, that I don’t realize my hands are bound until I reach up to wipe my face. I twist, and then gag, with a macabre wretching sound that bounces off the walls and reverberates inside my pounding, rattled head.


"I would remember how to suck Daddy's dick, slut. I'd remember before he chokes you to death on it."

I’m high on hatred then. Breath comes in nasally, desperate pants through that upturned nose, and those dilated greens begin to glower and narrow. If fire could blaze out of them, and if venom could pour from my tongue, I’d still find another way to hurt you even more. Bottom teeth give the most gentle of scrapes down the underside of that pulsing cock. When you yank my head back to release me, I gulp down air like water, and haphazardly spit fresh saliva at the swollen red and purple of the head.

“Shove it in,” comes a drugged up sounding groan from my bleeding, bee stung lips. A rumbling growl is your only reply before you ram your hips against my face, fresh tears running down dramatic cheekbones as I choke on another mouthful of steely lust. Nails claw at the leather of your belt, and I fight you on my knees, gagging and tilting my head slightly to one side while struggling not to black out again.

The slut in me always wins out. The resilient whore beneath the elegant visage you so admire is completely calm, amidst the hysterical, muffled moans and cries of panic. I can’t resist your dick, and I can’t fight back my natural, wicked cravings for cocksucking and cum swallowing. When you throb inside my mouth, you groan, cursing under your breath and steadying my head with a flat palm on top of silken brown. That’s when I can pull back, slightly, and begin to service a more manageable four inches instead of the entire length of that pussy stretching monster I’ve always worshiped and adored.

“Mm, mm, mm.” Rapid, animal sounds from a girl that’s been inoculated with cock, forced to cool her hateful fire into a subservient smolder. Lips smack and suckle a tight ring around that bulbous head, and this time I don’t need your help when another few inches slip down my tongue, to the back of my throat. The sensation is slowly coming back into my face, and I fear bruises and scratches tomorrow. But those glittering eyes, with a diamond-like clarity from those glistening tears, stare up at you, focusing, searching, watching. Shoulders are pinned back and firm young fuck flesh is on proud display in the form of two round globes jiggling with every bob of my head. I pull back after you’ve started to relax just slightly.

“Like that, Daddy?” Submissiveness, for the moment. I won’t piss you off again – at least not yet. I speak my little line and then it's back to capturing your fleshy spear back between my lips. Slippery sweet tongue circles ‘round and ‘round, before digging at the slit, outlining the dome of the head. Your fingers yank on my scalp. “More, you stupid fucking bitch.” I reply with a high-pitched groan, shaking my little head to wriggle more dick back inside, looking every inch the depraved slut you jokingly called me the night before.

But I’m a Delilah on my knees. I’m biding my time. I'm taking your power. And I’m enjoying being caught, bound, and facefucked, as every inch of my skin screams for more of your exquisite abuse.