Don’t let anyone pressure you to do things you do not really want to do just “because a good citizen would …”
Thinking of You.
Every kiss was a goodbye, and she refused to let go of a single one, clinging to it with her teeth, her lips, forcing it to linger and strain, before it snapped away from her. She’d pout and moan, and he’d kiss her again, delaying the inevitable, torturing her anew.
It felt like each time he started to pull away that might be the last time, that trepidation and his penchant for sadism might leave him declaring that was it for the night, that she’d be left frustrated and alone for the remainder. It left her dangling, hovering between the two possibilities, unsure, confused, desperate.
Grateful, too. For each little piece that he gave her, drip fed and stretched thin, letting her wallow in the pleasure of it all when he was feeling generous, only to squirm and whine when he wanted to watch her plead. She could relax, but only for so long.
And then he’d kiss her, that thing that he did just before he was about to do something, just before he was about to end, and the nerves would bounce around her stomach like a ricochet, sure to cause some damage when they stopped.
She loved him for it. She hated him for it. She was his because of it.
He liked her like this, face down and cheek pressed hard against the sheets, forced to halve her vision just to look at him, grab handfuls of bedding just so she wasn’t shoved off the bed. It was more primal, like this, and he was more in control. The press of her rear against his abdomen, as her legs writhed and her arms struggled.
In a way, there was less intimacy, no clinging to one another, no kissing, no grabbing. They weren’t there to make love, instead fucking, that primal force, the detached moment of insertion, penetration over and over again. He could feel her squeeze around him, but he knew she was squeezing for her pleasure, not his. It was mutually selfish, and accidentally enjoyable for the other person.
He didn’t have the breath to laugh, so he grunted instead, one hand sliding down her back, feeling each ridge of her spine before thick fingers slid around delicate throat, and he squeezed. She gasped, whimpering as she struggled all the more, one hand scrabbling at his in a desperate reflex. She was squeezing him harder, now, and he could see her body starting to pulse, getting closer and closer each time he thrust inside.
He wanted to take her breath as he gave her an orgasm, force her to occupy that moment fully, the singular sensation devoid of anything, not even that autopilot of respiration. She gasped a question, something approaching what he wanted, and he gave it to her anyway, breathing a ‘yes’ down into her ear like a threat, and watching her implode from the outside, her entire body lost in the throes of it. He didn’t stop thrusting, didn’t stop squeezing until her scrabbling increased in intensity, and she sucked in great lungfuls of air as she came, his thumb pulsing with each one, pressing to a rhythm found only in his mind.
It was about control, when he took her from behind. About showing her exactly where he was, and where she belonged. About taking the affection out of the intimacy, and forcing her to accept her position. As she came down, he fell beside her, scooping her up into his arms so that her head was against his chest, and they lay there, half dazed.