Hands tied behind my back, you smile at my current condition. Hair a mess and clothes disheveled. Pussy wet as hell. But you leave me. The Weeknd begins to blare through our home's speakers. "Just let me motha fuckin' love you."
I shouldn't have talked back, but something in me is rebellious. Something in me wants this. It wants as much as your willing to give me and still begs for the limits we both fear. So I tried you.
And I failed.
Daddy. Daddy? Bad girls are left. Questions unanswered. Peering at our room’s entryway, I quickly try escaping the tie knotted around my wrists. Too silky to hold, it gives with moderate effort. Footsteps. My heart pounds as you get closer to the room's door. Think!
I fall to my knees and crawl to the door, meeting you as you enter. As if impressed, you raise an eyebrow at me. Cream drips down my thigh and onto our hardwood floor. Damn.
“Where the hell are you going? What happened to the tie?” Questions I can’t answer. I just want more.
I reach for your zipper and you grab my hand and push it away.
“I have something better.” You leave me, again, and disappear into the bathroom across the room. Infantile, I sit, legs crossed, on the floor. How obedient. How unacceptable. I rise from the floor and exit the room.
Catching a glimpse of myself in the framed, floor-length mirror in the hall. Red lipstick on your shirt that I am wearing and mascara on my nose and cheek, I examine my current condition
I descend the steps and head to the kitchen. Flowers on the floor, wine overturned, makes maneuvering a task. I grab a cup and fill it with water from the Brita. Cool water harshly greats my throat reminding me of your hand on my face, my ass, around my neck. Reminding me of earlier. After a moment the cool is welcoming to my sore, dry throat. Footsteps. Damn.
You tower several inches over me as you stand at my back. A chill the refrigerated water would shiver at traveled up my spine. As if growing balls as big as the bulge now pressing into my lower back, I curtly reply ‘yes?’.
“What, Bish?” you grab my arm and push me into the adjacent island. “Who the fuck are you talking to?” your hand quickly grabs for my neck, your grip loose, but daring. I want this, so still bearing balls, “you” I respond with a smirk.
Fuck dare, you do. Tighten your fingers around my neck you look at me and in your eyes I see the smallest glimmer of concern. I blink it away. Biting my lip, hoping to brace the pain. I mischievously whisper “Daddy”. You snap back, ready to give me what I need.
Letting go, you use the hand to push down on my shoulder. I know my task. I again reach for your zipper. This time you present no hesitation. Your dick hangs is my face after I pull your boxers to your feet.
“Suck”
My current situation.
- - -
The 10-inch phallus glides in and out of my mouth, the head popping past my lips on occasion. But I still wanted more. Perhaps to impress you. Perhaps to test myself, I clasp my hands behind my back, just as they were earlier. Looking up at you, I open my mouth wider, then move forward until your dick reaches the back of my throat and my extended tongue touches the life- like balls. I smirk, and pull my head back until the head is between my teeth. I was in control. For now.
You smirk too, then grab the back of my head and force your head further in. I calmly take you. I wasn't going to fail, but you weren't either,
“Swallow my fucking dick, Baby.” Your hips push forward as your hand pushes my head toward you. I gag.
And fail. It was the mixture of "swallow my fucking dick" and "Baby". There was something erotic when you combined the harshness of one and the softness of the other. Damn.
Your hand still at the back of my head, you grab at my hair, yanking your dick out of my mouth and me up towards the table. I screamed. Out of shock. Mostly. “Fuck you!”, I yelled. See, you had dick; I had balls.
© 2014 SapphoSoul. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher and author.
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