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By *ikeEx OP Man 15 weeks ago
Near Alfreton, Derbyshire |
He pulled back from the kiss, their breath mingling in the quiet space between them. The anger was still there, a low hum beneath the surface, but it was joined by something else now—a fierce, possessive need. A need to reclaim, to rediscover, to know every part of her she had kept hidden.
His hand moved from hers, tracing the line of her jaw, his thumb brushing over her lips. "Show me," he whispered, the words a command and a plea. "Show me everything."
Her breath hitched, a flicker of fear and excitement in her eyes. She stood up, her movements slow, deliberate, and held out her hand. He took it, letting her pull him to his feet and lead him towards the bedroom.
The room was dark, the curtains drawn, the only light a faint sliver from the streetlamp outside. She let go of his hand and turned to face him, her silhouette a familiar shape in the gloom. She reached for the hem of the hoodie, pulling it over her head and letting it fall to the floor. She stood before him, naked, vulnerable, her body a landscape he thought he knew, now filled with uncharted territories.
She knelt on the edge of the bed, her back to him, and looked over her shoulder. The large tattoo across her back seemed to shift in the dim light, the bat at the top a sentinel, the geometric lines around her spine a cage, a sigil. He had always seen it as art, as a part of her story. Now, he saw it as a map. A map of her resilience, her pain, her desires.
He moved behind her, his hands resting on her hips, his thumbs tracing the curve of her lower back. He could feel the subtle tension there, the familiar ache of her condition, but beneath it, something else. A tremor of anticipation.
She turned to face him, her hands reaching for the button of his jeans. Her fingers were deft, sure, as she undid them, her gaze never leaving his. She pushed them down, along with his boxers, her hands wrapping around his already hard cock.
She leaned in, her tongue tracing a wet path along the shaft, her lips closing around the head. He groaned, his hands tangling in her hair, as she took him deeper, her mouth hot and wet, her movements practiced, confident.
She pulled back, her lips glistening, and looked up at him. "You wanted this," she said, her voice a low, husky whisper. "You wanted me to suck your balls."
She didn't wait for an answer. She lowered her head, her tongue tracing a delicate path over the sensitive skin, her lips closing around him, her mouth a warm, wet haven. He gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily, the sensation overwhelming, a pleasure so intense it was almost pain.
She worked him with a skill he hadn't known she possessed, her mouth and hands moving in a perfect, synchronized rhythm. He felt himself getting closer, the tension coiling in his gut, but he didn't want it to end. Not yet.
He pulled her up, his hands cupping her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. "Not yet," he said, his voice rough. "I want to see you. All of you."
She lay back on the bed, her body a pale, beautiful canvas in the dim light. She reached for the nightstand, her hand closing around a bottle of lube. She squeezed a generous amount onto her fingers, her gaze locked on his, and reached down between her legs.
Her breath hitched as her fingers circled her clit, then moved lower, one, then two, disappearing inside her. She arched her back, a soft moan escaping her lips, her body a symphony of pleasure.
He watched, mesmerized, as she prepared herself for him, her movements slow, deliberate, a silent invitation. He moved over her, his body covering hers, his hand replacing hers, his fingers slick with lube, with her.
He started with one, then two, then three, his movements slow, careful, watching her face for any sign of pain, of discomfort. He saw only pleasure, only a desperate, aching need.
"More," she whispered, her voice a ragged breath. "Please."
He added a fourth finger, his knuckles pressing against her entrance, the stretch a delicious, burning pleasure. He could feel her muscles tightening around him, her body pulling him in, demanding more.
He tucked his thumb, his hand forming a cone, and pushed. Slowly, carefully, he watched as his hand disappeared inside her, inch by inch, her body stretching to accommodate him, a perfect, impossible fit.
Her back arched off the bed, a str4ngled cry tearing from her throat. He could feel her muscles clenching around him, a rhythmic, pulsing grip that sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure through him.
He held still for a moment, letting her adjust, letting her body get used to the fullness, the overwhelming sensation of being completely and utterly possessed. Then, he began to move.
He started with a slow, gentle rocking motion, his knuckles brushing against her cervix, sending shockwaves of pleasure through her. He could feel her getting closer, her body tensing, her breath coming in short, sharp pants.
He increased the pace, his movements becoming more deliberate, more confident. He curled his fingers, finding that spot deep inside her, the one that made her gasp, that made her whole body tremble.
He took his free hand, and placed it around her neck, squeezing, watching her face change colour. her eyes open wide as she looked at him.
And then, she came. Hard.
Squirting and having her breath controlled, Candy was completely as Mike' mercy, and Mercy he wasn't completely in the mood for showing just yet. He kept his fist inside her, moving it slowly, deliberately, drawing out her orgasm, prolonging the pleasure until she was a writhing, sobbing mess beneath him.
His knuckle was flicking her cervix, each time he brushed against it, another yelp and squirt shot from her.
Mike wanted to teach her a lesson, one that she would never forget. He wanted to show her what she had been missing, what she had been risking by seeking pleasure elsewhere. He wanted to claim her, to mark her, to make her his in a way she had never been before.
He pulled his fist out, a gush of fluid following, and flipped her over, pulling her up onto her hands and knees. He entered her ass, one hard, deep thrust that buried him to the hilt.
She cried out, her hands fisting in the sheets, her body pushing back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust. He reached around, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing it in tight, fast circles.
He could feel her getting close again, her body tensing, her muscles clenching around him. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear.
"Who do you belong to?" he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
"You," she gasped, her body trembling on the edge of release. "I belong to you."
"Say it again," he demanded, his thrusts becoming harder, more demanding.
"I belong to you," she cried out, her body shattering around him, her orgasm a tidal wave of pleasure that pulled him under with her.
He came with a groan, his body shaking with the force of it, his release a hot, possessive claim deep inside her.
Mike stayed inside her ass, and looked over to the left hand side of the bed where Candy's toy cupboard was.
he could reach, but only just.
He opened the door, and saw Candy's large black but plug.
reaching, tipping and fumbling with his fingers, he finally grabbed it.
"you know where this is going don't you, you fucking whore!"
"Yes, you are going to put it in my a....." as she replied, Mike stuffed the butt plug into candy's mouth.
"Spit on it! Make it wet" he demanded.
Fear cut across her face - she had never put thisa butt plug in her ass without lube, she knew she had to make it a wet as possible.
"Come on, hurry up, we don't have all fucking night!"
Pulling the plug from her mouth, he niticed the lube was next to her..
without saying anything, he opened the lube and put plenty on the hand she couldnt see.
with the hand she could see, he wiped the butt plug dry on the bedding.
Candy began to cry, "no, don't please don't!"
With one swift movement, he passed the plug to his lubed hand before pushing into her ass.
she began to whimper aas the plug toughed her, then she realised it was lubed.
"You bastard!" she hissed at him..
"Fuck you, whore! you will wear that plug all night and all of tomorrow, only taking it out for a shit!"
He pulled out of her, the plug now holding her open, a constant, aching reminder of his claim. He flipped her over again, her body limp, sated, her eyes glazed with a mixture of pleasure and pain.
He looked down at her, at the woman he loved, the woman who had broken his heart, the woman he had just claimed in the most primal, possessive way possible. He saw the tears on her cheeks, the fear in her eyes, and a wave of something else washed over him. An understanding that this was something she needed.
Mike climbed off the bed, to finish the session, by walking away to shower the lube, squirt and smell of Candy off his body. He left her there, on the bed, a used, discarded toy, the plug a heavy, intrusive presence in her ass.
He stood under the hot spray of the shower, the water washing over him, cleansing him, but not healing him. The anger was gone, replaced by a hollow, aching emptiness. He had claimed her, he had possessed her, but he hadn't fixed anything. He had just added another layer of complexity, another wound to their already fractured relationship.
He got out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist, and walked back into the bedroom. She was still on the bed, her body curled into a fetal position, her back to him. He could see the tension in her shoulders, the slight tremor that ran through her.
He walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight. He reached out, his hand hovering over her back, not quite touching.
"Candy," he said, his voice quiet, rough.
She didn't move, didn't respond.
He sighed, the sound heavy in the quiet room. He had wanted to hurt her, to make her feel a fraction of the pain she had caused him. And he had. But looking at her now, broken and vulnerable, he felt nothing but a profound, soul-deep sadness.
He lay down beside her, the space between them a chasm of unspoken words, of unresolved pain. He didn't touch her, didn't try to bridge the gap. He just lay there, in the silence, the weight of what he had done, of what they had become, settling over him like a shroud.
He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. He was trapped in the wreckage of their love, a prisoner of his own making, with no idea how to escape.
***
The morning light was a cruel intrusion, filtering through the gap in the curtains and painting stripes across the rumpled bedding. Candy woke to the dull, persistent ache in her spine and the sharper, more insistent ache in her ass. The plug was a heavy, foreign presence, a constant reminder of the night before, of Mike's anger, of her own surrender.
She could hear him in the kitchen, the clatter of a mug, the low hum of the kettle. She lay there for a long moment, her body a map of bruises and aches, her mind a fog of shame and confusion.
She finally sat up, the movement sending a sharp jolt of pain through her. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her body protesting every inch of the way. She stood up, her legs unsteady, and walked to the bathroom.
She looked at herself in the mirror, her reflection a stranger. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face pale, her hair a tangled mess. She saw the faint marks on her neck, the bruises on her hips, the evidence of his possession, of her submission.
She turned on the shower, the water a welcome, cleansing heat. She stepped under the spray, the water washing over her, but not washing away the shame. She reached back, her fingers finding the base of the plug. She hesitated, then pulled.
The sensation was a strange mix of relief and loss, her body closing around the empty space, a phantom fullness that lingered. She put the plug on the side of the bath, a sleek, black object that now seemed to hold a dark, menacing power, Mikes Cum from the night before starting to leak, now there was no seal.
She washed herself, her movements slow, deliberate, her mind replaying the events of the night before. The anger in his eyes, the roughness of his touch, the overwhelming pleasure that had bordered on pain. She had wanted it, needed it, even as she had feared it. She had wanted to be punished, to be absolved, to be claimed.
She got out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel, her body still trembling slightly. She walked into the kitchen, the smell of coffee filling the small space.
Mike was sitting at the table, a mug in his hands, his gaze fixed on the window. He was already dressed, his hair still damp from the shower. He looked up as she entered, his expression unreadable.
"Coffee's made," he said, his voice flat, neutral.
She poured herself a cup, her hands trembling slightly, and sat down opposite him. The silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable.
"Mike," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "About last night..."
"Don't," he said, cutting her off. "Just... don't."
She looked at him, at the hard line of his jaw], at the distant look in his eyes. She saw the pain, the anger, the betrayal, still simmering just beneath the surface.
"I'm sorry," she said, the words a desperate, inadequate plea.
"I know," he said, his voice still flat. "But sorry doesn't fix it. It doesn't undo it."
"I know," she said, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. |
