Vicious

“I have no intention of being anything other than vicious.  Do you understand?”

“Finally. Yes Sir.”

His fingers were on my clit before my clothes were fully off.  To my surprise, he let me cum on my first request, pinning me against the wall as my legs threatened to give out.  He brought me back to earth with a slap across my face that made my ears ring.  Next he took my nipples between his fingers, pinching until I opened my eyes and looked into his as I searched for something to hold onto. 

In his eyes I found gravity, as I always do.  His gaze instantly centers me, bringing me back and into him amid his surrounding storm.  The thing is, the storm lives in his eyes as well; finding the grounding pull also serves a stark reminder of the vicious focus and fury that lives in him.  

Jarring, knowing that I was going to absorb it.

We fell into an easy rhythm as he warmed me up, hands oscillating between pleasure and pain as a reminder that he was the Master of both- a lesson I continue to learn.  Before long I was on my knees in the shower.  

His cock found my throat with ease and my body reacted with familiarity. My posture relaxed, hands tucking behind my back as he set the pace.  He escalated quickly, holding himself in my throat before I had time to find my breath.

My double tap for air on his thigh came quickly, and so did the slaps to my tits.

Five open handed slaps on each, delivered with laser precision.  The first few rounds of slapping are always wildly painful- the skin isn’t warmed up, the body doesn’t have enough hormones coursing through it to offset the impact, and in this case they took me by surprise.

I flinched, I screamed.  My arms came out from behind me, presumably to block his access until (thankfully) my mind intervened at the last second and held them back.  My hands flailed uselessly at my sides as I tried to absorb the blows.  

It was a relief to have his cock back in my throat, if only because it occupied his hands in my hair.  

I held on for longer this time, having the sense to take a deep breath before I felt the tension in his hands force my head into place.  My throat flexed on his cock, my hands flexed behind me, thick drool ran down my chin, but I held on until my chest heaved. 

One double tap on his thigh, five slaps on each breast, cock back in my throat a split second before my brain could organize a protest.

On my next double tap, he pulled me off of his cock by the hair.  “Do you notice a pattern, slut?” he asked patronisingly.

I resisted the urge to say “fucking duh,” and instead went with “Yes Sir” through a smirk.  Five slaps on each side felt like fire, but the buzz they sent through my body was a postcard from subspace saying that it would see me soon.  

More cock, less air.  Two taps, five slaps.  

Cock, gag, choke.  Two taps, five slaps.

Cock, throat.  Two taps, five slaps.

“Look at you,” he said as he landed the last blow.  Fireworks of bruises exploded on my breasts.  

“Pretty,” I replied through a mouthful of cock and drool.

The fireworks were doused with his piss moments later.  I swallowed him down my throat, which is an intense feeling I think for both of us.  He coated my face, filling my mouth and emptying it down my burning breasts as he filled my mouth with his cock instead.  

He eroded my strength, will, and composure with every thrust.  The only reprieve I found was when he pulled out to put three fingers all the way down my throat to mine for some thick gag spit to wipe across my face.  He added his own spit to my face in equal measure, rubbing his cock in it before forcing it back down my throat.  He kept one hand on my throat (as if there was airflow to restrict), and the other at the back of my head, fingers laced through my hair. 

My body relaxed to take him, arms going limp at my sides as he held my head in his groin and waited for me to try to breathe.  He disregarded my initial struggle, absorbed the subsequent urgency, and challenged my eventual urge to quit.  A few words from him- praise, direction, dismissal, challenge- and I no longer need to breathe nearly as much as I need to please him (or prove him wrong).  

I choked on the breath I was able to get from fighting against his grasp, his cock preventing the satisfaction of filling my lungs beyond a few stolen, garbled gasps.  I focused all of my effort on clocking his pace so that I could identify my opportunities for air- an effort he rendered useless by refusing predictability.

“Can you walk?” he asked with a handful of my hair in his hand as I sputtered for air.

I considered; my legs were numb from kneeling on my heels, and my head was spinning from a lack of breath.  Probably not, but I wouldn’t give him that kind of satisfaction.

“Yes,” I said, my voice reflecting my doubt.

He helped me up, and watched me walk up the stairs as if I was learning to do it for the first time.  If I had any sense of shame or self-consciousness around this man, that walk up the stairs would have been painful.  As it happened, I was just grateful for the lungfuls of air.  Grateful, and maybe a little high. 

I crashed on my bed to relieve my shaking legs, the fan blowing goosebumps on my body as it cooled the spit and piss.  He instructed me to get my wand.  

I was not instructed to use it, and like hell I was going to take that kind of initiative.  In spite of everything you know about me, dear reader, I am not insane.

“Did you think I asked you to get the wand and not use it?” he asked sarcastically.

I made some kind of smart assed comment about him needing to be more clear in his instructions, but somehow the wand ended up on my clit anyway.

It was about the time that two of his fingers slid into my (very slippery) cunt that I remembered a threatening promise from earlier in the day of his fist inside me.  My core tensed in spite of the pleasure that was radiating through me.  Two fingers became three, then four.  My traitorous cunt just got wetter.

He pulled a few orgasms from me in quick succession, kindly granting me permission to cum with every request, as a spider welcomes a fly into its web for tea.  My body trembled, my mind spun, and his hand capitalized. 

He pressed further into me with force somehow both gentle and unyielding.  I moaned in protest (pleasure?), my mind refusing to allow that I was able (and going) to take more.  I remembered him once coaching me to “let it live there” at the pain point where my body rejects him, recoiling and tensing in an effort to expel the intrusion.

I did as he had coached (irritatingly effective, as it turns out), taking a deep breath through the sharp pain and forcing my body to relax around him instead of tightening.  When he pushed through the last of my resistance, I felt relief shrouded in intense pressure.

Two fingers in my cunt is a gorgeous feeling.  Three even, if you’re trying to make a point.

A fist is overkill.  Purely unnecessary.  I could feel myself unravel from the inside out, begging him to let me cum if only to relieve the building pressure.  

I came, and then again.  I lost sight of how many times, or which orgasm came from the wand that he forced onto my clit vs. the fist that rearranged my organs.  

The room blurred, as did time and space.  The only thing anchoring me to earth was his fist, which was ironically also the thing that was threatening to send me to the stars.

I went from begging to cum to begging not to cum, to simply begging.  

“Please, Sir,” I breathed desperately.

“Please what?” he said with obstinate innocence.  

“I…I don’t know,” I replied to my surprise.  I did know- I wanted to cum.  Not cum.  No more cumming, it’s too much.  I wanted his fist out of me.  I wanted his fist to live there.  I never wanted him to stop, other than right then and forever.

I screamed, because that was about the only thing I could do.

I considered crying, but I didn’t have the energy.

I progressively removed each piece of tension from my body, hoping that it would help me absorb him.  It helped me cum again.

I asked him to stop.  He said no.

I asked him to let me cum.  He said no.  Then yes.  Then no.  Then yes.

When he removed his fist, I felt tears- disappointment, relief, exhaustion.

When I felt his other fist slide inside me, I felt tears- disappointment, relief, exhaustion.

The tears couldn’t fall because I had no capacity to cry- the only thing I could focus on was absorbing him.  He was rough, calculated, and relentless.  I was unravelling in a way that I hadn’t yet with him.

When he finished with me he ordered me back to the shower.  I commented that he didn’t check to see if I could walk this time (I was reasonably sure I couldn’t).  He said he didn’t care. 

As I was unravelling, he was winding tighter.

The face fucking that followed was violent and, as promised, vicious.  I looked up into a gaze of frigid fire.  His jaw was set with the severity that it gets when he is more primal force than human.  If I hadn’t already started to unravel, I would’ve felt fear.  As it happened, I felt promise and serenity.

He drowned me in piss to soften me.  He fucked my face without mercy or oxygen.  He reached between my legs to torture my screaming cunt.  I doubled over as I struggled against an orgasm.  I felt his thighs close around my head, holding me steady (and firmly in his grasp) until he granted me an orgasm that I reluctantly asked for.

His fist pounded my chest, each wicked thud helping me regain enough composure to open my mouth and stick out my tongue.

His cock back in my throat was a relief for my aching cunt.  At that point I would have surrendered all of my air if he promised not to make me cum again.

As if on cue, his hand was furiously assaulting my clit again.  I begged him to stop in fractured sentences.  He declined, so I begged him to let me cum.  He declined.

I told him to pick an option.  He said he did- the option was no.

I told him to pick a lane- either let me cum or stop.  He said no, and kindly reminded me that he controls me.

I could feel panic welling up in my core.  I pride myself on orgasm control, and on obedience.  It was the first skill I learned as a submissive, and has been one that I have consistently practiced and grown for a decade.  

I used every strategy.  I stared at the bright white ceiling, I closed my eyes to disconnect.  I tensed to withdraw from him, I relaxed into him.  I begged, I pleaded, I bargained.  I took deep centering breaths, willing the building pressure between my legs to dissipate.  I cycled through strategies one after the other, repeating each in case they decided to work.

They didn’t.

“Sir I can’t hold it, please let me cum.  Please, Sir, I will do anything.  I need to cum.  Please, Sir, please can I cum?” I breathed, each word a considerable effort.

“No,” he said simply, crushingly.  “Well, you can,” he amended, “but you don’t have permission.”

I wrestled with his proposition- that I could cum, just without permission- and felt hot anger contrast with the floating softness that was enveloping me. I hate being set up to fail; unwinnable odds feel like a betrayal of the bond.  I wonder if he would have relented, or if he was exploiting my trust in the process to relieve me of the final pieces of solid ground that I clung to.  His reminder that control is his to wield, however he sees fit- even viciously. Terrifying, and effective.

I told myself that if I just held on a few moments longer he would stop.  I held onto that belief even as I felt the sour intensity of my orgasm ignite at his fingertips.  The orgasm crashed over me in waves of disappointment and shock, and some of the most intense pleasure I have ever felt.  It left me on all fours between his legs, gasping for air, stability, and a shred of myself.  I saw real stars, my ears rang and my head swam. I had a vague moment where I thought I might pass out, but drowned it in deep breaths.

He held my head firmly between his thighs as he soothed my unravelled form with warm piss down my back.  It grounded me enough that when he pulled me up to take the rest of it on my face, I didn’t let the tears fall.  

The rest of the session was a blur of sensation.  I remember most of it, but I was barely there.  He held me in his groin for longer and longer, and I lost the will to care.  I would double tap just before I choked on my own puke or my ears rang.  I then leaned against the shower wall while each breast took their five slaps.  In stark contrast to the first few, I barely felt these ones.  

He pulled me on and off his cock by the hair, fucking my face with fury.  I remember feeling my scalp burn as he jerked my hair back and forth.  My body actively trembled on its own, a physical manifestation of my mental overwhelm.  

When he ordered me to suck his cock, I forgot how.  His hands left my hair, allowing me to set the pace and use my mouth instead of just my throat.  

My mouth and tongue were clumsy, my pace was inconsistent.  I remembered at some point to suck, and use my neck to find rhythm.  I couldn’t figure out how to breathe and suck at the same time,  Muscle memory fought to return, my cloudy mind trying desperately to cling to it.  His promise that I was almost there was enough to dredge my last reserves.

His warm cum on my face and the accompanying vicious growl was nothing short of everything.