![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Don't know where this came from, but it's about 900 words, NC17, a nameless Dom and his sub and it's consensual but a bit darker than usual for me. Well, darker isn't quite right. It's just not fluffy. At all.
Sir
"I want to fuck you, boy."
He hesitates, unbelievably hesitates, with my collar around his neck. I thought I'd trained him better than that. Eyes lowered, he murmurs, "Sir -- last night -- I'm still sore, Sir."
I know he is. I did it to him, after all. It's one of the reasons I'm so hungry for him now. I cuff his face, a reproof he's more than earned, and hear the soft sound my palm makes against his cheek. I could have slapped it, made the sound crisp and hot, left his cheek scarlet, but that feels too formal for this. He's my boy and I'm hard. I'm in the mood for simple. The action excites me and he responds to it, his chest rising and falling as his breathing speeds up.
"I didn't ask a question," I tell him. "I told you I wanted to fuck you."
He doesn't reply, but there's the slightest of movements, a quiver of his lips, a hunching of his shoulders, that does it for him. They're small betrayals and they shock him as much as they annoy me. He takes the slow, deep breath I've taught him and I watch him regain his place in my world.
"I want to fuck you," I repeat. His failure's not been forgotten -- it'd be cruel of me to do that, leaving him hanging, endlessly waiting for a punishing hand that never fell-- Hmm. It would be cruel, wouldn't it?
Not forgotten, no, but my needs come first, always, and in this moment, I'm hard and I want to come. I want to use his bruised, aching body to arouse mine, paint his skin with my spunk, or leave it inside him.
I want him. That's all he needs to know.
As I say it again, he changes, all compliance now, eager to atone, waiting for my next command.
"Five," I say. It's the position he hates the most. He may even think it's his punishment, but it's not. I want him in that position because I like to see him strain and sweat to hold it. It's humiliating. He'd squat like that to shit, hunkered down, knees wide, ass hanging, his balls dangling.
Tonight, he moves as soon as I've finished speaking, climbing onto the low table that puts him at the correct height for me to do so many things to him because it's built to be adjustable and flexible, just like him.
He squats, his face already red with a humiliation that's unnecessary. Humiliation is built on the scorn of others, but I don't feel any of that looking at him. He's mine, positioned by my words. He's perfect.
I let him settle into place and stare at him, forcing him to meet my gaze until there are tears for me to look at, trickling down his face, warmed by his blushes.
When his body's screaming to move -- he can't hold this pose for long, but he can hold it for longer than he thinks and I know to the second how long that is -- I touch him. Rough caresses, manhandling him, squeezing and pinching his flesh, digging my nails into the puffy, swollen skin around his nipples where the clamps bit deep the night before. I run my fingertips over his thighs and feel the deep-down tremor in his muscles.
His ass is pale, unmarked, unlike the rest of him. Last night, I enjoyed watching it clench and quiver waiting for the lash of my whip, the bite of my cane. At the end, I touched it lightly and he shuddered convulsively, sharp cries coming out of him, whining as if the brush of my hand had hurt him.
I cup his balls where they hang and squeeze them until he's grunting with pain, feel them shift and slither in my palm, then play with his hole. I poke it, prod it, stab my finger at it and tease him until his breath is erratic and he's swaying without realizing it, trying to get my finger inside him.
He's sore. He's right about that. I can feel how hot his hole is, the neat circle blurred and swollen. He had things up his ass last night that deserve better than to be called toys and he had my cock.
I'm big. He can take me, but I'm big.
"I want to fuck you, boy," I whisper in his ear and I say 'three' and push him forward onto his hands and knees, take out my cock, hard and flushed with blood, bone-dry, and rub it over his hole, sawing it along the crease of his ass until it smells of him, dark and secret smells, but he's mine and the stink of his ass, the sweat dewing his pits, the snot he's trying to sniff back, it's all mine.
I walk around the table and put my cock in his mouth, as willing to open for me as his ass.
It's not mercy or kindness. He wouldn't thank me for either. I'm just taking what I want.
I said I wanted to fuck him.
Didn't say where.
Sir
"I want to fuck you, boy."
He hesitates, unbelievably hesitates, with my collar around his neck. I thought I'd trained him better than that. Eyes lowered, he murmurs, "Sir -- last night -- I'm still sore, Sir."
I know he is. I did it to him, after all. It's one of the reasons I'm so hungry for him now. I cuff his face, a reproof he's more than earned, and hear the soft sound my palm makes against his cheek. I could have slapped it, made the sound crisp and hot, left his cheek scarlet, but that feels too formal for this. He's my boy and I'm hard. I'm in the mood for simple. The action excites me and he responds to it, his chest rising and falling as his breathing speeds up.
"I didn't ask a question," I tell him. "I told you I wanted to fuck you."
He doesn't reply, but there's the slightest of movements, a quiver of his lips, a hunching of his shoulders, that does it for him. They're small betrayals and they shock him as much as they annoy me. He takes the slow, deep breath I've taught him and I watch him regain his place in my world.
"I want to fuck you," I repeat. His failure's not been forgotten -- it'd be cruel of me to do that, leaving him hanging, endlessly waiting for a punishing hand that never fell-- Hmm. It would be cruel, wouldn't it?
Not forgotten, no, but my needs come first, always, and in this moment, I'm hard and I want to come. I want to use his bruised, aching body to arouse mine, paint his skin with my spunk, or leave it inside him.
I want him. That's all he needs to know.
As I say it again, he changes, all compliance now, eager to atone, waiting for my next command.
"Five," I say. It's the position he hates the most. He may even think it's his punishment, but it's not. I want him in that position because I like to see him strain and sweat to hold it. It's humiliating. He'd squat like that to shit, hunkered down, knees wide, ass hanging, his balls dangling.
Tonight, he moves as soon as I've finished speaking, climbing onto the low table that puts him at the correct height for me to do so many things to him because it's built to be adjustable and flexible, just like him.
He squats, his face already red with a humiliation that's unnecessary. Humiliation is built on the scorn of others, but I don't feel any of that looking at him. He's mine, positioned by my words. He's perfect.
I let him settle into place and stare at him, forcing him to meet my gaze until there are tears for me to look at, trickling down his face, warmed by his blushes.
When his body's screaming to move -- he can't hold this pose for long, but he can hold it for longer than he thinks and I know to the second how long that is -- I touch him. Rough caresses, manhandling him, squeezing and pinching his flesh, digging my nails into the puffy, swollen skin around his nipples where the clamps bit deep the night before. I run my fingertips over his thighs and feel the deep-down tremor in his muscles.
His ass is pale, unmarked, unlike the rest of him. Last night, I enjoyed watching it clench and quiver waiting for the lash of my whip, the bite of my cane. At the end, I touched it lightly and he shuddered convulsively, sharp cries coming out of him, whining as if the brush of my hand had hurt him.
I cup his balls where they hang and squeeze them until he's grunting with pain, feel them shift and slither in my palm, then play with his hole. I poke it, prod it, stab my finger at it and tease him until his breath is erratic and he's swaying without realizing it, trying to get my finger inside him.
He's sore. He's right about that. I can feel how hot his hole is, the neat circle blurred and swollen. He had things up his ass last night that deserve better than to be called toys and he had my cock.
I'm big. He can take me, but I'm big.
"I want to fuck you, boy," I whisper in his ear and I say 'three' and push him forward onto his hands and knees, take out my cock, hard and flushed with blood, bone-dry, and rub it over his hole, sawing it along the crease of his ass until it smells of him, dark and secret smells, but he's mine and the stink of his ass, the sweat dewing his pits, the snot he's trying to sniff back, it's all mine.
I walk around the table and put my cock in his mouth, as willing to open for me as his ass.
It's not mercy or kindness. He wouldn't thank me for either. I'm just taking what I want.
I said I wanted to fuck him.
Didn't say where.
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
He squats, his face already red with a humiliation that's unnecessary. Humiliation is built on the scorn of others, but I don't feel any of that looking at him. He's mine, positioned by my words. He's perfect.
As well as the acknowledgment and claiming of all the usually " gross" bodily functions--it tells of care that may not be overtly evident in the dom's outward actions.
It's also possible that I am still heavily under the influence of your and WG's last ebook. ;-)
From:
no subject
And thank you! We loved writing it and we're thinking about a sequel, maybe.
We want to play with them some more :-)