Breathless. Trembling. Wet. Aching.
Craved. Possessed. Marked.
Supple. Yielding. His.
Yours.

He told me I wouldn’t want his dark side.

The ravenous, rapacious man. The intensely driven one. The jealous, covetous him.

He’s never been more wrong.

For what he doesn’t fathom, the very thing he refuses to believe, is that I ache for just such a man, hunger like the starved always for him, for the man who cannot bear to share me with another, who craves to possess all I am as woman for himself alone, who needs to overwhelm in turn each one of my senses, who desires nothing more than my body and soul unravelled by his decadent dominance, bewitched by the lightness of his touch, who gazes deep into my clear eyes and recognises a kindred darkness, the one fearless in the face of the carnal cravings screaming silently beneath, the one who anoints me as his queen and lover, his cock whore and beloved with his fiery seed in my cunt and womb, with his name penned in our come on my lily-white skin, with the voracious tongue raked along my sodden cleft, with the thick hard flesh of the beast claiming, fucking, ruining for all others the desire and succulence of my sex.

The silk ties cradled in his hands are a mere formality.

For they both know, it is his voice, the deep accented timbre, the gaze of his desire, his commands that bind her and bind her to him absolutely, that leave her breathless, trembling, that guide her slender wrists to rest obediently in the small of her back, that speak directly to the skin silently screaming for the indelible trace of his touch, to the supple body aching to submit, to be bound, to buck wildly, arch and strain against the ropes as he takes her, fucks her, claims her, as his mouth feasts ferociously on the slickness of her sex, as he buries his thick hard cock inside her so deep, her sweet cunt bares the imprint of his flesh, his name.

Your voice filters through with the first rays of the sun, drawing me out of a restless slumber, rousing yet again this wanton desire, the body even now marked with the night’s carnal fury and aching pulsation, with the grip of your dominance and my easy slide into submission, the commands to which I yield always and completely, the slender legs parting at the mere whisper of your voice and hint of your fingers, the hips rising to meet the fire of your touch, to receive the drip of your words and your lashing tongue, the cunt begging for the kiss of your cock and the pearls of its glistening precum, the sex soaking the lily-white innocence you will defile and claim as your keepsake once you possess me and these soft, arching curves, once you fuck me with long, hard, steady strokes, once you spill your seed with a violent roar, once you own my slick and trembling orgasm and this insatiable craving for more, for more, one more…

“I love the way you use that word in your writing. I become instantly hard just seeing it glowing on the screen. So many women fear it, are repelled by it, but not you. Not you.”

I can’t help but smile slyly at his admission.

He leans forward in an attempt to keep our salacious discussion at a discreet level as we sit in a quiet basement restaurant a stone’s throw from a four-top of suits indulging in a boozy weekday lunch and lingering gazes that are quite obviously undressing my lithe body, slowly but surely, one fine garment at a time.

“I can sense just how it excites you. It’s palpable. I feel the fire of your flesh radiating as I read. Each time I see the word, I think about your body, your uninhibited desire and wonder…about the parts of you shielded, unseen.”

My smile bursts open, a mixture of warmth and momentary shyness, as the blush blooms high on my cheeks. I know for a fact my clear blue eyes are blazing because he is now transfixed, and much like our dining companions to my left, unashamedly staring, his look languidly roaming from these eyes to the full mouth rouged scarlet to the contour of my breasts and the beauty spots underneath the collarbone he aches to lightly kiss and trace, all memorised in minute detail from the photographs I share.

“Now that we’re sitting here together – finally – and I can see you and feel your heat and smell the hint of your perfume from across the table, all I crave is the opportunity to hear your sultry voice say it.”

I mirror his gesture and move that little bit closer, my hands caressing the edge of the table directly in front of me before my fingers dance along the wooden frame to clutch at each periphery. My back straightens, elongates, the small arching ever so slightly as my sex pulses against the panties and the tightest denim I own. Unconsciously, I cross my legs, press my thighs together and grind myself into the chair. Dressed in a midnight black balconette and bordered by a complementary cashmere knit, my pert breasts rise and fall with each hot breath. His gaze wanders again, taking me in, landing at last on my hands, on the tips now a mere inch from his own.

I part my mouth, unsealing it with the smallest of sighs. My tongue licks along the edge of the fleshy bottom lip before I speak. The corners of my eyes and the long ebony lashes uphold my mischievous smile.

It’s his turn to grin with a wickedness that lights his entire face.

“Which word?”

I ask the question softly, a little coyly.

He doesn’t buy my stalling tactic for a minute. While the anticipation is maddening, it is also arousing and thickening his glans, out of sight under the table, in a way he can barely control. That thought alone leaves me ravenous, lustful, wanton. In response, my tips caress the grain of the wood, drawing long, fleshy lines as I imagine the curve of his straining sex trapped in its own denim prison, the sound of the metal teeth as I glide down his zip, the lurch of his naked shaft as it meets the cool air, the ridges and veins and the scent of his desire and the pearl of precum begging to be smeared by my thumb, begging to be brought to my mouth, suckled and savoured.

He regards me again as I hesitate.

He’s waited two years; he can certainly wait another minute.

“Beautiful minx, won’t you say it for me?”

The teasing and imploring softness in his voice leaves me vulnerable, weak. I can feel my core beginning to melt. But shrugged shoulders are my only reply. My eyes continue to beam; my lips are under strict instruction to hold their ground.

“So… Is this the way we’re playing it?”

Another shrug and a shake of my head and wild mane is all the answer I provide.

“Say it.”

With this simple phrase, his playful tone drains away. All of a sudden, there’s an edge in his voice. A dominant edge. An edge that has filtered through our communiqués on numerous occasions, leaving me more inflamed than I could readily admit.

The small triangle of diaphanous silk covering my mound is without warning sodden as the idea of his possession releases the flood from within, as the visual of being roughly taken by him from behind, in front of these men – his hands tearing my clothing to shreds, my jeans pushed over my hips, down my slender thighs and past my knees to settle chaotically on the tops of my stiletto ankle boots, his digits pinching my crimson nipples inside the lace remnants as he towers over me, fucking me hard and deep, his sex emerging slick and shiny with each decisive thrust – momentarily blinds me.

“Say it.”

My eyebrow arches in defiance and just as quickly yields and relaxes.

“Say it.”

I shiver in response. He is reducing me to a trembling submissive, to a little kitten. And he knows it.

“Say it. Now.”

My heart pounds, I shift in my seat, my eyes widen.

“Cunt.”

I whisper the word into the ether between us. His breath catches in his throat.

“Cunt.”

With this utterance, he visibly shudders. I have clawed back a little of my control.

“Cunt.”

Leaning back in his chair, he stifles a groan, acutely aware of the public space in which we find ourselves as well as his need to give in to his own touch, to the passions of his flesh, to his desire for me.

“My sweet tight little cunt…”

The five little words hang between us, clearly demanding more, clearly longing for completion.

“My sweet little cunt aches for… cock.”

Even through the aroma of the Mediterranean fare drifting from the open kitchen behind me, I can smell, almost taste, his arousal; I can feel the heat radiating up through his trousers. His scent is so overwhelming that the thought of his pulsating meat instantly waters my mouth and cunt in equal measure.

Yet I rein myself in as I sense the proximity of his defeat and undoing. The sweat prickling his brow and the clenched fists resting on his tensing thighs are all the encouragement I require.

“My sweet little cunt aches for… your cock.”

This time he exhales with force, his breath intertwined with a simple “Fuck” that lashes my sweet little cunt like a live wire. The pounding ache spreads through my entire body with a strength that sees my own skin glowing with the sheen of desperation.

As I watch his craving rise up and take hold, as I watch him sublimating the need to grab and stroke his burnished glans then and there with a roughness of hand, running his palm over his beard, down the strong curve of his neck, his fingers eventually clawing and clutching at his nape, another series of images assault me: the chair toppling as I stand in haste; my slight figure hovering over his six foot plus frame; the large hand on my hip as I straddle his legs; his digits sliding into the border of my jeans, fingering the drenched lace fused to my bright flesh; my nakedness gleaming under the lights and his mouth engulfing, devouring my cunt, his lips sucking my clit, my body trembling, screaming his name as I come hotly on his tongue.

Our eyes meet and I smile openly, somewhat brazenly. The temptress in me emerges. The kitten will keep for another day.

“Cock.”

He is putty in my hands. And he knows it.

“I also love cock. I love the way it shapes and fills my mouth, the way it eases my soft, pouting lips apart, the way these lips lushly wrap themselves around that single…delectable…vowel.”

He turns to meet our neighbours’ stares. Judging by his smirk, our entire conversation has been overheard. One of the men shifts, planting his gaze firmly upon me. Even as I feel it burning into the side of my face, my eyes don’t stray from my man.

“I love the way it sounds out, the air thick with a masculine potency once it’s released, the way my voice can vary it, the way I can feel it thickening, engorging with speed and urgency, the way I can taste it on my tongue, its slick, salty tang, its sweetness sating my feminine hunger, the way I can milk it, lusciously lick the head of the word before ravenously consuming it, gliding it slowly down my throat, swallowing it, fucking it with the fervour of my want, my blistering breath.”

At last, I turn to acknowledge the four-top. I stretch out my hands on the flat of the table, a silent call for his teasing touch, for his repossession. The temptress and the kitten are duly rewarded.

“Yes. I also love cock. In case you had failed to notice.”

His gaze doesn’t leave mine for a moment as takes me again, his hands on my hips, on my fair, shimmering skin, guiding me out of the kitchen’s darkness, away from my moment of respite, pressing me back into the golden lamplight, into the cold stuccoed arch.

But it isn’t the unforgiving chill of the wall that curves my back, that has my fingers grasping, clawing, that compels my body to seek out his hard, masculine flesh, that sends a violent ripple clear through me.

It is his touch, hot and heavy, insistent on my neck, my breasts, the flat line from my abdomen to my naked mound. It is his mouth, feasting off the lips bruised by his kiss, feeding off my hungry, seeking tongue. It is his imposing body, kneeling before me, wordlessly demanding my desire, my passion, silently possessing me as he plunges two rough digits into this slick and greedy velvet, fingering, fucking, crooked to find that gloriously maddening spot, his tongue intermittently lashing out, raking over my clitoris, his forearm tense, giving its strength, its speed, its sweet brutality, his fingers thrusting, fucking, fucking me hard, fingering me harder, his eyes calling me, commanding me to obey, daring me to defy, his eyes, his fingers, his body, his thick and straining cock needing my fire, my libations, my blistering glisten, my moan, my scream, the hot pool of my come.

He grunts his approval as she spreads herself disgracefully wide open, her long lean legs hooking themselves over his muscular thighs, his cock, thicker and harder than she could have ever conceived now running along the soft strip of dark curls on the pillowy mound, now teasing her impossibly pink, smooth lips, now gliding through the velvet folds to the clitoris swollen, aching, calling, to the cunt hot and hungry and beckoning, to the cunt bright and plump and glistening, coating his throbbing shaft in her fire, in her juices before he selfishly, deliciously fills her to the brim, before he overpowers, before fucks her hard, before he takes her tight little cunt as his.

She points the way, although he needs no direction, her delicate fingers climbing the bare legs raised up stiletto high, trailing the silken line from ankles to calves, skimming the quiver of thighs splayed open, spread wide, parting the rosy folds of the sex dripping its hot liquid lust, tracing lazy circles around the nub swollen tight with desire.

She guides the way, even though he requires no assistance, her hands winding, possessing his head and face and smile, edging his gaze, his greed close, close, ever closer, holding him steady and firm at her sweet and pungent portal, his gasping breath, his gulping inhalation inspiring the maddening beating in her cunt, his mouth, his lips, his tongue grasping at the air whispering between them, his mouth, his lips, his tongue longing for that perfect honeyed kiss, his mouth, his lips, his tongue yearning, craving, aching, reaching for the woman, for the flood, for her uniquely, addictive glisten.

Daddy.

Her lips purr the word with an ease that sends a violent ripple through her slight body, the shudder registering in his imposing, cowering form, in the thighs clenched tight along her torso, in the powerful hands loosely wound around the base of her slender neck, in the thick straining flesh pressed firmly into her softening mound.

Daddy. Daddy.

The phrase now spills forth straight into his expectant mouth, swallowed up as a breathy hymn, as a whispered mantra, her clear eyes widening and moistening with each syllable, her cunt quickly following suit, flowering and glowing despite the shock, glistening and flowing from the relief, the release, from the sheer purity of this abjection.

Please, Daddy. Please.

Her murmurs turned pleas ring throughout the quiet room as he weaves his fingers through the tangle of auburn curls, sliding his eager shaft along the cleft of her brightness, his hips gliding, grinding, mesmerizing her gaze, his hips gliding, grinding, her fever rising up through her skin, his hips gliding, grinding, possessing her with his will.

Fuck me, Daddy. Fuck me, Daddy. Fuck my little cunt.

His own arousal surges, ferocious and untamed, with the words he has also longed and craved to hear, with the words that unconsciously kick her legs open wide, with the words that send his mouth to feed brutishly from her cream, with the words that have him urgently plunging his cock into her depths, with the words that compel him to fuck and to pound her, with the words that incite him to seize and to mark her, to fuck and to pound her, to consume and to blind her, to fuck and to pound her, to fill and to take her, to fuck and to pound her, to desire and to see her, to fuck and to pound her, to know and to love her, to fuck and to pound her, to know and to love his sweet, beautiful little girl.

There’s no denying his aroused flesh.

There’s no denying the shaft, thick and hard and leaking, straining against the pinstripe suiting, the strong fist taking hold, stroking the pulsing meat, the nose flooded with the scent of sex and desire as it rises up through the layers, as it drifts up from between her splayed and lean legs, from the full lips spread wantonly wide open, from the pungent, flowing glisten painting the cunt fair and smooth and eager.

There’s no denying his possession, his domination, the commands rumbled into her ear, his longing to feel and trace her burning need, to delicately touch the tip of his tongue to her clitoris, licking with a maddening slowness and softness, demanding of her body the release of more of its liquid lust, lapping and drinking at her font of pure pleasure, his fingers tracing distracted circles on her creamy thighs, his mouth taking her closer, closer, ever closer, to the edge, to the brink before cruelly pulling back.

There’s no denying his loss of control, the moment he becomes her own toy for the taking, his cock throbbing and lurching, threatening to spill prematurely, his large frame suddenly upon her, his glans sliding and gliding, poised at her portal with the low, sultry confession, the unblinking yet whispered admission, it is this very scene she has played in her mind for as long as she can remember, masturbating to the thought since she was a nothing but a girl, her inflamed sex finding regular release through fingers and mouths and cocks, through men strange and familiar, through the sunlit morning and the dark, starry night.

There’s no denying the groans and the moans as he plunges in completely, her velvet heat stretching, filling, clinging to dear thudding life, the bodies grinding, writhing, the lips begging and pleading, the screams of base, carnal abandon, the slap of his hips, the sound of his slick glans slamming, pounding, fucking her back into the sweetest dripping submission.

No, no. There’s no denying. There’s no denying his aroused flesh.