I love the way rope feels. It’s coarseness against my skin turns me on. I wish he would tie me up more often. Strapped down, vulnerable to his temperament whatever it may be. He’s never violent, mind you. He’s passionate. When he makes love to me, I can feel it pulsating through my veins. There are no shortcuts with him—he makes love to you from the top of your head to the bottom of your feet. Then there are times when he’s untouchable; I can’t feel him though he is physically present. He’s cut himself off from me. It is these times I desire him most. I want to be a part of whatever he’s experiencing. I want to kiss him until man I’ve come to adore emerges from the depths of his solitude.
When he does, our love making is so intense it takes my breath away. Our bodies are in constant motion, straining, seeking something more, reaching, searching; we can’t get close enough to each other. This is when he’s at his dirtiest. His tone is crass but the sentiment is unmistakable—he needs my affirmation.
“Are you my filthy slut?” he says, leaning over to kiss me.
“Yes…” I mutter under my breath. He knows his accent drives me crazy.
“Do you want to cum? Is my slut ready to cum?”
I can’t speak. It’s all I can do to remain conscious. He loves the way I surrender; quietly, unquestioningly, gently offering of myself to him. It feds his ego and soothes his soul, this gifting of myself.
He moves down to my breast; I watch his tongue sketch wet circles around my nipples, the sensation registers itself on my clit. I want his mouth between my legs tonguing me to orgasm. It’s a futile wish because he’s has never gone down on a woman. But I need it.
“Is there something you want?” he asked, his voice cool and flat.
“Yes...” my voice was shaking. “Please go down on me.”
“You seem to think you have a say in what’s happening. You are mistaken.” His lips barely touched mine again, and a moan escaped me. “Don’t move,” he grabs my wrists and presses them above my head, pinning my body underneath his, the weight of his thick cock nudged against my thigh. His eyes are dark with lust and a soupcon of danger. I look away—he grabs my chin, forcing my face back towards him.
“Don’t turn away from me. I want to see your face.” His hand glides down gently enveloping my neck. He kisses me. “You seem to think your body belongs to you.”
“It does.” I add weakly.
“Not any longer.” His grip tightens slightly. “It’s mine,” he crooned in my ear. “You are mine. Don’t fight it.”
I can’t protest. His hand trail between my thighs. I’m weak, I know. My legs open, welcoming him to partake. His cock probed between my legs. He enters me effortlessly. I gasp; he’s harder than I anticipate.
“You’re so wet,” He says, a note of triumph in his voice. “You wanted it, didn’t you, baby? You wanted me to fuck you. You’ve been aching for me, haven’t you?”
Again, I can’t answer. All of my concentration is focused on that full feeling I get when my pussy is helpless being taken and there’s nothing I can do about it. He’s fucking me inside out but in my head I’m begging for more.
“I asked you a question. Answer me, damn it!”
“Yessss, I wanted it.” I concede. My heart pounding in my ears. “Yes,” I moan, my pussy was at his mercy, so deep, so thick my lips struggle around his cock. “Oh Gawd!!” I scream. He forces my mouth open with his and pushes his tongue into my mouth.
“Look at me,” he whispers, thrusting harder. “Your body is mine,” he says.
“No.” I feel the last fragment of resolve slip from my body.
“You’re wrong.” His breathing rigid. “When I tell you to come, you’ll do so.”
My grunting defiance is unintelligible even to me.
“Yes. I can make your body do whatever I want. On my command, your pussy will spasm around my cock, and you’ll cum.”
“No.” I manage feebly.
“You’ll cum, and when you do, you’ll scream my name..." he drank me in. "...because I own you.”
“No,” The determination in his eyes snares me. Surely he couldn’t make me cum on cue.
“Cum for me, Samantha.” he says softly leaning in to nibble my earlobe. Panting, I cum as he orders—legs open, trembling around his merciless drilling, his name echoing off the walls repeatedly. He pulls my orgasm from me; objectifying it as though it was something to be possessed, to be owned. I’m his—my body is his.
“Gabriel, don’t stop...” I plea, never wanting the sensation of him filling my depths to end.
“Whose are you?”
“Yours,” I struggle to form a coherent thought. He pulls me close, I bury my face in his warmth. In a way these lovely post-coital moments are what I most look forward to. He doesn’t joyfully espouse his belief in endless love. He doesn’t say much, all communication rest in his touch and kiss. Damn, can he kiss, they leaves me weak and bare.
With all of the heartbreak I’ve suffered, you’d think wholeheartedly declaring myself to Gabriel would be difficult. It wasn’t. It came naturally. He makes me smile and feel safe in a way that I haven’t felt in some time. Yes, his obstinate cynicism and efficiency of vocabulary pisses me off at times—then again that’s part of his charm. He doesn’t beat around the bush. You always know exactly where you stand with him. Word to the wise: If you ever find yourself on the bad side of his temper, make your peace in a hurry.
We lie in bed together, me tracing his face and running my fingers through his hair. I hope he knows how amazing I think he is. He stares up at me, his eyes softened by exhaustion. I think he loves me. I hope I does.