Writer’s Block

I hate losing, but I love all the ways in which you know how to twist my arm and bring me to my knees; I won’t co-operate but I might, eventually, concede.

Content Note: power exchange, sadism, rough sex

This is a fictional depiction of a consensual D/s dynamic, in which all characters are fully informed and completely happy with the arrangement.


“Write” you had said, setting my laptop in front of me and opening the lid.

I’m feeling bratty; it’s not that I don’t want to write, it’s more that I’d prefer to fuck. Bratty and horny, a combination that will most likely lead to tears before bedtime. My tears, your victory. I hate losing, but I love all the ways in which you know how to twist my arm and bring me to my knees; I won’t co-operate but I might, eventually, concede. I’m a living contradiction, I want you to fuck me, ignore me and punish me all at once; harnessing my guilt and riding it – hard – to redemption.

You know this, of course, and have resolved not to allow me to divert you onto any path through territory of mine, your goal is always to drag me by collar and leash, pouting and provoking, onto your turf and pound me into it until I’m reduced to a slut-slick puddle, syrupy with abnegation. You know what I need and will not allow yourself to become distracted by what I want.

“Write.” you repeat, standing over me with arms crossed.

“I have writer’s block” I mutter, dropping my eyes to the keyboard.

“Don’t give me excuses. You want me to punish you? Yes, you do. You think if you flounce and sulk enough, you can get me to give you what you want? You’re so obvious, slut. If you used half of the energy you put into provoking me on your writing instead, you might have a chance of keeping to schedule.”

You’re not wrong, but you’re deliberately missing the point. Writing takes discipline and focus, neither of these is within my grasp when my cunt is aching to be filled and the rest of me is sharp-edged and brittle with need. Meet me halfway, order me to strip and squat before you, please. Do me a favour; grab my hair and rub yourself over my face, hiss forked-tongue invective against the nape of my neck, flay all the stubborn pride from me until my breasts are mottled red and purple, until fat salty tears spill scouring defeat onto my skin. How can I be expected to produce coherent prose in this state of frenzy?

I could give in, write 500 words about what a merciless bitch you are, whine about my twitching cunt and my plump clit, how I yearn for you to slap me, shove your thick curving cock in me, gag me with your fist and pinch my nipples as I scream and drool and try to bite. I could do what I’m told and be rewarded for it.

I don’t want to be rewarded. I want to be conquered. I can’t smother the embers of resentment that choosing to obey you leaves smouldering; only your boot across my throat can grind them out and leave me quenched. I could write you this plea disguised as logical justification, make a basket of forensic argument to carry this appeal to your ego, if I can only get past the wall of my own.

If I let go of my pride, I could write this.

Sinful Sunday
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