Knkstriped

Owned

Black and white photo looking upwards, I’m leaning over the camera wearing only a collar

“Put your collar on, I’m going to fuck you”

Crude, stark words that make my lips tingle, a bloom of adrenaline and lust that builds as I turn them over in my mind; imperative, imperious, licentious. Fetching and fastening the collar under your coldly appraising gaze, I kneel and find myself smiling eagerly up at you. That tone, it gets me feeling that pleasing you is the most important thing in the world. Also, it makes me wet. Just like the cool leather collar does when you wrap it snugly around my throat and lock the buckle into place.

“Open your mouth.”

Two fingers, exploring and probing. Three, jabbing. Four, cramming my mouth, forcing my jaw wide. “Mmmfff,” and you chuckle at my slut’s lust and the way it humbles me before you, puts me at your mercy. The fingers are withdrawn.

“Bend over,” you order, gesturing at the blocky arm of the two-seater sofa, high and rigid, it’s just the not-quite-right height for you to fuck me over, only a centimetre or so too tall, but the discomfort is enough to strum at my mind with notes from my darker fantasies; the ones where I pretend that my participation is not voluntary. When I shared this insight with you, you smiled loftily and said “I know.”, since then I’ve noticed you eyeing other items of furniture with a dark, speculative look, measuring and comparing. I have to stand straight-legged, working my over-tight hamstrings and bracing myself to hold the uncompromising edges of the chair arm at bay. I like to suffer for your pleasure – just a little – and happily, you are in accordance, delighting in the taste of recreational bastardry.

You’re poised and ready; the instant I have settled myself into place, you step forward and nail me in place, hard and deep. Thrusting with brisk and callous efficiency, digging claw-hands into the soft padding around my hips, you do exactly what you said you would, fuck me, like it’s your right and your due, shoving my head down into the cushion to muffle my squeaks of encouragement.

If I said “Stop” right now, you would; if I pushed you away, you’d step back. The knowledge is never far from my mind, the desire to do so never further in this moment. Instead, I reach behind me, spread myself wider for you, entreat you deeper. My willingness to be used spurs you onwards, inwards; rough, demanding strokes that claim me as yours, melt my heart and my cunt until I’m filled and spilling over with the lusty joy of being owned.


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