Impact Crater Her underwear clung to her like reluctance, the last vestigial moment of hesitation be

Impact Crater Her underwear clung to her like reluctance, the last vestigial moment of hesitation before she was lost to him. She squirmed, turned away, played his game just as he played hers. They both knew the rules, and they’d both break them. Which was half the point.  More than half, now that she thought of it. It was subverting expectation and watching subversion rise up in the room like a heatwave, making them sweat, making them squirm. Making him thrust and her buckle, her entire body wrapping around him like an impact crater.  He taped her hands behind her back. The sticky glue of the adhesive prickled and pinched, but the discomfort only hammered home the comfort of him inside her. The way he'd fill, and she’d be filled. She squeezed him, and he grunted in approval, one hand slipped around her throat, for laters, while the other ran fingers through her hair, found the knots, forced them clear.  He was staring into her eyes when he slapped her. It came as a surprise, and her anger beat her arousal to the forefront of her mind. Her eyes flashed, and he smirked, watching her squirm before the pain washed over her, purging clear everything else, the fact that he’d had the gall, the wherewithal, the fucking balls to put a hand to her face, and the fact that she’d been unable to do anything to stop it. There was just the pain, and there was the thousand fucking circuits wired directly to her throbbing cunt, each one screaming yes.  He did it again, but this time she was too gone to care. She just squirmed and squeezed and pulled against the bonds, trying to get clear so that she could score deep trenches in his back with her nails. Give a little back. She chuckled at the pun, and he laughed with her, not giving a fuck what the joke was. Just enjoying the moment.  He thrust, harder than before, burying himself in her, before he began pumping in earnest, overloading those circuits, overwhelming that wash, drowning her in it. Death by orgasm, the best kind of firing line. She could barely beg him for permission, barely whimper the words into his waiting ear, before it overrode her, his last minute ‘Go on then’ barely registered, almost given after the fact.  The hand at her throat. The hand she’d forgotten about. The hand that had been sitting there calmly for five minutes while he fucked her silly.  The hand squeezed, and she was catapulted into oblivion. -- source link

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