Rolling Hitch It wasn’t really a bedroom. It’s just the first name that popped into Adam

Rolling Hitch It wasn’t really a bedroom. It’s just the first name that popped into Adam’s head when he had tried to describe it. There wasn’t a bed, and even if it had contained the air of ‘bedroom’ when the evening started, it was entirely stripped of that concept by now. No, now it was more approximated as ‘bombsite’. Maybe the more cavalier ‘catastrophe’. A rudimentary effort had been made to clean things up. A wipe down of the horse, a hasty foot sweeping toys into a corner, but that didn’t dispel the general sense of dishevelment that hung in the air, that someone had been stripped bare here, and left exposed for a long time, so very recently. It made the atmosphere thick. It was perfect. They’d come in kissing, Emma walking backwards while he pushed her forwards, but the sight of the room had made them pause, look around, take it all in. She pulled away from him, lent against the horse and watched what he’d do next. It was an easy sort of pressure, more like she was giving him room to breathe rather than putting him on the spot, but it still made him baulk a little. The kitchen table leered in his mind, and he grunted. “So how did this play in your head when you came up to me?” He pushed off the wall, wandered over to the toys, and reached down, plucking a thick pair of leather cuffs from among the mass of still-warm kink. The disparity between their outfits seemed suddenly pronounced. Him in the three piece, her in the none. His fingertips dug into the leather and it creaked. “Well I..” She started, her words fumbling at the entrance of her mouth, as if they didn’t really want to experience the outside. It didn’t matter much, as the slap came in hard and fast, his palm connecting with her cheek with a lewd crack that echoed down the hall. “Hands.” She held them out quickly, her posture receding down into hunched shoulders and dipped head, reticent. He smiled at that. Smiled at how quickly he could cow her, slip into the roles and put her in her place. It felt familiar, but it was tinged with retrospect. This wouldn’t be how it was before. He slipped the cuffs around her wrists, and buckled them tight, then latched them onto one another. “Lie on the horse.” She rolled. Twisted. Turned. Slid. She was a mewling, writhing, submissive now, and he’d robbed her of her voice with that slap. He could see those fairy wings irritating her back as they were clamped between the leather and skin, and he considered leaving them there, letting her wallow in discomfort, one more penance to throw on the pile. “Did you think we’d slip into things like they were a favourite pair of trousers? All comfortable and soft, just the way they were when you left them, crumpled on the floor?” With every word Adam could feel the spite trickling in, and he fought to keep his voice level. He wasn’t pissed, and only a little stoned. This wasn’t about getting even, just letting her know that she’d hurt him, even if he hadn’t shown it. He reached down and ripped the wings away, tossed them on the floor. Her nipples stood up with an absurd eroticism. She didn’t even try to speak this time. She always had been smart. Instead she just licked her lips, watched him with an unsettling attention, and waited for whatever would come next. Her hands dangled, bound, up over her head, and her legs slithered against the base of the horse, a reminder. He picked up another set of cuffs and completed the picture. “Did you think it would be a little rough, perhaps, maybe with a little extra bite to it, but ultimately just another fun little fling on the path to your perfect man, the one who aligns perfectly with what you wanted, you fussy little slut.” Her eyes flared at that, and her back arched, and he smiled. Just stood there, smiling, watching her work herself up without even being touched. For a moment he wondered if she’d been fucked since that last time. “What did I promise you?” He leaned in close for that one, so that she heard every word, felt every word, against her cheek, felt every word raise the hairs at the back of her neck and pound meaning into her skull. It was too direct to be rhetorical. Emma swallowed. “You’d make me beg.” He nodded. “What else?” “Bleed.” She made the word an onomatopoeia, let that vowel seep from her lips. “Good girl.” He crooned, his voice dripping with condescension, before picking up a particularly wicked looking pinwheel and hovering it in front of her eyes, let her drink in the shine of the metal. She swallowed again. And then he started. The force of the wheel was far beyond anything he’d ever done before with the toy, pushing down with each spike until he saw it break skin, creating a single, beautiful droplet of blood on her belly, her ribcage, the underside of her breast. He left a dotted red line up the side of her body that welled and wept, and the whole while she writhed and squirmed like the best of them. It was a slow movement, like she was underwater, like she was a butterfly under the needle, and he drank it in. He wanted to say something. To capture this moment in words the way he had so far, but everything seemed trite, overthought. It felt too considered and constructed, and utterly inept. He needed to do something, to keep this all erotic and not alarming, obscene. He watched the dotted line grow, and slowly blinked. Then he descended upon her, thrust out his tongue and drew it up the whole length of the damage he had done, made it disappear, if only for a moment, into nothing but a faint red smear of blood and saliva. He could taste it, the subtle metallic musk of her, and he could barely think. Barely move, but to continue that line upwards, up over her breast, her nipple, collarbone, neck, chin, a bloody red smear from hipbone to lips. Then he kissed her, sealed it all like a deal, and felt her go up in a blaze.   -- source link

More pics about