Chained

We had just spent the evening with a new couple: dinner, drinks and talk; later, play. He hadn’t hurt me, maybe because I was planning to get the new piercings, maybe because he didn’t want to scare or shock them; I don’t know which. But I went to bed unmolested and slept peacefully.

To be awakened by his arm around my neck, pulling me tight against him.  The other hand, groping, squeezing, then pushing my thighs apart.

His voice in my ear:  “I’m not going to hurt your cunt, since you’re getting steel rings in it Sunday,” he said. “But I’m going to fuck it raw, because I won’t get to use it for the next two weeks.”

It made an odd kind of sense to me, there in the pre-dawn dark of his bedroom.  Because I know what it’s really like to have him hurt me there, to really hurt my cunt, and it ain’t fucking it raw, of that you can be sure.

I was shocked–offended, really–the first time he dug his fingers into my cunt. The first time anyone had hurt my cunt. It made it very clear how truly vulnerable I was, there in his ropes, and I didn’t like it.

Except that I did.  I liked that feeling of vulnerability, of having completely lost control to him, of knowing he could–and would–do exactly what he wanted to me, regardless of if I “liked” it.

That morning I lost count of the times he woke and rolled over onto me, shoving his cock into me. Tired, sore, half-asleep, my body still responded. It opened to him, it sucked him inside itself, my cunt dripped; I panted, moaned, cried and came, again and again. Until I was raw, until I wanted no more…

And then he stopped, and I woke to no more demands on my body by him.  I lay there, replete, dozing. And thought about his cock in me, thought about the nasty stories he had told me all that long morning, and my hand strayed to the tender place between my legs.

I was wet, yet again. Unbelievably, stupidly, wet.  And so, so sore.  I drew my hand away, but it was too late: he had seen.

“Make it come,” he said.

I shook my head mutely.

Sharper now: “Do it.”

“No, please, I’m sore–”

A hand on my throat.  “DO it.

A moan.  Of course I will acquiesce. I ask for lube, though. I really am terribly tender, and it helps with the hood ring.  He allows it, and I begin to stroke myself.

He clamps the hand around my throat again.  I gasp, fear and excitement lancing through me. And in my head a fantasy: chained by one wrist to a wall in a cell-like room, he sends anonymous men in to fuck me.  They don’t speak, except to call me whore or cunt, or to tell me I am hole for their use, for their cocks, and nothing more.  They shove me down on the bed and use my hole, not even looking at me as they do so; shoving me back over onto my face, away from them, when they are through with me.

I come with that image in my head, straining against the chain on my wrist and the hand on my throat, coming because I am his and he has told me to; coming because I am chained to him as surely as if I had really been in that room, chained to the wall.

3 Comments

  1. marianne says:

    Wow. Nicely written, and so much erotic tension here.

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