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He contemplated his place setting with a little moue of discontent. Mismatched cutlery, a shrivelled little steak, peppercorn sauce slopped haphazardly onto the tablecloth. A chipped beer glass and a slightly deflated beer within it.
I watched his gaze travel to my setting, my regimented cutlery, the neat stack of food on my plate. His eyes flicked up to study my face; I sipped my perfectly poured beer and gazed back at him impassively.
He held my gaze, expression hardening. Excitement and anticipation started boiling in my belly only to wither away when he sighed heavily and broke eye contact.
His sighing and sadness had started 13 days ago; we’d been fooling around, my hands tied behind my back while he spanked my arse. He’d said something straight out of Fifty Shades of Grey and I hadn’t been able to help myself. Twenty minutes of decidedly one-sided hysterical laughter later, I had one ego wounded lover and the beginning of two kinky weeks. It was killing me, and no amount of apologising, comforting or begging (both kinds) had fixed it. When asked he’d just say ‘it’s fine’ and if I was lucky I’d be treated to some relentlessly gentle and loving sex. I hated it.
I was craving a harsh touch, I needed to be rendered helpless and eager under his hands and he just wouldn’t do it. What’s more after two weeks of seeing his slightly deflated expression at any mention of sex I felt like we both needed the catharsis that would come when he brought me to tears by reddening my bottom over his lap. So I’d come up with a new gambit – if he wasn’t going to respond to reasonable behaviour I was just going to have to be unreasonable. And keep being unreasonable until he cracked.
It began in the morning. He’d asked me to make him a coffee – I’d acceded silently, but delivered it lukewarm with dark little grounds floating in it. When I put it down next to him it sloshed over the side onto the coffee table. He’d given me a puzzled look and I’d smiled sweetly before walking away. I showered without inviting him to join me. I took my time, used all the hot water, and then his razor, leaving it sitting in a puddle on the floor. I left the lid off his shampoo and deposited a sizeable spiral of long red hairs on the glass wall after I combed conditioner through. Getting out I slopped water on the floor and sprayed flecks of toothpaste over the mirror, smirking at myself through my white spotty reflection.
I escalated as the hours passed – he’d wanted a quiet Saturday in, I blasted bands he hated on the stereo; I made myself lunch without offering him any; I monopolised the couch & kept turning the heating up after he turned it down. In the afternoon I upped the ante – I changed into a very short dress (“It’s too hot in here now”) and started “cleaning”. This process involved lot of noise, unnecessary bending and reaching, and covert little glances.
I caught him watching me; I made sure to crash the vacuum cleaner into his feet; I took his coffee away before he was finished with it. I threw the paper out immediately after I read it. His expression grew increasingly exasperated as the day passed and I knew he would crack. I thought I had him when I passed him in the hall with a basket of washing – he leaned back against the wall out of my way and I turned awkwardly so my arse pressed against his crotch as I sidled past. I felt him hesitate and his hands lifted from his sides, but he collected himself with a sigh and squeezed his way out. Frustrated, I had a second shower and used all the hot water again, then wandered around the house clutching my towel loosely around me in one hand and dripping water over half the floors.
Then came my dinner gambit – the over-cooked steak, watery mash, blackened zucchini. Only his of course, mine were obviously perfect. When his portion of the zucchini set off the smoke alarm I took my time dealing with it, sauntering around the kitchen snacking on all the ingredients first. I watched him sit behind his laptop, and saw something building in him, as he finally accepted that I was deliberately trying to infuriate him. It pleased me.
After his sigh at the dinner table I ate my meal, making quiet little exclamations to no one in particular about how good it tasted. The silence from him was deafening but I prattled on and murmured to myself anyway. When I took his plate away before he was finished eating he gave me a furious disbelieving look. I saw the muscles in his jaw twitching and he gritted his teeth. I dropped the plate in the sink, almost shattering it and spattering mashed potato all over the counter. I trotted back to him and he watched me approach warily. I felt like I was moving in slow motion as I crossed the floor toward him, and reached out for his half finished beer. He went to pick it up and I snatched it out of his hand, slopping beer down his front and into his lap. He stared at me, his expression darkening.
‘Oops!’ I said as I stepped back, giggling. He extended his hand toward me and I froze. He grasped the front of my dress and twisted, pulling me toward him. My pulse skyrocketed and I crowed victoriously in my own head. I pulled back against his grip, my expression deliberately petulant. He jerked me closer before pushing me toward the ground.
‘Kneel.’ His voice was tight with barely restrained anger and it thrilled me. He let go of my shirt as I dropped to the ground in front of him and he twisted one big hand through my hair, forcing me to look up at him. I loved the scale of him, his height, and the strength in his arm. He pulled me half off the ground and pressed my face hard against his wet crotch, soaking me with the spilt beer. He hissed down at me and I felt his cock hardening where my face was pressed against it, and turned my head to hide my smile. He was magnificent in his anger.
‘Am I correct in understanding that this,’ he gave my head a little shake and pressed me harder against the wetness, “and the rest of the completely infuriating things you’ve done today have been deliberate?” He tightened his grip still further in my hair and forced me to look up at him. I squeaked, thought for a minute and then pouted up at him.
‘Yeah.’ I muttered. He gave my head another little shake, scowling.
‘Yeah?’ His lips pursed and he stared down at me, expectantly. I hesitated.
‘Yes Sir.’ He let go of my hair roughly and I hit the ground with a thud.
‘Clean this mess up. I’m going to go have a shower, I want this kitchen immaculate and you naked and ready for me in the bedroom when I’m done.’
He disappeared toward the shower. I eased myself off the ground and contemplated my next move – had I pushed him far enough? Would he change his mind in the shower? I contemplated the mess on the floor and in the kitchen. I heard him turn the water on and my eyes were inexorably drawn to the sink and the hot water tap. A little more reinforcement couldn’t hurt. I waited until I was sure he’d gotten into the shower, squirted some detergent around haphazardly and turned the hot water on. I heard the distinctive sound the pipes made when they were struggling to supply enough water; the kitchen sink always won. I listened for any signs of discontent. Nothing yet. I let the hot water run long enough to fill the sink a few inches and then turned it off, and started stacking dishes. He was still showering. I tested the water in the sink with a finger – too hot to wash in. I turned the cold tap on full blast and got the thunk sound again. I listened carefully, but heard no reaction. I decided to leave it a bit longer this time, so I actually did some of the dishes. He did like long showers. I drained the sink, and started the process again – hot tap, and then a break, then the cold tap, the thunk happening each time as it diverted the water from the shower. Then the cold tap again. I smirked to myself.
I heard him turn the water off, the shower door shut, and the bathroom door open. His footsteps started thundering over the wooden floor towards me. I could picture him striding down the hallway, a scowl darkening his face. My heart started racing in my chest and I put down the sponge; I turned around and rested back against the sink to watch him come. He came around the corner at speed, dripping water, a white towel tucked loosely around his hips, wearing the scowl I loved. Christ, he looked like a walking wet dream. I braced my hands against the counter behind me as he approached, and looked up at him.
‘Over the counter. Now.’
I smirked, and took my time, wandering unnecessarily around to the other side. I could almost feel the anger and heat radiating from him. When I got to a section of the long counter that suited me, and started to lean over it he twisted his hand in my hair and pulled me bodily onto it. I cried out in pain but he ignored me and used his spare hand to pull my underwear down roughly. His hand came down hard on my arse with a slap, unceremoniously, the force grinding my pubic mound into the countertop. I squealed and shuddered and tried to turn my head to look at him, but he used his grip in my hair to pull me further onto the counter so my head was hanging off the edge.
‘Quiet. This is what you wanted isn’t it? All this playacting and fucking around and then that little stunt with the hot water. This is what you were aiming for isn’t it?’ Each question was punctuated with the sharp sensation of his palm slapping my arse; it pressed me hard against the cold marble and it hurt, but having him let loose on me was exactly what I wanted. He tightened his grip in my hair again and growled at me.
‘Answer me.’ He let go of my hair to rest one hand on my back, not so much holding me down as making it clear to me that I wasn’t to try and get up. His hand just kept raining down blows, my arse feeling swollen and red and my hips getting sore from thudding against the hard surface.
‘Yes Sir. It is what I wanted.’ He was relentless, pausing only to squeeze and pinch my skin, rubbing where he’d just hit. I felt my body relaxing into the pain, my pussy growing wet, even as I could feel other parts of me growing bruised from the mistreatment.
‘You wanted me to do this? To drag you across the countertop and spank your little smart arse until you cried? Because I am going to keep going until you cry, you know, you’ve earned it.’ I gritted my teeth.
‘Yes Sir, I did want you to spank me until I cried.’ I knew he wouldn’t accept two word answers. He paused his movements to stroke my throbbing skin, his fingers creeping down towards my pussy. I tried to arch my back eagerly.
‘And what does that make you? The kind of girl who wants to be bent over in the kitchen and punished every time she’s bad?’ His fingers slid ever so slightly into my pussy, barely a centimetre, teasing.
‘A slut, Sir.’ I breathed the answer out.
‘Is that right then? You’re a slut? A filthy horny slut who can’t get off unless she’s being treated as she deserves?’
‘Yes Sir. I am a slut.’
‘And what happens to sluts, sweetheart?’ His tone was menacing.
‘They get punished Sir,’ I pondered for a fraction of a second, ‘and then fucked,’ I added optimistically. He laughed and withdrew his fingers from my pussy.
‘You think so, do you? I’m sure you deserve a spanking, but I don’t know about the fucking.’
He went back to spanking me, extracting squeals from me, making me writhe and grind myself against the counter. I knew I’d have bruises from this tomorrow, across my arse, and my hips and ribs where they pressed against the countertop. I felt more and more overwhelmed by the sensation, the pain, the helplessness, relief that balance had been restored and I had him back, my bossy lover and not the insipid thing I’d had for the last two weeks.
Tears started to leak out from my closed eyes, I was flushed and sweaty and sore, and he didn’t let up. I’d not been counting to begin with, but even if I had been I would have lost count by now. I couldn’t help myself, I tried to wriggle away but his hand pushed harder on my back and pressed me into place. At the same time I was trying to avoid his blows I was wriggling and trying to get some kind of satisfaction. I knew better than to try it with my hands. After I’d screamed and arched and wriggled for what felt like the two hundredth time he finally stopped, resting his hand on my arse.
I heard him wander to the other side of the kitchen, open a drawer and wander back. I heard the unmistakable sound of him ripping duct tape off the roll. He pulled my hands roughly behind my back, squeezed my wrists together and taped them up unceremoniously.
‘Are you crying yet sweetheart?’ he asked.
‘And what do you want now, then?’ My pussy ached. I felt horribly empty and desperate for a fuck. He knew what I wanted.
‘To be fucked Sir. For you to come inside me.’
“Ah, good girl. I knew you would.” I heard him move around to stand in front of me, and his hand slid back into my hair almost gently and he pulled my head up to look at him. He held my gaze and un-knotted the towel from around his hips.
The angle he’d pulled my head up thrust my collarbones roughly into the counter, everything hurt. My throbbing arse and my aching pussy and my bruised torso; still, I took his cock eagerly into my mouth, humiliation and desire thrumming through me like a second heartbeat. I wrapped my lips around him and slid my tongue down his shaft, and tried to relax my throat. In this awkward position, without use of my hands and with him controlling the movement of my head, there was no artistry, no subtlety, nothing but long practice and arousal and eagerness. I tried to please him as he fucked my face, forcing his cock roughly down my throat, I sucked and swallowed and felt thick saliva start running down my chin. I strained to glance up at him and saw him smiling down at me, pleased, his face transfixed. He pulled my mouth off him and held me a few inches away from his cock.
‘Does that counter edge hurt your collarbone sweetheart?’ He lifted me up so I could answer him.
‘Good.’ He moved my mouth to within a hair’s breadth of his cock, just out of reach.
‘Try for it. Try to reach it. I want you to grind that little body into the counter and bruise yourself to show me how much you want to be my good cocksucking little slut.’
I struggled and strained towards him, my tongue stretched out, my lips reaching for him. I was his good cocksucking little slut, I spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about it. Sometimes so much so it seemed like he might have hypnotised me, if that was even possible. When he finally allowed my lips to touch the head of his shaft I moaned with relief and tried to wriggle myself onto him, uncaring about the damage I did to my skin on the bench top. He shoved his cock roughly down my throat, making me cough and choke. He’d hold me down just a little bit longer than I was comfortable, watching me struggle and strain to breathe, and pull me off gasping at the last minute. When I was gasping, my lips swollen and throbbing, he tilted my head up to look at him again.
‘What does my little slut want me to do now? Should I come on your face? Or is there something else you’d prefer?’ I was bruised and horny and desperate.
‘Fuck me please Sir, please, for god’s sake fuck me.’ I could barely speak.
‘Oh, really? Do you think you’ve earned it?’ I shuddered and strained, terrified that he might not do it.
‘Yes Sir, please, I’ve tried to please you, please just fuck me I’m so fucking turned on.’
He let go of me, and moved around behind me. His fingers gripped my thighs like a vice and pulled them roughly apart. I felt the head of his cock rubbing against my slit, and I moaned, uncontrollably and tried to wriggle back toward him so he’d fuck me.
‘And if I fuck you, you’ll be good the rest of the day? Beg and plead and scrape and be my little slut who does whatever I want?’
‘Yes Sir, oh god please yes, anything, just fuck me, or I’ll die.’
He shoved his cock into me. I felt like I might pass out, the sensation of him stretching me out and crushing me against the counter driving me crazy. He drove in and out of me, relentlessly, my pussy throbbing and convulsing around him. I was so horny, so desperate, so eager. His cock pushed forcefully against my cervix, hurting me, but I didn’t care. I felt him knot his hand in my hair and pull my head back again, forcing me to arch myself against the counter, pulling me further back onto him. I was squealing with every thrust now, every breath, his thumb slid into my asshole ever so casually and I moaned, eager to come. I started writhe and beg and plead, blurting filth for him, promising everything, just to be allowed to come. He started to thrust faster and harder but his hand never crept around to my clit to give me the satisfaction I begged for. I felt him harden inside me and knew he was about to come. I kept begging, desperate, almost crying as I felt his cock start to convulse inside me.
‘Please Sir, please make me come.’
I squeezed the words out as he pounded into me a last few times, his thumb in my arse holding my hips still. I felt him coming, spurting inside me, he pulled out for the last few strokes and jerked himself off over me, smearing my pussy lips and arse with his come. His heavy breathing subsided and I gave it one last try.
‘Please Sir, please let me come.’ He withdrew his thumb from my arse, giving my cheek a rough squeeze with his other hand.
‘No. You’re going to lie here, sore and aching and desperate, and covered in come, and think about what you’ve done. I’m going to take a nap.’
I shuddered, desperate, and writhed on the bench as I heard him walk away. I listened to him shut the bedroom door, and heard him climb onto the bed. I sighed, felt my weight press once more into the hard bench, and shut my eyes, resigned.
© Audrey Bird 2014
Audrey Bird is yet another Antipodean living in London, where she spends most of her time daydreaming about returning to the tropics. She’s currently experimenting with writing from perspectives not her own, and one day hopes that all the filthy stories will make her richer than God (aka JK Rowling).
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