Thirst

The truth is, I want sex. I crave it. But only within the context of a power exchange dynamic. Vanilla sex fucks with me too bad. It's traumatic. I need to be beneath somebody, even if I'm on top of them.

Sir understood this about me. He saw my insecurity, my anxiety about sex, and knew that the more he wanted to fuck me, the more power I had and the less he had. So, he waited. Waited while he worked me over. While he conditioned me with fragrances worn in his presence, trained me to drop to my knees and assume positions at nuanced, subtle hand gestures that I learned to carefully watch for. Waited while he disciplined me and provided structure which was beneficial to me. Together, over the months, we broke me down. Together, we built a stronger, sharper, more resolved version of myself and a more confident, creative, and benevolently, beautifully sinister version of himself.

Eventually, there became a point where all I had to give to him no longer seemed to be enough. Over the months I grew desperate. My desire had become this smoldering ember that burned in my chest when I saw him. Somewhere along the way, I found myself wanting to give everything of me to him.

One evening, with trembling hands, I dug in my drawer to discover the pair of pink panties that we long ago agreed would be the signal for when I was ready. Now a size too large, I put them on and drive to his house to meet him for our night.

We have dinner with a show before scrolling our phones amid a half-hour sushi afterglow. Sat beside him, I catch his lingering eye in my peripheral vision and know that I've just become prey for the night. Perfect.

He keeps me clothed while he pins and restrains me in the bedroom. He works me over, then he tortures me.

When his work is done he leaves me there for an indeterminable amount of time. My skin is slick with sweat, my shirt is soaked from the drool sliding down my chin, my eyes puffy and face wet with tears hidden beneath the blindfold and harness ballgag. I continue to wait for him.

He comes back for me. He always does. He knows I need to be there, but he never leaves me there too long. As he undoes me I know I want this man to fuck me right here. I need this man to fuck me. He has given me so much, been nothing but patient with me. I know he's wanted this, but he knows it was never something he could take from me.

But we had our signal. That way I wouldn't have to ask or tell, and he would just know, and then it would be ok and it would happen. As he finished stripping off my shirt and began pulling down my leggings, he saw them. The pink panties, now too big, refused to stay in place on my ass.

"What're those?"

"Oh yeah," I said, voice small and shaky, "They barely fit anymore. Do you remember them?"

"Yeah, I do."

He stands up and lifts me by my waist to stand in front of him, kissing me deep and slow. He then takes me by the shoulders and spins me around, pushing me over the side of the bed. Taking my ass cheeks firmly in both hands, he spreads them apart.

"You want me to fuck this?"

"Yes... Sir."

He puts a hand on my lower back and pushes me down, arching my ass further up.

"You want me to fuck this thirsty little pussy?"

He rubs his spit covered fingers up and down across the skin of my asshole.

"Yes, Sir. Please fuck me. I want it so fucking bad. Please, Sir! I'm ready and I want it so bad!"

His hand falls across my ass cheek. Hard. I squeal, caught by surprise.

"Tell me again."

"Please, Sir, I want you to fuck my pussy! I want your cock so bad! I need your cock, Sir!" Tears pour from my eyes, but I'm not crying.

He hits me again on the same cheek, and again. His other hand goes to the back of my neck, pinning me down. I feel his hard cock between my legs.

"Tell me again."

I tell him again how badly I want him to fuck me. I beg him to fuck me.

His hand falls one last time, but instead of raising it again he leaves it there, gripping. He leans forward, swollen cock pressed between my ass cheeks, and whispers into my ear.

"Get in bed, cuddleslut. Aftercare time."

My breath stops short, my eyes open wide. A feeling of unreality sweeps through me like a cold gust of air before an approaching storm on a hot summer day. I feel like I'm falling. I turn my head involuntarily to look at him over my shoulder. He's taking his contact lenses out in the bathroom. I go to speak but don't know what to say, and so my mouth just hangs open. My leggings and panties are bunched up, resting at my ankles. I finish stepping out of them and wearily crawl into bed.

The pain emanating throughout my body is starting to move to the forefront of my consciousness. The ache in my nipples from the clamps returns, and I suddenly realize how thirsty I am. Silently, Sir appears next to the bed with a full glass of water and asks me to drink at least most of it. I drink all of it and ask for more. Returning, he lays down and holds me while I quietly, limply thank him for the water.