((I saw a suggestion somewhere that trigger warnings may be appreciated by some fellow DPP users on here. So going forward, I might try and include them where applicable. With that said, TW for the following: Domestic abuse, and dub/non-con elements))

“Ugh, the two of you are absolutely insufferable, you know that, right?” Jennifer says with a groan, smiling and rolling her eyes as she watches the two of us huddle closer together for warmth from the stiff breeze that billows down the street. The four of us — you, me, your childhood friend Jennifer, and the latest guy in the revolving door of handsome yet vacuous men that seemed to occupy her bedroom for a few weeks at a time — had exited the newly opened downtown restaurant where we had gone for our double date. The meal had been excellent, but probably not ‘$65 for a main course excellent’. Nonetheless, I knew the maître d’, and we had been able to get a table where other people would be on the waiting list for a few months at least, so we took the opportunity when it was presented to us.

Now, the four of us were fighting against the frigid cold as we waited for our two separate Ubers, aided somewhat by the warmth provided by the two bottles of wine we’d managed to polish off. The moment we’d stepped onto the street, I’d taken the long wool coat hanging over my arm and almost instinctively slid it over your small, shivering shoulders, planting a gentle kiss on the the crook of your slender neck while I was there (this is what had prompted Jennifer to remark about how apparently insufferable we were). You were small, and I was large, so my coat hung loose and almost reached the bottom of your bare calves. My broad arms encircle your waist and you almost melt into my embrace. In contrast, Jennifer stands a metre away, shivering, arms folded, while her date taps rapidly on his phone and mutters something about having lost a key player on his fantasy football team to injury. I smile and toss a sympathetic wink to Jennifer, who rolls her eyes once more, already regretting not having booked a ride just for herself.

We exchange hugs and handshakes, say our goodbyes, and slide into the Uber together, bodies practically conjoined at the hip until the driver scolds us for not having our seatbelts on and we’re forced to slide apart. We laugh and reminisce about things said during the evening. We take pleasure in that familiar buzz of alcohol that courses through our veins, and causes our speech to slur ever so slightly. Your hand finds mine and sinks into my palm, fingers interlacing. We make predictions on whether Jennifer breaks up with the guy that night, or if he survives till the next morning. The car makes its way through the bustling streets, getting closer to our apartment. My hand slides along your thigh and toys with the already short hem of your cocktail dress, causing your breath to noticeably hitch with excitement.

We end this portion of the evening as in love as we were the day we laid eyes on one another.

*

It’s been an hour since then. We’re back at our midtown apartment. Cool, blue-tinted light from the almost-full moon washes through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing the industrial interior and minimalist furnishings of our shared abode. The silence of the AM is interrupted only by the gentle hum of our fridge, the metronomic ticking of a stainless steel clock that hangs on the kitchen wall, the occasional car horn echoing up from the street 17 floors below us, and lastly, the ragged breathing and hitched sobs streaming from our bedroom.

Your black dress lies by the foot of the bed, one of the straps completely snapped and much of the fine silk now tattered. It was expensive, and you’d only had the chance to wear it once, but the reality was that the better you looked in an outfit, the more likely it was to end up torn and unwearable. My own shirt is unbuttoned, revealing olive skin, modestly defined abdominals, and a smattering of dark chest hair that rises and falls with my pectorals as I suck in large gulps of air. My slacks are unbuttoned, and unzipped, yet cling to my hipbones by the barest of margins, threatening to slide down the thick, slightly spread trunks of my legs and pool by my large feet if I make too sudden a movement. The leather belt that I’d been wearing all night is clutched in my hand by the buckle, and wrapped around my knuckles once more for good measure. It dangles like some venomous snake from my hand, well-treated leather creaking with surprising audibility when I flex my grip on the makeshift whip.

“What are you, fucking crying?” I say, one lip slightly curled with disdain, but my deep voice eerily calm and low. The drawl of alcohol and rich food has disappeared. My eyes are now wide and alight with predatory menace. I sound like a man in control. A man with clearly defined expectations for how this evening began, and how it will end.

And at my feet, there you lie, prone, slowly shuffling forward as your toes curl and dig for purchase on the polished concrete beneath you. Porcelain white skin shimmering like an ocean pearl in the dark of the room, save for seven deep, red, rapidly bruising, welted marks that are haphazardly splashed across the plump curve of your asscheeks and the curved ridge of your lower back. Your large, innocent eyes are now tear streaked, mascara smudged and running in thin trails down your cheeks, one of which is red from where the back of my hand had struck it 10 minutes earlier. Inside the crotch of my CK boxer-briefs, the thick, dark, shaft of my cock throbs like it has a second heart located in its very core. Thick, purple veins engorge as my heavy balls tighten with anticipation. Everything about my manhood seems to become dense, like a dying star that compresses with unparalleled weight and gravity. The sight of you like this — breaking, if not already broken — stirs that ancient and primal kind of evil inside me, one that fuels itself in a dangerous positive-feedback loop. The more I hurt you, the more I want to hurt you.

I draw my arm back. The belt cuts through the air with a soft swsshh. My dick throbs like a fucking hydro-pump, pulsing a knot of viscous pre-cum into my briefs that soaks the material through with the fertile cream. I throw my arm forward with frightening speed, a grunt of exertion streaming from between my clenched teeth. I see you instinctively tighten the muscles of your thighs and ass, in anticipation of a blow you know you can’t avoid. The belt strikes pale flesh with an ungodly crack that is soon followed by a squeal of feminine pain so high-pitched it could probably act as a goddamn dog-whistle.

“Shhh,” I say, my voice gentle, yet somehow that just makes it seem all the more sadistic. I throw the belt aside and drop to one knee behind you, forcing my palm into the tear-drop shaped gap between your thighs, which I spread a little wider with only the merest suggestion of force. I can actually feel the heat radiating from your reddening ass, which is matched only by the tropical humidity that seems to pulse in waves from your dripping slit. I speak again; soft, calm, measured, in control. “Why do I hurt you?”

“F-fuck you!” You choke out between ragged breaths.

I bring my hand back faster than you can possibly react, and then strike your bald cunt with the open face of my fingers. Your scream lights up the room, and it’s everything I can do not to cum merely from the sound of it.

“Why do I hurt you?” I repeat, no louder or more forceful than I had been a moment prior.

Your hand clenches and unclenches in front of you, slams against the floor once, and then you look back over your shoulder at me. Our eyes connect and the crackle of electricity that passes between that gaze can not be understated. “Because… because you love me.”

“Good girl.” I say, smiling as I spread your legs wider and position myself between them. My slacks are around my knees now, and I begin to peel down the hem of my briefs, which are soaked with several knots of gooey pre-cum. My cock springs out like a rabid dog set free of its cage. It’s not the longest cock you’ll ever see, nor the longest you’ve ever had, but it’s easily the thickest. The bulge of the veins and the curve of the shaft give the impression that it was carved from some kind of prehistoric slab of granite; an ancient, unfinished thing that was made to inflict itself on women, rather than to be accepted willingly by them.

“I love you...”

You feel the engorged flare of my glans slide between your throbbing asscheeks, the drooling slit of my cock-head applying pressure against the clenched pucker of your asshole.

“Please no.” You say, so quietly that you may as well have been speaking only to the ground that your face is pressed against.

“...Let me show you how much.”

Kinks/themes for this prompt: a loving, yet ultimately toxic relationship; violent arguments that lead to violent sex; slapping/beating/spanking/belting; rough sex; clothes tearing; painal; forced breeding; size difference; general D/s; gentle (soft spoken) and casual misogyny; high-class themes (nice clothes, locations and mannerisms etc.)

Limits: Underage characters; foot play; celebrities; vomit; scat; torture; heavy bondage; gore.

This prompt isn’t necessarily a jumping off point, it merely captures the vibe of what I’m after. The length of the prompt is by no means an indication of what I expect from a partner in terms of post length, but it is a template for the level of effort expected (if that makes sense). Despite how the prompt is written, I have absolutely no interest in controlling your character during the roleplay, and your character doesn’t have to look like the one I’ve outlined in the prompt. First-person preferred for this one, but I can work in third person as well.

Thanks for reading!