He wants me to masturbate for Him.
For wants read demands.
He’d already wrung orgasm after orgasm out of me.
I was hyper sensitive, and struggling against His grasp on my wrist.
‘Fine. You do it then, if you don’t want me to do it’ He interjects amongst my moans and gasps.
Ah fuck, thinks I…..and I pause momentarily to consider the possible ramifications of that order.
But, it’s no biggie, it’s not like I’ve not done this for Him before.
My hand moves down, fingers settling to rest on my *ouch you bastard* exceptionally sensitive clit.
‘Look at me’ He says, voice calm and steady.
‘Tell me what you’re thinking about as you make yourself cum’
I look away.
I fucking hate when He wants me to do that.
‘No!’ He responds, grabbing my face roughly with His hand, fingers pressing into my cheeks.
‘LOOK.AT.ME’, He commands, each word punctuated by a brief, but heavy pause.
I shake my head, and try to break free of His grip.
I am NOT doing this.
You want eye contact, motherfucker, go stare at yourself in the fucking mirror, *thinks I…..
*It would have been a very bad idea to vocalise this thought at this particular juncture.
I try, again, to break free, and He grabs my hair, giving me no choice but to look at Him.
Fuck you, Sir, thinks I…..
His voice softens slightly.
‘Tell me what you are thinking’ He insists.
But I can’t, thinks I…..
I have nowhere to go.
I can’t get out of this.
All I’m doing by resisting is delaying the inevitable.
So I tell Him, word by deeply embarrassing word, fingers moving with increasing need down below.
Why am I finding this so hard? thinks I……it’s not like we’ve never shared fantasies and turn ons before.
I’m angry, and horny, and resentful, and flustered, and flushed, and oh fuck this feels so good.
I cum, hard, whimpering as I do.
I experience conflicting emotions, my mind in a state of tumult, my body having betrayed me as it always does, deriving pleasure for itself, and I suddenly feel very small.
‘Thank you for sharing’ He says, the strong, dominant tone of His voice replaced by tenderness and warmth.
Any fury I was still harbouring at that point dissipates as the words flirt with my senses, and I can’t help but smile.
Well played, Monsieur, well played.