Page 99 of Lesson Learned

“You ready? Are you ready for me to take you?”

I’m twisted into so many shapes by his muscular arms I don’t have the freedom to reply. But he does it for me, jerking my head up and down in a nod, giving the answer he wants. That we both want.

As quickly as he drew me back against him, he now shoves me away, thrusting my face into the pillow, his hand a metal vice pinning me in place.

With his other hand, he raises me onto my haunches, slapping my knees until I spread them wide.

Another helping of lube lands on my arse, warming as he spreads it, as much across my butt cheeks as inside me. So much they must glisten in the light.

Then the head of his cock nudges against me, his finger returning for a moment to ready the way, then it’s back, easing into me.

“You’re so tight,” he murmurs, voice dripping with appreciation, oozing with it, as thick and wet as another helping of lube. “Push back against me. Show you want me, baby.”

I try but when he sinks another inch into me, my muscles reverse direction, clenching tight until all I can feel is the ache where he’s stretching me wide, too wide, so wide I must be close to ripping, tearing, coming apart like wet tissue, giving under the strain.

He pulls back, fisting my hair, dragging my face from the pillow, allowing me to haul in a breath before he shoves it back down. “Stop fighting me.” There’s a note of warning wrapped around the command. “Let me in, baby, or I’ll have to force my way and I don’t think you’ll enjoy that one bit.”

A deep inhalation steadies me, then I try again, pushing against his intrusion until he slides deeper, and the stretch becomes a steady burn.

“Are you all the way in?” Even muffled by the pillow, my voice is more a cry than a question. My hands fist in the sheets to each side, muscles clenched so tightly even my nibbled fingernails leave tracks.

“Don’t speak unless you ask permission,” he answers, releasing the pressure on his hand until I lift my head, then sliding between it and the pillow to muzzle me.

His weight leans forward, the pressure inside me increasing until I squirm. When he’s so far over his lips reach my ears, he whispers, “And permission isn’t granted.”

My eyes screw tightly shut, my shoulders hunching. When he stands on his knees again, he takes me with him, the hand across my mouth holding my head against his chest.

The ache eases, then increases exponentially as he withdraws and plunges inside me again. His movement is smoother this time, but tears squeeze from the corners of my eyes.

“This is what you wanted,” he reminds me in that same mocking tone. I try to grasp hold of the teasing note behind it, but it slips away. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you to be careful what you ask for?”

He moves again, increasing his speed. Then again, and again, finding a rhythm, turning the individual thrusts into a steady stroke that surges and retreats, surges, and retreats. The burn dwindles, pleasure joining at the edge of the pain.

“You look so good,” he whispers, and the mockery is gone, replaced by something akin to awe. “Your tiny body looks so good taking my fat cock.”

He pushes me flat against the bed again, reaching for his phone before drawing us back into position. “I’m going to film you; would you like that? If you look as pretty as I think you will, we can share it with the world.”

The onslaught of panic is tinged with pride. A weird exhibitionist comes out of hiding, half wanting his words to be a promise rather than a threat.

My head goes into the pillow again as he changes position, trying to get the best camera angle. “Look at that sweet arse, baby. You’re so small I must be tearing you apart.”

But he’s not. Not any longer. The ache is now an accompaniment to the rhythmic pulse of pleasure rather than the main course.

His thumb presses around where we’re joined, smoothing the skin, massaging the lube in like it’s moisturiser.

“My pretty little angel. Do you want to see?”

Embarrassment has me cringing, but he’s not asking a question. When he tugs me back against his chest, lube slippery fingers covering my mouth, strangely scented with strawberries, he positions the device where we can both watch.

Streaks smear across the screen, put there by his lube-coated fingers. I watch, wincing in embarrassment at first, then detaching from the image, consuming it with the same rapt attention I’d watch some top shelf degradation porn, getting into it so when the short clip ends, I express my dissatisfaction into the fingers clamped across my mouth, snorting indignantly until he presses the screen to make it play again.

The sensation of him pounding into me while I’m watching him do the same thing sends an avalanche of arousal tumbling down my body, slamming into every corner and crevice, every fold and wrinkle, every follicle and hair.

He reaches for something under the bed, twisting and contorting me without any care while he fumbles in the drawer, then pulls out my favourite toy with a cry of triumph.

“That’s my dirty little girl, hiding her dirty little toys under her bed. You want to take a ride on him while I’m riding you, hm?” The vibrator wand buzzes into life, the rubber bending like a finger curling, the last setting I used it on. He shoves it roughly between my legs, finding me so wet that he can push it most of the way inside me on the first go, plunging so far on the second that his fingers are coated with my juices, as slippery as the strawberry fingers clamped hard over my mouth.

I hum with pleasure, the sensations overloading my brain until it scrambles to detangle them into their individual threads.

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