Elinor thought Jack wasn’t man enough for her until he took the situation firmly in hand.
Maybe it was restlessness. I’m addicted to variety, and I was tiring of his predictability, the way he was so reliably good. I love getting my own way – perhaps to a fault – but this was excessive. I told people the control bored me, but not that it scared me. You see, with power comes responsibility, and responsibility was the last thing I wanted. The authority was all mine, but I was too paralysed with conscience to use it. I was bound by my fears and uncertainties as I tried to decide: to stay or to go?
So there I was, crying as I straddled the chest of a man I might love, I might leave. And all I wanted was for him to fuck me. Fuck me until I couldn’t think any more. He sensed my desire; there was no time to struggle before he’d tied my hands to the bedframe and my ankles together with builders’ bungees, so I resembled a kinky crucifixion. Silhouetted against the light, his features were obscured as he towered over my now very vulnerable body.
“Bit of a change for you, having your legs together.”
His voice was dark, controlled and cold. It scared me – and my pussy thrilled in response. He brought my riding crop swishing down onto my bare breasts. I didn’t know if it was his mutiny or the soft, sharp strokes of the crop on my tender skin, but I was suddenly very aroused. I found myself willing him to hit me harder, faster; there was a strange redemptive peace in being hurt by him, after I had hurt him so much. I arched my back, pushing my breasts up to receive their punishment, my pussy warming in anticipation of each smack.
He stopped, and I moaned with frustration.
“You can’t always get what you want.”
I smiled inwardly. Relinquishing the power to control my own fate finally made me certain of one thing: I didn’t want him to stop. I relaxed into my restraints, calm as I realised that he was tougher than I’d thought – he’d obeyed me to make me happy. Frankly, I preferred him to please me like this.
I tensed up again quickly – he was leaning over me with a very wicked glint in his eyes and a clothes peg in each hand. I tried to protest but he’d already clamped the soft skin of my breasts. I looked at them in shock – those were the pegs that I’d hung the washing out with earlier that day, worrying about the domestic turn my life seemed to have taken. I didn’t know what it was, maybe the sensation, maybe the way he was controlling my body, but pearly juices trickled down my legs and my clit felt crushed as it swelled between my closed thighs.
He untied me and turned me over, pushing my face into the pillow, and passed me a small vibe. I slipped it down to my cunt, grateful for the chance at relief. He slammed his cock into me forcefully, angled to hit the sensitive front wall of my passage, and I started to sob with pleasure and release. I realised that he’d had attitude all along, I’d just chosen not to see it. I felt relieved, free of responsibility – and incredibly turned on. Playing this new powerless role was oddly liberating.
He had one last surprise for me; I was terrified as he pinned my labia together with a peg, but then he started to slide his length into me again and I realised how good it felt, the way it restrained and stimulated at the same time. I came until my head was empty and my body exhausted. Finally, I smiled.
I didn’t work out whether or not I wanted to stay with him that night. But I did discover that power meant more than just responsibility. Power also corrupts. And that’s much more fun.
