Real Woman

“Sh-h.”

That’s how I wake you. A serpent sound poured into your ear.

You surface to full consciousness the way you always do: naked, sprawled on your stomach, limbs carelessly outstretched like the beast of luxury you are. But this time, something is not right. As you try to turn onto your back, you find you can’t; both your wrists and your ankles are firmly secured to the bed frame.

“Oh!” you breathe in sleepy surprise.

“Oh,” I echo through a smile.

“I need coffee.”

“You’re not getting any.” I move to the edge of the bed, just beyond any possible contact.

The bed’s metal frame rattles as you tug at your hands, your feet. Then, with a little more desperation, you try all your limbs at once.  “Hey, not funny!”

A hint of a grin crooks my lips and I rise. “It’s not meant to be funny.”

You do your best to follow me with your eyes, but tied the way you are it is impossible. “The joke’s over. Untie me.”

“Oh, my darling,” I coo, picking up the thing I’ve been searching for, ” the joke hasn’t even begun.”

You tug at your bonds again, but they’ll hold tight, I’m quite sure of it. “Come on, Reggie! Enough’s enough. Very funny, but I’m not amused.” As you spit out little statements designed to make me untie you, it takes on a familiar imperious tone, but this time I hear the hint of desperation beneath it. “I mean it! Stop being stupid.”

The tongue of the wicked black crop lands on your left ass cheek with a surprisingly loud crack. I’ve been practicing this against my own leg until I got it right. I know, by the sound, that I’m using my wrist to perfection.

“Fuck!” It takes a moment for the shock of it to sink in, but when it does, you’re livid. “You fucking untie me right now, you little bitch!”

The next stroke lands on your right cheek, leaving a matching mark that turns from light pink to deep crimson as the blood flows into the flesh. Every new tirade of invective that erupts from your mouth, I replay with a sharp, precise crop stroke. You’re a smart man: it doesn’t take too many repetitions of this particular example of cause and effect for the message to sink in. Six rose-bright marks on your ass and you’re done, panting and silent. You rest your face on the sheeted mattress.

When you finaly speak again, there’s a resignation in your voice. “What’s this all about, Reggie?”

“This is payback,” I mutter, climbing back onto the bed. I’m hoping that now you notice that you are naked and I’m fully clothed. What is more, I’m wearing a suit – a man’s suit. My quiet, conservative tie secured to my shirt with a platinum clip. Yours. Yes, you do notice. Your frightened eyes dart to details as I crawl towards you on my hands and knees. The cufflinks, the plain belt buckle, the unnatural bulge in my crotch.

“For… for what. Reggie? For fuck’s sake, for what?”

I straddle your back, just above your ass. The rough worsted of my suit trousers chafes your skin. Leaning forward, I push a few strands of your hair away from your ear and bring my mouth close.

“Remember the email?” I whisper. “The one where you told me how horny you were and how much you wanted to feel my mouth around your cock? Oh, you wanted me to suck you so badly. You could almost feel my hot, wet, hungry mouth enclosing you. Remember?”

“Of course I do.”

“Mmm.” I thread my splayed fingers into your hair, clutch a handful and turn your head. I want the other ear now. “Of course you do.”

“Yes,” you huff defensively. “I do!”

“And do you remember when you phoned me on Monday? You asked me if my nipples were hard. When I said they weren’t, you made me pinch them, hard, until they were. Then you told me how you’d suck them until I writhed and couldn’t bear it any longer, until my breasts ached and I begged you to stop and fuck me?”

A little growl, soft but feral rises up your throat. “Yes.”

My lips press against your cheek: a sweet reward of a kiss. My hand, however, is not as kind. It slides between your chest and the mattress, fingers searching and finding the flat, ridged nub of your nipple. I squeeze with mounting pressure. “You’re such a fucking tease.”

“But…”

The pain makes you reconsider. “No excuses.”

“But, Reggie… Ow!” Another sharp pinch and you give up.

I am draped over your back, and as I drag myself up it, my breasts pressed tight, I know the cruel little tie pin leaves a long scratch along your spine, catching on each vertebrae as I ascend it like a ladder.

“You said you wanted to fuck me. You said you needed to fuck me. You told me how you’d do it. So many times: fast and frantic, slow and sensually, bending me over, pushing me back, holding me down. You promised to fuck me so many ways from Sunday,” I murmured, “I really can’t remember them all now. Can you?”

For a moment, you say nothing. “I…I meant it. Every time… I meant it.”

“Sure you did, lover.” I snap, rising off your back.

My hand comes down on your ass with so much force it makes my own palm throb.

“Fucking bitch!” you roar.

“Wrong answer!” I snap. The next blow I deliver is harder, louder.  You buck violently beneath me at the sting. “You, sweetheart, are my bitch now.”

“Like fuck I am!”

“Are you hard?” I let a little syrup slip into my voice with the question.

Another moment of silence.

“No.” Your voice is full of sulk and I shift until I’m sitting on the back of your thighs and reach beneath your hip, and curl my hand around your cock.

It is hard. You know it. I know it. The mean squeeze I deliver only brings more blood flooding into the shaft, making it pulse.

“All those promises,” I whisper and stroke. “All those empty tokens of your desire. I remember them all. Every single one of them made me want you, made me wet, made me ache.”

“Darling.” You gasp that single word as if it will do for an apology. As if any apology would do for all the times you’ve left me hungry and desperate and dying to be touched. For all the times the desire turned to salt on my skin. For every time I wanked myself to sleep in an empty bed. “I was…”

“Busy. Yes, I know.”

You can’t help yourself. Your hips are autonomous and traitorous. Regardless of the fact that you hate the loss of freedom, the lack of control, they pump, pushing your throbbing cock through my fist, seeking relief.

“Busy, busy, busy,” I repeat in a sing-song voice as I fish the tube out of my pocket and snap the lid open.

If you don’t recognize the sound, you certainly recognize the cold, thick gel that I drip liberally between your ass cheeks.

“What are you doing?”

“You know what I’m doing.”

“Reggie? No. Absolutely not!”

“Absolutely yes, my love.” Having emptied the entire tube into the crevice between your ass cheeks, I slide my fingers through the mess, despite all the muscles you’re clenching. And still you’re rigid in my fist as I slide the tip of my index finger into your tight, slippery hole.

The sigh you heave is spiked with trepidation. “You know I’ve never been interested in this. It doesn’t turn me on. I’ve never wanted…”

“I’ve never wanted to fuck a piece of plastic because I couldn’t have you.” It’s hard to keep the bitterness out of my voice, instead I concentrate on opening you up, pushing another finger into your ass.

“Why the fuck…” you grunt as I penetrate you with my digits. “Why the fuck didn’t you say something? You could have…oh…”

“What? I could have thrown myself on you? Begged? Pleaded? Dressed up in slutty underwear to tempt you?”

“Well…yes. Or just told me.”

I pull my fingers out of you fast and bring the flat of my palm down on your ass cheek hard. The wetness of the lube makes it sound like a gunshot.

“No! I couldn’t. I can’t. I’m not made that way. I don’t have it in me to prostrate myself at your feet and beg for your attention. And you know it.”

I’m so angry now my fingers slip and fight as I struggle to tug down the zipper on my trousers.

“And you know it. You know me. You know I can’t! I just can’t be aggressive.”

With a strangled bark of frustration I finally free the head of the strap-on I’ve been wearing since long before you awoke. The instrument of your punishment I put on with so much glee before I even tied you up.

“So…you’re making up for it now?” you mutter weakly, but the sarcasm rings hollow.

“Well,” I whisper, releasing your cock – still throbbing, still outrageously hard, staining the sheets with precum. “I want you to know that I keep my promises.”

The bulbous head of the strap-on skids and slides between your ass cheeks. I have to hold it steady and positioned. Then, just as I hear you bark something unintelligible, I push into you.

I’m not rough, but I won’t be denied either. You squirm beneath me, but I don’t stop. Slowly, inexorably, I inch the cock into your ass until the depth of it has stilled you, left you panting: fists balled, muscles rigid.

“I told you I was going to make you my bitch,” I say.  Fully hilted in your ass, I squirm my hand beneath your hips again and grasp your cock. It has lost a little of its tumescence, but it is by no means flaccid. And it only takes a few ragged strokes before reawakening.

This is how I fuck you. Pushing into you over and over, forcing your cock through my fist until, regardless of how emasculated you feel, regardless of how much you have never wanted to be penetrated, you shudder and buck and cry out.

The hot spurts of your cum soak the sheets beneath you, and I lie still, on top of you, inside you, so you know what it feels like to be sated and owned at the same time.

Then, gently, I withdraw – the way you always do, no matter how rough or wild the sex has been – and lie down beside you, body pressed to yours, my arm around your waist.

After a long, long quiet, you turn your head. “You realize I am going to get even for this?”

I don’t laugh, but I can’t suppress a grin. “I know.”

“So, what do you figure you’ve accomplished here?”

I prop myself up on one elbow, feeling sweaty and stuffy in the suit. “I figure the next time you come to bed after promising to fuck me, you’ll keep your promise. Because you can never tell how you’ll wake up in the morning, otherwise.”