But all I can manage is to move my mouth, open and closed, my tongue pushing my lips open, I’m mouthing the air, but there’s no sound coming out.
I touch the side of his face with my fingertips, and I move my head, feline and deferent, sliding my cheek against his, feeling those salt and pepper red-grey whiskers of his scratch against my skin as I nuzzle into him.
But he doesn’t ever settle. He pulls away. He grips one hand around my throat, as the blade of his other hand rides up between my thighs and presses full force against the cleft of my soaking sex.
“Say it.” he broods,
“Say, you want my cock”
“Say, you want me hard and fast,
“Say it dirty, come on, say it…”
“Yes.” Is all I can confess, I feel weak, confused, compliant, helpless and utterly dominated; and yet at the same time I feel increasingly empowered – I’m going to get what I want.
Roughly he turns me around to face the rough exposed brickwork, pinning me there as if he’s about to frisk me, as if he’s searching me for a concealed weapon.
My bra-less tender breasts flatten firm against the rough brick, my soft blouse, far too thin to protect me. The masonry abrades me, the brick so hard against the soft of my breasts.
The scratching is rough, but I don’t graze or bloody from the scuff, I just feel the force of him against me, and I buckle inside, submissive to his every demand, and filled with wanting him to just take me.
The zip to my skirt is round back, and while his forearm pins me to that rough wall, his free hand effortlessly unzips me and opens me to him. His fingers slipping in over the curve of my behind, and with a simple tug, my skirt falls to the floor.
He’s pressing me to the wall, my bare thighs now bitten by the rough masonry as he grinds against my soft and supple body.
Exposed, I know what’s coming, and although the slap that follows isn’t all that hard, it still stings, and I already know that eventually I’ll carry faint bruises where my skin stretches over my tender behind.
But they’re only that, just tiny bruises, tiny broken blood vessels, my skin scolded with desire. They’re not tattoos.
His action is calculated. The slap isn’t intended so much as to sting or hurt me, but to cause me to grind my softness even harder into the unforgiving hardness of the wall.
It’s instinctive, a natural reaction, as his hand retracts, ready to slap my rump, I squirm against the wall wanting to escape the punishment.
My silk lace panties offer nothing by way of protection, and the smooth firm flesh at the front of my tender thighs now feel the bite and abrasion, as the rough ride of the brick grazes against me.
I feel so tender. And all I know for sure is, I don’t want him to stop.