All I can think about is having his hands in my hair. His cock deep inside me. His hands on my body, around my throat, grasping my breasts. I crave the sensation of his taut, muscular body beneath my lips and fingers. I want his voice murmuring threats in low tones against my ear. His hot breath on my neck. Rendering me helpless.
I need his cock. The one night of guilty pleasure that left me swollen and sore for days. His need seemed insatiable. I licked him clean after every burst of his juices. And every time he would direct my mouth back to his. Guiding my hips back to their place on top of his. Gyrating. Moving. Responding to the way his cock so deeply satisfied me.
He called me his bitch. He alone decided when I was allowed release. I was his slut. His toy. If I gained too much control, he would force me back into submission, reminding me of my place. I craved his pleasure. Begged for his cum, and he rewarded me. I sucked him, teased him, soaked his cock with my wetness.
And then it was over. Now all I can do is slip my fingers between my legs and remember…