He said it would be quick. Just a few minutes. I knew better.
Even a few minutes with him rearranges me.

The moment he walked in, the air shifted. Everything else in the room faded. My chest tightened the way it always does around him. I never have to reach for that feeling. It finds me the second he’s near.

We slipped into the same rhythm we always do. The one that teases and pulls. I pushed just enough to earn it — a few sharp swats from the cane across my thigh. My breath caught. My skin hummed. I felt myself open to him without even thinking.

He mentioned my feet. How I still feel what he did to them, even now, long after. And it’s true. Some mornings, the dull ache in the pad of my foot reminds me that I’m marked. That he lingers, even when he’s not here.

He tapped my foot again with the cane. It didn’t hurt. It just brought everything back.

Then he stood in front of me. I looked up from the couch, throat dry, body already on edge. He undid his jeans and made it clear what came next.

I didn’t hesitate. I never do.

He grabbed my head and pushed me down.

My lips parted for him. My mouth found him like it was made to. His hands were in my hair, tugging, guiding, taking. He slipped one into the front of my dress, squeezing my breasts until I whimpered. I could feel myself unraveling one grip at a time.

He set the rhythm. Slow at first. Then deeper. Steadier. I focused on breathing around him, on the way he filled my mouth and pressed against my throat. Every sound he made lit me up. Every time I felt his cock pulse on my tongue, I wanted to give him more.

He didn’t let me pull away. He held me there like I was his to use. And I was.

I was soaked. Drenched just from this. From being curled into the couch, head in his hands, mouth stretched open for him.

He finally pulled me back. My mouth felt empty. My whole body did. I whimpered before I could stop myself.

Then he kissed me. Hard. Deep. His breath crashed into mine. His hands stayed on me like he wasn’t finished. And I hoped he wasn’t.

He kissed down my neck, to my chest, pulling my dress down further. I had sent him that picture earlier. The one that said see me, taste me, take what you want. And now he was.

His mouth closed over my breasts, biting and sucking until I arched into him. I wanted those bruises. I needed them. Proof. Evidence. Something to hold onto after he left.

I grabbed at his neck, at his waist, at anything I could reach. His hands never stopped. When he pulled the pearl necklace tight around my throat, I gasped. Not from pain. From surrender.

His mouth was at my neck again, sucking hard. His body pressing me further into the couch.

Then he grabbed my head again and forced me back down onto him.

But instead of using me the way he had before, he stopped. Pulled me back. Told me to slow down.

Told me to worship.

So I did.

I kissed his cock like it was sacred. Not gentle. Devout. My lips trailed down the length of him, soft and slow. I kissed each side, licked slowly, breathed him in. My hands cradled his balls while my mouth took its time. I sucked them carefully, watching his body respond. Watching him tense.

He let me go on until it pleased him. And then it didn’t.

He picked up my scarf. Wound it around his hand. And pulled me back onto him.

This time, deeper. No pause. No mercy. My throat tightened. My eyes watered. I couldn’t breathe, and still, I stayed there.

He didn’t let up. He kept me pinned, held open, until I had no choice but to submit to the stretch.

I wanted to fight it. My body screamed to pull back. But he wouldn’t let me.

And I didn’t want him to.

The way he held me. The way he took me. That was what wrecked me. The force of him. The way he didn’t ask.

I was soaked. My thighs pressed together, slick and aching.

He pulled me back suddenly, kissed me again, rough and urgent. I was dizzy. Spit-slick. Breathless. His mouth on mine left no room for thought.

Then he kissed my forehead. Long. Heavy. Still.

It wasn’t sweet. It was grounding. Like a ritual. Like I belonged to him and he was reminding me.

I floated. My body wasn’t mine anymore. It was his.

He leaned close and whispered that tomorrow was hump day. Maybe he’d come back. Maybe he’d take my throat again. My pussy. My ass. However it pleased him.

I was already wrecked and he was still making promises I knew I’d beg for.

He kissed my forehead once more.

“Lock the door behind me.”

Then he was gone.

I stayed there, a mess of breath and sweat and need. Dripping.

Later that night, my phone lit up.

Did my lil slut enjoy her Sir drive-by?

I stared at the screen. My breath caught. I didn’t move.

No need to answer. You did.

And fuck. He was right.
He always is.

© Wynter Rayne 2025. All rights reserved.