When I first wake up, I reach out sleepily to find your body next to mine.
I smile with my eyes closed as I touch the shape of you under the blanket.
I lean towards you and breathe you in, savoring the natural smell of you without other senses
clotting the experience.
I pull the covers back a bit and open my eyes to admire your still sleeping body, turned
on your side and facing away from me.
I cherish every morning I get to wake up with you, and this is no exception.
Today I woke up to you and I smiled.
I rub your warm, wonderful ass firmly, grabbing a handful just to see if it would wake you
up.
I am happy to see it works.
You stir and groan a bit, blinking sleepily at me as you turn over and mumble good morning.
Briefly, I wonder if I interrupted a dream with my ever-hungry hands, but I am quickly
distracted by how much I want to touch you, and I forget to ask.
It's quiet, and I decide to break the silence, but not the eye contact.
I ask you how you slept, and we both know the question is a transparent, attempted distraction.
Your voice in the morning is a delight to my ears, slightly huskier than usual and sweetly
silly, which suits you.
As you answer my question, my left hand moves back and forth across your legs, my fingertips
brushing across the sparse hair there.
I see the rubber bander on my wrist, leftover from last night's opulent fuckery.
I look back at you intently until your words trail off and you're staring at me attentively
like I want.
You know this look in my eyes by now, and I can tell you're holding your breath, waiting
for me to do something with you, to do something to you, anything.
Your impatience to be used is practically palpable.
I glance away from your face briefly to see that there are goose bumps forming across
your bare skin now, too.
Good.
I ask the question we both want to hear.
May I hurt you?
You nod and bite your lower lip hard.
This lip bite of yours is not the stereotypically cute, flirty reaction one sees so often on
TV, engineered to portray innocence and arousal.
You're biting your lip unconsciously because you know my question is also a promise, sealed
with your consent, to be delivered by my hands.
I am really going to hurt you, and you want me to do it.
I wrap the rubber bander on my thumb and forefinger of my right hand now, placing my fingers gently
on the sensitive skin of your right inner thigh.
I haven't chosen this location by accident or convenience either.
I'm going to mark you.
Mark you as mine.
Ready?
I ask as I use my left hand to draw back the band between my fingers.
The tension increases, and I never take my eyes off you.
You quickly nod again, like you're scared you'll lose your courage.
It's possible you will before I'm done with you.
It's happened before.
But my goal is always to push you to the edge of the precipice and no further.
I won't let you drop, I promise.
You see this reassurance in my eyes, and I see your face soften as you remember that
you trust me completely.
And then I snap the band hard, over, and over, and over.
I am focused entirely on making pretty, crisscross patterns under your now ruffled leg hair.
Your skin grows redder and waltz up, but I do not stop.
I love watching you gasp, seeing your pupils dilate each time I pop you, watching them
shrink again as you struggle to regulate your breathing before the next one.
This shit stings, and it's sharp, and I know you don't like it, but you love the attention
I am giving you.
You are my everything in this moment, and we both know it.
Stay with me, I say, just above a whisper.
I slap your thigh as hard as I can across the majority of the raised marks, which makes
you squeal loudly and bury your face in a pillow.
Yes, this is the reaction I want.
One can grow accustomed to pain after a while, and I want you to stay on edge.
I start alternating, snapping you at the band, and slapping your thigh without rhyme or reason
so you cannot discern a pattern.
There is no relaxing into the pain I'm giving you, only experiencing its absence or presence
as I see fit.
Moment to moment, I am in complete control.
Snap, snap, snap, slap.
You start squirming around on the bed, clearly trying to stay still for me, and fucking failing.
I find this behavior sensual and alluring.
You want so badly to be good for me, but what I'm doing to you makes your body betray you.
You are mortified under my gaze.
Watching these conflicting reactions makes me want to rip you to tiny pieces.
May I bite you, I ask?
Yes, please, you whisper, and I waste no time going straight for the tasty flesh of your
right shoulder.
You gasp and hiss in my right ear as I bruise you and pinch you with my teeth, truly not
caring to restrain myself in this moment.
This is what I want from you.
You're giving me permission to tear into you, ravage you on the outside.
You know you're safe on the inside, that I will always care for you afterwards.
I force myself to stop biting you and shake my head, drunk off the taste of you.
I try to gather enough of my focus to speak to you, to bring us together again.
Your skin feels good between my teeth.
I say in a voice halfway between a hiss and a purr.
You're beginning to sweat, and you look genuinely scared now.
I can see that your shoulder is already bruising from the attention my mouth just paid to it.
It's time to tend to your left side, lover.
I stare at the expanse of your as-yet unmarked left thigh, and almost instantly, I am again
unable to think straight.
I want to hurt you, very much, but I should be gentle, but I really, really don't want
to be.
My hunger for you wins over what little rationality I have left.
But warning, I lean over and begin biting you over and over, up and down your unpunished
left thigh.
You writhe against the sheets, and I quickly put one hand on your left knee and the other
on your right hip, pinning your lower half to the bed.
You aren't going anywhere, my love.
I bite you again and again.
I'm sure you look incredible right now, better than you have since I started playing with
you, but I can't stop to look just yet.
Instead, I rend your flesh repeatedly, biting you, licking you, pulling your broken, tender
skin and sweat and a little bit of hair into my mouth.
You taste so fucking good, and I am finally able to slake my thirst for you, for now.
I slowly, slowly cease using my teeth.
I come back to myself and hear you moaning.
I sit up straighter and finally take a good look at you.
Oh, I was right.
You look transcendent, with pain and fear, pleasure and anticipation.
That's how I like you.
Once you meet my eyes, I begin slapping this thigh mercilessly as well.
Once, twice, three, four, five.
I don't know how many times I hit you, because I am completely enamored with your reactive
moans and cries, but now, now you've stopped struggling and you've gone mostly limp, only
occasionally twitching under my palms as I hurt you.
I loosen my grip and run my hands across your skin, tangling the fingers of my left hand
in your pubic hair.
That hand is not quite touching your genitals, but instead letting its weight reassure you
and excite you, knowing I could and probably will soon.
I begin biting you again, and I can feel you begin to tense up, but this is softer and
gentler than before, a lovely decrescendo to the intense symphony of pain I just performed
on your poor, perfect body.
I stroke my right hand lightly over your belly and hips as I nibble at you, stopping finally
to splay my fingers across your quivering belly reassuringly.
I hear your ragged breathing begin to grow more steady as I realize I have finally stopped
using my teeth on you.
I can see it's taking a moment for your mind to catch up.
I have no problem drinking you in as I wait somewhat patiently.
I sigh deeply, your body's involuntary reaction to a sudden and unexpected loss of sensation.
Pain has been your entire existence since you awoke, and I know you already miss it.
Instead, I decide to introduce you to pleasure now.
I kiss across the marks I've made on both your thighs.
You look indescribably sexy, your skin blushing in fetching shades of red, blue, and purple
in the morning light.
I lick and suck at you, tasting the hot pulse of your pain as it travels past my greedy
lips and onto my eager tongue.
We are both calmer now, beginning to breathe steadily and in unison.
Without looking up, I ask the next question, even though I know the answer.
Are you more...lover?