0 comments/ 16687 views/ 3 favorites Power struggle By: jele He was power. Fully aware of his power over her, he started softly, then grew to become brutal in his corruption. He used his authority, his role in her everyday life in a furious and controlling, potent way. Outside of the bed, he was a strict disciplinarian, expecting perfection from his girl in every way. She found him gruelling most of the time, his nurturing and nearly parental demands seemingly unending. But when they were alone in her bedroom, he would become the force behind her most treasured and divine pleasures. The world of fantasy and reality too easily blurred: two different people in the bedroom. She was young. It was almost immoral for them to even be married. And he was older. When he touched her, it was as if the exposed areas of her skin would raise out to meet his touch. The tiny variations in her body, the stretched epidermis on her neck, the taut shine under her eyes, the smooth, strong meat in her lips and mouth and the texture in her hands would fizzle and burn whenever he made the inevitable motion to clasp and claim her. She wasn't aware of it until their unions became a regular occurrence, and she could relax enough underneath him to notice the heightened raising of her flesh. At first it felt just like a little humming buzz of electricity filtered through her cells and muscles. Then the skin tingled, and the hairs raised in static magnetics. He treated her so well, his hands leaving only rounded, warm tones on her. Later in the night, those same hands would turn clammy and wet with her juices, and hard and flat against her. He would press down hard on her ribs with the full, mounted flesh on his palms, working her up and down and trying to coax the cries from her lungs. He liked her to lay in a state of constant undulation underneath him. He liked to play her like an instrument, urging the pleasure from her like a heavy, malleable wax. She grew lazy under his ministrations, learnt to be served, learnt to be dominated. He would tell her: "You will cum, thick and long. When I fix myself deep in you, and begin to build the pace," he ordered in smooth, slow strokes, "You will cum heavily and try to wet the bed through my fat prick." And she would nod, taking his demands into her head. The firm hypnosis clicked in her body as he fixed himself deeper, and his swollen, hurtful rod nearly tipping the base of her womb, his motions would speed up. It was an internal expectation when he said this, and sparked her to cum in the very way he'd narrated. She would milk the cum from her own muscles, pumping the pleasure through her own body, and try to cum out onto the bed despite his cock being firmly plugged up inside her. His dominance inspired some of the most mind-blowing orgasms of her young, experienced life, and she grew addicted to it. With separate bedrooms, he would not live in her bedroom, but instead tend to her like a patriarch. After the nightly ritual of baths and showers, late night television, he would tell her it was time for bed: "You have an early morning, pet, time for bed." She would whine for a moment, and play the nightly role of minx, slipping onto his lap to try to tempt him from his regime. She would stroke his arms and elbow, running her fingers up and down his large, fat, muscle-drenched arms, "Awww, no. Not yet, please? One more hour?" "No, I'm serious. Bed." She would whimper and linger under his beard, under his chin, burying her cool lips against his neck, nuzzling lightly, "One more hour?" She'd whisper, and he'd falter. "Hmm, alright. One more hour," He would agree, "But you have to watch what I want. None of your teen rubbish," and he'd switch the video on. And the familiar pangs of erotic moaning would enter the lounge room, flavourful and rich. The television would suck them into the world on the screen: a feverish, gasping, grunting carnival of flowing juices amid the folds of red, meaty flesh and thick, hard bodies. They would sit like that in the den, in a dewy silence, watching enthralled as the two naked beings on the screen fornicated and fondled each other. He knew she would never last the final hour, and instead would begin to squirm on his lap, playing with herself a little bit. She would position herself over the large, velvet stone under his pants, and begin to writhe her muscles back and forth on him. "I'm going to bed," She'd announce, and give him a lingering kiss before racing upstairs to climb into bed. He would sit in the lounge alone, watching the rest of the movie, before going to bed himself. And sometimes he would try to be good: going straight to his bedroom. The cold, empty room aching in him as he undressed and climbed into the starched white sheets. His cock would throb painfully, knowing she was only in the next bedroom, moist and juicy, hot and waiting to begin. Prowling the hall naked, he would slip into the room as if they lived with other people, and he would lock the door. She learned to love the sound of the door lock clicking over. She could almost cum at the very sound. She would pretend to be sleeping, and he'd coax her awake, feathery soft touches around her face and neck. She would roll over and yawn, and smile at him in the darkness. His hand would stroke down over her pretty nightgown, stopping to ease her round, tight tits out of the lace. He would roll his hands over them in the full, circular strokes, telling her silently not to move, pressing down on her belly and ribs under the sheet. She would lift her legs though, parting impatiently for what was to come: that smooth, exotic aroma of sandalwood and musky berries. "Put your legs down," he'd whisper in a warm, growling hush, "Don't move." It would hurt to back down from him, and lay straight in her bed. Until his hand strobed under the sheet further, finding the soft hem of her nightie, and pulling it up. He would stroke it all the way up to her chin so she lay still and naked before him. The sheet would be ripped from the pressing rim of the bed, and shrug with a folded sigh to the floor of her bedroom. After so many years together, he worshipped her body, her scent, her textures. He'd watch her lay there, watch the rise and fall of her belly when she breathed, the subtle twitch of her delicious pussy hairs over the fine, smooth mound of cunt that he craved. He'd watch and his eyes rolled over her body, tip to toe, stroking her and skinning her alive so that her veins and tendrils of soul were uncovered. Never cold, she'd warm under the pressure of his wild, frenzied eyes. He liked to tease and taunt them both - he liked to bring himself to the brink of pain before allowing for the drenching of her around him. The house would become alive in that silence. The soft breathing of two naked beings would awaken the walls, and they would begin to hum, flashing lightly with a grainy motion. The floor would listen, waiting for the padding of her bare feet and the dripping of her cunt as she walked across it to the bathroom. The light switches would impatiently buzz in anticipation for the touch of her wet, grimy hand on them. The house was the witness to their union, and it was a whore to them just like she was a slave to him. He would lean in and kiss her breasts, whispering "I love you" in a little mantra that came so easily to his older lungs, "Ohh I love you. I love you, pet, I love... you..." And she would eat his words up, moving beneath his luscious kisses, unable to stop quivering, kneading the back of his neck with her hand. Those subtle movements he would allow, but if she tried to move on top of him or take the dominant role, he would grow ruthless, beating her down with his gruff grumblings, pushing her back with his shoulders, massaging her down into the bed again, lifting her legs so that she was exposed and shivering under the weight of him. Forcing into submission every urge in her nature to reach out to his cock and stroke and suck and worship. His mouth would be filled with the bitten mounds of her breast flesh, his throat pricked by her rubbery, hard nipples, and he would moan in delight at the sensation and taste. He would eat them up for a long while, until he could feel her body hardening and stiffening with the oncoming promise of orgasm. Then he would flick his tongue around the tips of the mounds: biting her nipples with gentle teeth - and then rougher and more cruel, until she yelped. He would feed from her tits, moving down over her bed-bound body, stroking her flesh with the texture of his face, lips and beard until he could part the cheeks of her ass widely and glut himself on her cunt meat. His cock would rub on the edge of her bed. He would be like stone by this time, perhaps already staining the sheets with his jism. But he would still let her cum before his cock entered her tunnel. His power was undeniable, and he would end up fucking her so brutally that the friction in her cunt burned like a delicious, rubbing fire. It inspired the beautiful motions and rhythms of orgasm deep inside her - not just clitoral - but also in the walls of her vagina. The strong, firm, sucking muscles of her cunt would pull him in and force him to rub the cream from her. When she came, she came hard for him. That was how he liked it. He often felt her juices spread like butter around his penis as he came inside her, shooting his load deeply into her belly. She'd ask him: "Cum inside me," pleading in a delicious little girl whine - amid the frothy womanly moans and gasps of a whore. The request always was welcome, and he'd fuck his seed up into her as deeply as he could, lifting her legs up over his shoulders and ramming deeper with the juice. When he pulled out, she'd flow like a fountain; like a creamy waterfall, wetting up the bed, staining it clear and sticky. She'd slide down in the cream on her sheets, her ass slick with it, and when he was exhausted and vulnerable, she would take the opportunity to suckle his cock as it softened in her warm grip. Sometimes she'd shudder him unexpectedly, and more seed would spurt out into her soft, loving little mouth. She'd drink it like it was candy, licking his head around and making him jolt from the sensitivity of the gesture. She took great delight in sucking the matted hairs around the empty balls, and swaying base of the shaft. She licked the hairs, tickled her nose with them, chewed on their curls a little. When she was done cleaning him, she'd stand and hobble to her bathroom, dripping cunt-cream on the floor as she walked, her pussy throbbing with the pleasurable, sensitive sensations of ecstasy. He'd watch her walk, wet and slimy from him, and still warm from their union, and he'd fall asleep on her pillow, knowing she'd be back after her shower, to hug and hold him into a dream. He held the power until the last, when he shot his load into her. The power would transfer into her. Her pussy, her body, would eat it up like energy. She'd walk from the bed glowing with authority and confidence. Her skin shone with the wet sweetness of dominance. When she came back to bed, she would be the hunter, and he the victim. Sometimes she would throw her leg over his belly and try to get him hard again, just to hurt him. Sometimes he would get hard, and she would fuck him violently from above - the only time he'd allow it. His exhaustion allowed her a great deal of possession, and she would possess him. Grunting, she could piston his cock and roll on it, then like a well-oiled machine, thrust and thrust until he was groaning from an agonizing weakness. His punishment would come fast and furiously as she fucked him from above like that, not allowing him to move. She would bury his face in her dangling breasts so that he suffocated beneath her. "You're bad," She'd grunt, "Making me lay there like that, not moving. You're mean and cruel. Now you can't move!" She'd babble, fucking him in a seemingly ceaseless athleticism. "You just have to lie there and feel me eating you up, feeding on your cum, your sperm, your thick wads... of... creamm..." Her own words would work her into a daze, and she would cum again on top of him, then fall, exhaustedly against his chest, and they'd fall asleep together, his cock still buried in her where it belonged. Power Struggle 'I'm sorry. I'll try not to hurt you too badly. Nothing that I'm about to do to you is your fault. You didn't do anything wrong and you probably don't deserve for this to be happening to you. It was by chance that I caught you. It could have been any woman, but I caught you first.' His words were no comfort to her. She was terrified, horrified and humiliated. He had caught her, literally, as she was jogging in the park. He ran her down like a wolf chasing a deer. Once he had caught her, he had put his gloved hand over her mouth and whispered into her ear that he would cut her throat if she struggled against him. He dragged her through the brush, out onto the street and up to his car. She tried her best to memorize the licence plate on the dark blue sedan. Now he had a dark cloth bag over her head and her hands tied together with zip-ties. Laying in the back seat of her kidnapper's car, Kyrie prayed that he might crash as he was driving and she would be found by the police or EMS and be saved from this uncertain nightmare. No such luck. Her kidnapper slowed and made a right-hand turn, he drove slowly for a little distance, then stopped the car. He shut the engine off- must be a standard- Kyrie noted, he didn't click the shifter into park. She could hear him unbuckle his seat belt and sit still for a second. She could hear him take a deep breath and the creak of the leather seat as he turned to look at her, his prey, helpless in the backseat. She could hear him open the door and the crunch of his boots on the gravel outside as he stepped out of the car. Once the door was closed again, she could not hear anything distinct. Maybe his footsteps fading away, maybe not. It seemed like an eternity for Kyrie as she prayed and wished with all of her heart that he had just left her there. Soon enough, too soon in fact, her kidnapper opened the car door at her feet. Deftly, he seized her ankles and pulled her across the soft leather, out into the cool, damp night. Kyrie stood up instinctively and it wasn't until she had been led into what she thought might be a warehouse that she even considered that she should have resisted while she was outside and there might have been a chance of someone saving her from this beast. With the man's strong hand on her wrists behind her back, she was directed through a large, hollow-sounding room. Then down a hallway, yes, she could hear the change in the acoustics, she was trained to know these things as a theatre director. Now, a door swings open and a light is flicked on. Kyrie was led across the room and he told her to sit down. His was a voice that she would not forget, deep and rough, but beautiful, rugged, sounded like a smoker but didn't smell like one. She sat down on what she assumed to be a bed and was left alone in the room with the hum of the florescent lights. She hadn't heard the door close, so she didn't dare struggle to get free, just in case. She felt him returning to the room, he must have taken his boots off, he was very quiet. He clicked on a smaller light and flicked off the long, bright bulbs that Kyrie could see in her mind's eye. She could feel the bed dip beside her and her kidnapper ran his fingers through her soft auburn hair that was hanging below the hood over her face. 'I'm sorry. I'll try not to hurt you too badly. Nothing that I'm about to do to you is your fault. You didn't do anything wrong and you probably don't deserve for this to be happening to you. It was by chance that I caught you. It could have been any woman, but I caught you first.' Kyrie's mind was racing with questions. What is he going to do to me? Will he kill me? Will he let me go? The fear of the uncertain was almost driving her to panic. Her swirling questions were stilled with his next statement. Again, in that beautiful, unforgettable voice, he spoke: 'I need you. I need you to be honest. I'm sick of frauds and liars. I want an honest response from a woman. I need it. I need to know...' he trailed off. He cleared his throat and cut the ties from Kyrie's hands. She did not fight him. She did not dare to. She knew how strong he was by how he handled her. Besides, she was stunned by his words. Gently, and without removing the bag from her head, he lifted off her hooded sweater over her head. She complied with his unspoken directions. She sat on the edge of the bed as he slipped off her running shoes without untying them. She laid back on the bed as he untied her jogging pants and pulled them down over her hips and off of her feet. Still and silent, Kyrie remained laying on the bed, in only her sports bra and white cotton panties and, of course, the black bag hiding his identity and hers as well. Kyrie had been jogging, yes, but she never considered herself to be 'fit'. She had wide hips, an ample bottom, breasts that she was satisfied with, and an eternally soft belly- not flabby, but she could never get the tone that she wished she could. She was humiliated. She had never let any of her boyfriends see her completely naked, not even while having sex. She had always insisted that the lights be off and the sheets be pulled up; self- consciousness at its best. Here she was, laying back, unguarded, still somewhat clothed, but not trying to cover herself up. She had been shocked by what he had said and it was still ringing in her head 'I need you to be honest.' She was snapped back to reality when she felt a cold metal blade quickly sliding between her breasts and her bra popping open from the strain of her bosom. She quickly brought her arms up to cover her nakedness. This action earned a gruff grunt of satisfaction from her captor. Quickly, he sliced the sides of her underwear and she frantically grabbed for them as he pulled them from between her thighs. 'Oh fuck...' Kyrie heard him say under his breath 'you are beautiful. So real...' Kyrie was certain that her whole body blushed at his statement. She was so humiliated and terrified at what she knew was about to happen. His rough hands slid under her lower back and he rested his face against her stomach. She could feel his beard stubble sharp against her soft skin. Now she was truly dazed. This was not what she was expecting. The thought ran through her mind that rapists were men who could not have normal relationships with women. Maybe this man was not loved enough by his mother, maybe he was loved too much. Either way, Kyrie dared not move. She only breathed as shallowly as she could and made no sound. She was sure that her heart pounding in her chest would drown out any sound that she did make, but she wasn't taking any chances. Her kidnapper took a deep breath and stood up, Kyrie could hear the soft noise of his clothes dropping to the floor. She stiffened and resumed her attempts to preserve her modesty as best as she could with her hands. The man swiftly separated her legs with his knee and knelt on the bed between her legs with one foot still on the floor. Kyrie clamped her legs shut on his knee and was rewarded with another gruff chuckle. In one motion, he took one of her wrists in each of his hands and manoeuvred them over her head so that he was now what would be face to face with her. Tears of fear and shame rolled down her cheeks and she was glad that she was protected from his gaze by the darkness of the bag that was over her face. He breathed her smell in deeply and sighed a satisfied sigh. Then he brought his other knee up and separated her legs so that he could see her delicate opening. Almost overcome by his lust for this woman- a woman who would have no reason to lie, no reason to impress him- he nearly took her right then. He resisted. He must remain in control. His whole life was about control and frequently he was not the one holding the reigns. First, he went to law school to please his parents, but his heart wasn't in it. He left university and ventured out on his own, starting his own company and rocketing to the top of the business ladder as a powerful CEO. Reflecting, he realized that he was at his happiest when he was slaving away for his own interests. A time when nobody cared who he was and had no interest in sucking up to him. Now it was just a parade of moochers and Yes-Men, plastic sluts and gold-diggers. He was told where he had to be and when he had to be there. What he had to do and say and what he had to wear. Fuck, wouldn't he just like to go back to that time long ago. Laying beneath her kidnapper, holding her breath, Kyrie was hoping that this pause was conscience kicking in. Maybe he had realized how wrong this thing was that he was about to do to her. She had no idea what was going through his mind, but she had always been an optimist. Slowly and purposefully, her captor lowered his body to meet hers, positioning his member at the soft entrance to her body. He could feel her tense up and he heard her draw a sharp breath. He felt a pang of guilt and shame, but he needed this, he needed her so badly. He began pressing into her, forcing himself inside of her body. She began to squirm, but he held her firmly on the bed. She began to buck her hips in a futile effort to get away from him, but the motion only served to draw him deeper inside of her. Kyrie spoke the first words she had said since the beginning of her ordeal; 'Please, please don't! Please stop!' she pleaded, sobbing 'Just stop and leave me here. I won't say anything...I...I have no idea who you are...please!?' It was no use. He had no intentions of stopping. He was going to go through with this because he was in control. He needed to be in control. The now rapist continued to push farther and deeper into Kyrie. She felt good to him, but she felt like he was forcing a hot poker into her, searing her delicate flesh. Finally, he was buried into her as far as he could go, to the hilt. Kyrie was crying openly now and her body was wracked with her sobs. The tears of shame and humiliation were hot on her face and made her sick to her stomach. She hoped that she wouldn't vomit inside of the hood that was still over her head, but the thought that it might put off her rape did cross her mind. The rapist did not move, but let his victim's body adjust to his intrusion. He could feel her relaxing a little and the time between sobs lengthened. He began slowly moving back and forth, drawing himself out of this woman and sliding back into her. Kyrie felt like he was sawing her in half. She had felt this way the first time she had ever had sex- like she wasn't ready for it, but did it anyways. She resigned herself to him and stopped struggling. It wasn't working anyways, he had her pinned and was much stronger and heavier than she was. Kyrie tried to go to a pleasant place inside of her mind, a temporary reprieve from the current reality. Her mind drifted, but she was constantly reminded of the gravity of her situation by the growing ache inside of her. The captor and rapist was in a complete state of bliss. He felt free. He felt in control. He felt like he was in love with his prey. He knew that it was just the endorphins from the excitement and sex, but it still felt amazing. He paused for a moment and pulled the drawstring loose on the hood that he had put over his victim's head. He thought twice about what he was doing, then pulled the bag off of her head. He couldn't believe how pretty she was. Honestly pretty, not plastic or made-up. He began to feel guilty again, but simply could not stop as his body had taken over control from his mind. Here he was, thirsting for control and authority, but had lost them even to himself. Kyrie kept her eyes shut tight even after the hood was pulled from her head. She was glad to be able to breathe normally again and the air felt cool entering her lungs. What a sweet momentary distraction from the man who was bending her body to his will, raping her. She was curious about this monster's identity, afraid to know, but dying to find out who he was. Kyrie barely squeezed one eye open and saw the side of her rapists head and his shoulder. She noted that he was Caucasian, had short brown hair and was fit. She knew that he was in decent shape from the strength with which he handled her and from the feel of his body against hers. Suddenly, the man arched back from his victim and she saw his face. Kyrie recognized him immediately. She was stunned. He was so handsome, rich and powerful. She read about him every week in the tabloids while she was buying her groceries. There was a never ending parade of women associated with him...why the hell was he raping her!? He could hold back no longer. This was not how he envisioned this happening. He had intended to take this woman and make love to her anonymously to see if he was what he thought he was. A real man. 'Ha!' He thought to himself now 'A real man raping an innocent young woman. Fuck.' He now knew that his plan had failed. He just couldn't help himself; he had reached the point of no return. He began to let his body take over and its movements became more fierce and animalistic. Caught off guard by the shocking revelation of her attacker's identity, Kyrie lost her focus on the shame and anger. Her body betrayed her and she threw her head back on the bed. 'No, no, no!' she said aloud to herself, disgusted. Her rapist dropped to his elbows, hovering over her, in a similar state of mind. His tears of anger and shame dripping onto her face. He buried his face into her neck, his coarse stubble chafing her skin. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry...so...ugh...fuck...no...' He groaned as he drove himself deep into her body and filled her with his seed. He continued to slide in and out of his prey and as the fog of his orgasm began to clear he could feel something that he could honestly say that he had never felt before. It was amazing; he could feel the inside of her clamping on to him. He realized what this meant and a fresh and terrible wave of self-loathing and hatred washed over him. He had the answer that he had been seeking, but no joy in knowing it. Kyrie was so humiliated that she wished she could die. She was honestly hoping that this man would kill her so that she wouldn't have to live with the shame of knowing that she had achieved an orgasm from being raped by him. She had heard about it happening, had read about it in the newspaper and women's magazines. But this was too much. It had been blinding, exquisite and horrible. 'Please God, let me die.' she prayed. She knew it wouldn't happen. Slowly, and without making eye contact, the regretful rapist withdrew from his victim. He sat down on the edge of the small bed and hung his head. He could feel her looking at him and reluctantly met her eyes. He saw the pain and question in her beautiful green eyes. She saw the pain and anger in his sharp blue eyes. 'Why?' Kyrie asked as her eyes welled up with tears 'Why me?' The man looked her straight in the eyes and said; 'I'm sorry. I tried not to hurt you too badly. Nothing that I did to you was your fault. You didn't do anything wrong and you probably didn't deserve for this to have happened to you. It was by chance that I caught you. It could have been any woman, but I caught you first.' His words were no comfort to her, but she understood. He needed for her to be honest with him. Her body betrayed her, but he had the answers he was looking for. There never was such a thing as control and there never would be. She was his tool for self-discovery. The hate and anger rose in Kyrie's chest. He should never have taken that hood off of her head. Now she would make him suffer, make him wish that she hadn't been the one to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. True, he may have raped her, but now, he was fucked. Power Struggle She had done this before. Gotten hot and bothered, gone out on the hunt for a plaything in a bar. She liked to play coy with them, let them think they were picking her up. Plenty of time to let them know who was really in control later. Ariana checked her makeup in the mirror before going into the bar. Perfect, as usual. She enjoyed the rhythmic click clack of her heels as she approached the door, enjoying the otherwise silent night. She was excited to let her hair down and just be a slut again, for one night. All work and no play...you get it. Ariana walked in, glad to find the room moderately lit. Not bright, but she'd spent time on her look and she wanted it admired fully. She shrugged out of her coat and walked to the bar. He saw her as soon as she walked in. Smooth milk chocolate skin that almost glowed in the dim light of the bar entrance. She wasn't his usual slim and slender type, her body was full and her curves round, but she had a distinctly feminine shape, accentuated by an incredibly sexy and self confident air. She carried herself like a supermodel, hips swinging just softly enough to make you look at them. She didn't overly accentuate her breasts the way a lot of full figured women do when they want to be sexy. Instead she was dressed conservatively. A red, tea length dress contrasting her brown skin beautifully. The way she wore it, though. It may as well have been lingerie. She was aware of her body, but not desperate for anyone else to be. He watched her sit down at the bar by herself, actually swinging her legs around the stool. She was clearly not from around here. She reminded him of the prim and proper women of the 50s and 60s. He had to meet her. He picked up his beer and walked over, taking the empty seat right next to her at the bar. She knew she'd caught his eye as soon as she walked in. She felt his gaze on her as she chose a seat at the bar, as she swung her legs around the stool. He was openly eye fucking her, everyone in the room could see it, and she was clearly enjoying ignoring him. She was not surprised in the least to see him sit next to her at the bar. When he introduced himself she took the opportunity to turn and really give him a once over. Patric was white, she certainly seemed to attract a type. He was average height, though broad and stocky. Clearly muscular, he must work with his hands in some way. Construction? Journeyman? She refused to let her gaze betray her interest in his tattoos. Dragons, birds, crosses, he was covered from wrist up. He even had a few on his neck. She could only speculate about where else they may be. She felt a tingle between her legs and crossed them, turning to order a glass of red wine. Once she received it she turned back to him, shaking his hand and introducing herself. Sh played it demure and sweet, amused that he clearly thought she was some naive Stepford bore. She turned up the charm and ordered a cosmo. When Patric offered to take her home, that maybe she'd had too much to drink to get behind the while she smiled sweetly, thanked him for being so thoughtful. Almost had him. He was like a mouse, smelling the cheese in the trap, inching closer. They left, her all but draped over his shoulder, giggling. That's right little mousie. You hungry? She gave him directions to her house. Finally the trap was set. "Would you like to come inside for a bit? I can put on a little coffee..." The line so old a man her father's age knew what it really meant. Patric looked at her once again. The way her eyes glittered. He sensed a predatory note to the way she asked, and accepted. Did she honestly just think he was some big dumb ape? Sure, he'd play along... Ariana all but purred as she fumbled with the key to open her door. It was all going exactly the way she had planned. Her excitement was dripping down her leg imagining making this big hulk of a man beg her for release. He kissed her neck sweetly. She pushed the door open. No sooner had they gotten inside than he pushed the door closed and locked it behind them. SHe returned his neck kiss and grabbed his hand, pulling him into her bedroom. She expected hesitation, confusion...she got none. Something seemed off. She grabbed his belt buckle and pulled him closer for a kiss. Suddenly he had her ponytail, pulling her head back, exposing her neck. What was happening? She'd played it perfectly. This was where she took control. This was not what was supposed to be happening. The utter shock and confusion on Ariana's face excited Patric in a way he hadn't expected. Perhaps with the 50's housewife getup the first real innocence of the night was what he was looking for. He felt his excitement swell, straining against his jeans. He kissed Ariana, then bit her lip. He bit her neck and relished her surprised yelp. She was his. Ariana's confusion turned to frustration. This was not at all what she'd planned. She was supposed to conquer him. He was hers. Sweet little mouse. When he bit her neck she knew her humiliation was complete. She'd underestimated him. She deserved to be the prey. Before she could consciously submit he unzipped her dress, letting it fall before roughly pushing her back on the bed. Before she could protest he was on her. He actually growled as he reached up and grabbed hold of her bra, snapping it off of her like it had been held together with string. He reached down and did the same with her panties, tucking them into his pocket. She was his now, and he wanted this trophy to remember her. The prissy little bitch who'd thought she'd own him. She tried to struggle. She didn't want to be on the bottom. If she was going to submit he could at least flip her over and take her from behind. She couldn't bear the thought of laying, belly exposed, underneath him. Taking him any way he chose to give it to her. Absolutely no control. She struggled against him again, this time drawing his mild annoyance. He pinned her arms above her head, one in each hand. He made eye contact with her as he dipped his head, taking one of her nipples into his mouth. She felt him swell against her thigh, throbbing with every whimper. She was his. How did this happen? As she felt her arousal rise painfully, like a sharp jab in her crotch a thought occurred to her. What if he made her beg the way she'd planned to do him. What if he made her humiliation complete with the same sadistic pleasure in her need. She couldn't bear the thought. Instead he was merciful. Couldn't have made her wait if he'd wanted to. Claiming her as his was the most urgent feeling he'd ever had. He wanted her to be his. Completely. He pushed into her, stopping a moment to let her adjust to her sudden fullness. She whimpered again. My God that whimper. He thrust deeper, seeking out her cervix. She was going to be completely his. She kissed his neck, then bit him. He thrust harder and deeper than ever. TO punish her. She whimpered again. She was driving him insane. She refused to melt into a puddle of wetness for him this soon. She fought against it. She tried to ignore the feeling rising within her. She would not dissolve for him. She needed to hold out. She couldn't...suddenly her entire world exploded into stars. She screamed, then sighed, her eyes rolling all the way back. Her body shaking underneath him. As her last bit of resistance faded he felt his own climax approaching. He stopped and just let her pulsate around him, determined to hold out, but it wasn't quite working. He pushed in a little deeper and felt himself bottom out in her cervix. He dropped down onto his elbows, mouth directly next to her ear. "There we go, found what I was looking for," he whispered hoarsely in her ear. "I'm going to fill you full of my cum, and claim your womb as mine. You want to be June Cleaver, you can be. I want to see your belly swell with my children." He was savagely pounding away now. Ariana, no fight left in her, lay beneath him purring and squeaking, working on her own impending orgasm. She felt the final swell of his excitement and lost it herself, cumming around his cock yet again. The rhythmic contractions were just too much for patric, who once more burrowed all the way into her, planting rope after rope of seed into her womb. The orgasm was so powerful he lost his balance and collapsed head first into her chest. Ariana lay, drenched in sweat and considering. How amazing this had been. Should he bother telling him she was on birth control or should she do this a few more times first...