His fist is in my hair so tight i feel it straining as if it will all be pulled out. Trying not to cry is useless. He wants that, likes that. And the tears will come whether i try to hold them back or not.
my head is bent back, staring up at Him as He looks at me. Sizing me up to see what will break me tonight. Turn me from a wife, mother, cook and into a wanton, ravening whore for him.
or maybe he only wants holes. just a place to jam his cock, and succor release of his seeds.
Bent, and awkward, He shoves me toward the bed. Whanging my shins on the metal frame, i can’t wince since his hold on my hair is pulling my eyes taut. Fuck! i yelp it.
His hand lashes out, fast and lethal against my bare cheek. More tears flow. He is the master, the owner, the taker, the user. i am a slave, a toy, a thing.
A thing gets used.
Sometimes hard. Harder than hard. My pleasures are not needed, not worried over. Tonight it won’t matter how much it hurts.
Tomorrow that will be a pleasant memory for me. But for the now, it is small solace.
Face into the bed, shins against the cold metal frame, ass up, he finally releases my hair. The strands that stick to his sweaty palm are callously pulled out of my head and stick to his hand.
His cock is thick and dripping with his need; i feel it, the moist and turgid head of it between my thighs as he hip-thrusts against me, jockeying for the right angle. His hands slap at my hips, wiggling me exactly where he wants my hole to be. Stupidly, i rise up to adjust myself for him.
His hand slaps the back of my head.
i flop back to the mattress. i am a thing. a tool. A release valve.
No talking, no sharing of rough days at work or aggravating family. Just a hole.
and a dick.
and all the time He needs.