The Confessions Of A Switch

“I don’t,” I said gently. “I just don’t cure it.”

I leaned in close enough for him to feel my perfume on his skin.

Men don’t hate wanting.

He asked too many questions for someone pretending not to care.

“Do you always leave first?” he asked.

“I leave when I’m still curious,” I said. “Staying too long ruins the fantasy.”

He smiled slowly. “You think everything’s a game.”

“No,” I corrected. “I think everything’s a moment.”

We walked side by side, not touching, but close enough that the air between us felt heavy. Every step was a decision not to cross a line.

“You’re hard to read,” he said.

“I’m easy,” I replied. “People just look for permission before they believe it.”

We stopped at a corner. Cars rushed past. The city kept moving like it didn’t care about our tension.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

I stepped closer until he could feel me without touching me.

“You can want to,” I said quietly.

His jaw tightened. His hands stayed at his sides. He didn’t move.

That restraint was hotter than any kiss.

I smiled and stepped back. “See? New York teaches you how to survive desire.”

But then he walked in.

And I, no bullshit, actually stopped breathing for a second. He was taller than expected, definitely. But it was the way he looked at me. Not hungry. Not smirking. Just... present. Quiet. Like he already knew where the cracks were. Like he could feel how much I liked pretending to be unaffected.

I tried to set the tone, of course. Told a fast story, made a flirty jab, crossed my legs with the kind of casual elegance I’ve weaponized before. But he didn’t rush to impress me. Didn’t shrink. He just listened, smiled once — slowly — and asked, “So what do you actually want tonight?”

That ruined me more than anything filthy someone else could have said.

I drank slower after that. Let him get closer. Let my knees touch his under the table and pretended it didn’t affect me. But I felt it — my pulse in my throat, the quiet dread that comes when I realize someone might actually see through my rehearsed version of detached.

We ended up back at my place because I was too curious not to. I told myself I was still in control. That I’d give him a kiss, maybe a quick power trip, maybe edge him a bit before sending him off.

I brought him up because I thought I could handle it.

That’s the truth.

I’d had people in my bed before. People who begged, people who performed, people who tried to earn their way into being memorable. I like being the reason they leave shaking. I like the power. I like knowing I’m going to forget them before they forget me.

But he didn’t ask for anything. Didn’t perform. He just stepped inside like he’d already been here. Like he belonged.

He didn’t kiss me when the door closed. He waited.

I turned toward him, backlit in the hallway glow, and he said,

“Are you sure you want this?”

That made me wet. Not the question, but the way he asked it. Like he already knew I did, and just wanted to hear me admit it.

I nodded. That was the first surrender.

And something in me broke.

He took my chin between his fingers and tilted my head back. Looked at me for a beat too long. Then finally kissed me, and — fuck — it wasn’t gentle. It was deep. Possessive. It was the kind of kiss that steals your breath on purpose. He kissed me like someone who didn’t want to own me, just ruin me enough that no one else would stand a chance.

I grabbed his shirt. Dragged him toward the bedroom.

I thought I’d take over. Thought I’d flip it, push him down, ride his face, set the pace.

But he kept catching me off balance. Every time I moved with intent, he adjusted. Slower. Calmer. Like he was always one step behind but fully in control. That was the worst part. He never took control. He just never gave it up.

I stripped first, trying to recenter. I made a show of it, too … fingers up my thighs, bra dropped to the floor, panties sliding off as I walked to the bed. He watched like it was a gift he already knew was his. That made my stomach knot in the best way.

He undressed silently. Like it didn’t matter if I was watching, like he knew I would be. When he climbed onto the bed, he didn’t grab me. He pushed my legs open with one hand and said, “You’re going to come first. And you’re going to say thank you when you do.”

I wanted to laugh. Wanted to sass. Wanted to pretend he wasn’t already two fingers deep, slow and unrelenting, pressing up just right, thumb grazing over everything that made me twitch.

I didn’t even know I was shaking until he kissed me after and said, “Still with me?” like he knew how far I’d slipped.

I didn’t thank him.

Not the first time.

Not until the second, when I came so hard I almost bit his shoulder trying not to cry out.

“Good girl,” he said into my neck.

And I didn’t correct him. I just let it land.

i went out alone.

felt hot.

pigtails, red lips, tight top.

just needed to move my body and not answer to anyone.

acme was packed. sweaty. loud.

i danced like i was on something.

i wasn’t. just free.

he started dancing next to me.

didn’t say much. didn’t touch.

just got close, let the beat carry us.

i ignored him at first. looked bored.

walked away once, maybe twice.

he didn’t chase.

just waited.

like he knew i’d come back.

i did.

he bought us drinks.

we talked a little but it wasn’t about talking.

it was about timing.

about how good i looked under those lights and how he looked at me like he wanted to ruin something.

we left and went to paul’s.

the kind of place where no one’s pretending to be sober.

men kept stopping me to say something about my hair.

he watched it happen. smirked.

didn’t get jealous. just leaned in and said, “keep being cute.”

like he liked watching them look.

later, he tried to leave early.

leaned in and said, “come with me.”

i didn’t.

he left anyway.

came back twenty minutes later and found me still dancing.

he just grabbed my hand.

this time, i went.

we got to his place and it was immediate.

no small talk. no power games.

clothes hit the floor in seconds.

he pulled me onto his lap and bit my neck.

i got on top and stayed there.

kept my bra on. dragged it out.

his hands gripped my waist like he was holding on for dear life.

we didn’t stop.

not once.

didn’t sleep.

fucked until the sun came up and i couldn’t feel my thighs.

he wasn’t in charge.

neither was i.

we just kept taking from each other like it wasn’t real life.

like it wouldn’t matter in the morning.

and it didn’t.

it was casual.

he’d send a black suv to my place after work. driver always knew my name.

i never asked. if he wanted me, he got me.

his building was one of those quiet luxury types. no noise, no neighbors.

the elevator opened directly into his penthouse.

no hallway. just him, money, and that fucking view.

he was always already drinking when i got there.

tie loose. shirt open. one hand in a glass of something too expensive.

sometimes he’d be mid-call. he’d just wave me in with two fingers and keep talking.

like i was a regular part of the décor.

he fucked me like he was mad at something.

hands always on my throat, teeth in my shoulder.

he liked having me kneel in front of the windows.

liked calling me good girl right in my ear, then ruining me.

He always made sure I came harder than I meant to.

one time i said no…just to see what he’d do…

he laughed and said, “you think this is about what you want?”

and i came from that alone.

i always stayed over.

he wasn’t soft, but he was consistent and intentional.

coffee ready before i even opened my eyes. croissants i never asked for.

it wasn’t love. it was logistics.

it still felt good.

one morning i came out of the bedroom wearing nothing but his shirt

and he was already on a call.

he didn’t even look up, just pointed to the floor.

i dropped to my knees like i’d been trained.

he kept talking. didn’t miss a beat.

i sucked him off while he pitched something about quarterly returns.

he came in my mouth and said, “i’ll follow up via email.”

i almost moaned. like actually.

he never asked me to stay, but he always made space for me.

i’d fall asleep curled up against him, ruined and happy.

his arm across my stomach like a claim, not a cuddle.

it was good.

it was unhinged.

***pt 1 link***

I was useless at work. Completely, utterly, pathetically useless.

Every time I tried to focus, my mind dragged me back to last night—his hands pinning me down, his mouth wrecking me, the way he fucked me like he owned me. My body still ached, my thighs still trembled if I moved too fast, and yet I needed more. Desperately.

Then, mid-afternoon, my phone buzzed.

Him: “Still sore?”

I crossed my legs under my desk, biting my lip.

“A little.” I admitted. “Thinking about you all day, though.”

His response came fast.

“Good” he replied. “I want to see you tonight.”

I exhaled sharply, gripping my phone.

“What time?” I asked.

Instead of answering, he simply took control—arranging everything before I could even think to hesitate. By the time my shift ended, he had already sent an Uber. The entire ride, my thighs pressed together, desperate for relief, my fingers twitching in my lap as I fought the urge to slip them between my legs. Every bump in the road sent sparks of need straight to my core.

Then, just as I was drowning in anticipation, my phone vibrated again.

He had Postmated Gatorade, snacks, and ice cream. No condoms. He knew exactly how I liked it.

My stomach clenched. My breath caught. My pulse hammered against my skin.

When the car pulled up, he was already at the door, leaning against the frame, arms crossed. That same devilish smirk. That same dark, knowing gaze that stripped me bare before I even stepped inside.

I didn’t say a word. Neither did he.

Because within minutes, our hands were tangled in each other’s hair, our mouths crashing together, our bodies pressing tight like we were starving. Somewhere between the front door and his bedroom, my dress was gone. His shirt was off. I was on my back, and his fingers were already tracing the wet mess between my thighs.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement as he slid two fingers inside me, slow and deep.

I gasped, arching into him. “Me too,” I admitted breathlessly.

His lips curled into a smirk as he dragged his fingers out of me and sucked them into his mouth. “You taste even better when you’ve been desperate all day.”

My entire body clenched.

“What do you want, baby?” he asked knowing the answer, lips ghosting over my throat, his cock hard against my stomach.

I didn’t need to think. The words fired out of me, raw and needy.

“You. I need you. I need you between my legs and licking me.”

His eyes flashed, and he grinned, slow and predatory. “So polite tonight.”

Then he was between my thighs, spreading me open, and devouring me.

Three orgasms later, I was panting, trembling, gripping his hair like I needed him to keep me grounded.But all I could think about was his pleasure—his cock, rock hard and aching, his body tensed with restraint.

“I want to play with you,” I pleaded, sliding down between his legs, my fingers trailing down his stomach.

His breath hitched as I wrapped a hand around his cock, teasing my tongue along the tip, tasting myself on him.

He groaned—a deep, primal sound that sent shivers down my spine.

“If you don’t stop that,” he warned, voice ragged, “I’m going to shove myself inside you.”

I smirked, dragging my tongue slowly down his shaft, then lower, teasing the sensitive spot between his thighs. My hands cradled his balls, my lips pressing featherlight kisses along his length, deliberately keeping the pace agonizing.

His entire body tensed beneath me. His fingers dug into the sheets. His breath came out in short, shaky gasps.

“You’re teasing me,” he accused, voice strained.

“Of course I am,” I purred, swirling my tongue around his tip. “You deserve it.”

A guttural growl tore from his throat.

In an instant, his hands were on me, dragging me up his body, flipping me onto my back. But just as he lined himself up, just as he was about to take back control—

I stopped him.

I grabbed his hair, straddled his waist, and pushed him flat against the bed. His eyes flickered with surprise, then darkened with understanding.

I leaned down, pressing his face between my tits, rolling my hips against his cock. His breath was hot against my skin, his hands gripping my thighs as he let me take over. The shift was instant—he knew it, and I knew it. He had lost his power.

I tangled my fingers in his hair, tugging just enough to make him look up at me. His eyes were glazed, pupils blown wide, lips parted as if he were waiting for permission to breathe.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" I mocked, my voice dripping with amusement as I kept him nestled between my breasts, rolling my hips in slow, deliberate circles.

His response was muffled, desperate. "Feels so good, ma’am."

That was all I needed to hear. My rhythm stayed steady, just slow enough to torture him, just deep enough to make him whimper. His hands clutched at my thighs, but I could feel his restraint, the way he ached to hold onto control even as I took it from him.

I ran my nails down his chest, tracing over his flushed skin as I whispered, "You're being such a good boy for me."

His entire body shuddered.

I didn’t stop. I didn’t let him stop. I guided his mouth back to my tits, tangling my fingers in his hair as I fed him more praise, more control wrapped in softness.

"Do you want to cum for me?" I purred, leaning down to nip at his ear.

He let out a desperate groan, his voice barely more than a breath. "Yes—please—Mommy—"

"Good." I smirked, rocking my hips harder, feeling his cock twitch inside me. "Then I want you to cum when I count down. You think you can do that for me, baby?"

His head tipped back against the pillow, his throat exposed, his entire body trembling beneath me. He already looked wrecked, but this? This was going to break him.

"Yes," he choked out, voice shaking. "Yes, please—"

I started slow.

"Ten."

My hands dragged down his chest, my hips grinding down, taking him *deep.*

"Nine."

His breath stuttered, hands clutching the sheets.

"Eight."

His thighs tensed beneath me, his eyes fluttering shut, his body bracing.

"Seven."

He let out a shaky gasp, hips jerking up, desperate for more.

"Six."

His hands moved to my hips, gripping tight, his entire body *wired.*

"Five."

A broken moan.

"Four."

He was shaking.

"Three."

Muffled curses.

"Two."

His voice cracked—"Please, please—"

"One."

He came undone.

His body locked up, back arching, head thrown back as he spilled inside me, his breath catching on the wrecked, broken sounds tearing from his throat. I rode him through it, milking every last drop, feeling him pulse inside me, his whimpers turning to soft, choked moans as he thanked me between gasps.

I kissed his forehead, feeling his pulse hammering beneath my lips. He was spent, panting, shaking, eyes hazy and unfocused.

But I wasn’t done.

I was still on top. He was still rock hard.

I leaned in, lips against his ear.

"Not yet," I whispered, voice drenched in promise.

I kissed the corner of his mouth, feeling his body twitch beneath me.

***Part 1***

We barely made it into the backseat before I had him exactly where I wanted him.

Parked on a quiet side street in Brooklyn at 1 a.m., the city hummed around us, but in this car, he was mine.

He sat there, back against the seat, breathing unevenly, eyes dark with need. His cock—so big, so thick, so fucking desperate—strained against his pants, twitching at nothing. I hadn’t even touched him yet, and he was already a mess. The plug inside him had him so sensitive, stretched open, keeping him right on edge.

And I knew why he was this bad.

I had told him not to cum for the last four days leading up to this date. Four long days of denial, of building frustration, of his cock getting harder at just the thought of me.

I leaned in close, my lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Unbutton your pants."

His fingers fumbled as he obeyed, unfastening them and pushing them down just enough to free himself.

Fuck.

He was soaked in precum, the head of his cock glistening, still dripping. It leaked down his length, wetting his thighs, proof of just how pent up he was, how much he needed this.

I let out a slow, satisfied hum, dragging my nails lightly down his thigh, deliberately avoiding where he wanted me most. He shuddered.

"Look at you," I murmured, trailing my fingers just close enough to make him twitch. "You’re already so worked up. Four days without cumming, all plugged up, and now you’re sitting here, dripping all over yourself like a desperate little thing."

He swallowed hard, nodding. "Yes, ma’am." His voice was wrecked.

I finally wrapped my fingers around him, slow, teasing. He moaned, head tipping back against the seat. So big, so hard, throbbing in my hand like he could barely stand it. I stroked him lazily, watching him fall apart, his hips lifting just slightly, chasing more.

"Ma’am," he panted, "please… can I cum?"

I didn’t answer. I just squeezed the base of his cock and let go entirely.

His body jerked. He whined.

"Not yet," I said smoothly. "Hands behind your back."

He obeyed instantly, gripping his own wrists, thighs tense. I resumed touching him, drawing slow circles over his tip, playing with the precum pooling there. His thighs trembled.

"Please," he gasped, eyes blown wide. "Please, I need to—"

I stopped again.

"Fuck," he choked out, chest rising and falling.

I smiled. "That’s two."

He groaned, pressing his head back into the seat, fingers digging into his own wrists. His huge cock twitched, aching for attention, but I was in no hurry. I let my hands roam instead—his stomach, his chest, his thighs—touching everywhere except where he needed it most.

"Are you feeling it yet?" I asked, running my fingers along his inner thigh.

He nodded frantically, jaw tight. "Yes, ma’am."

I wrapped my fingers around him again, teasing, stroking him back to that edge. I felt his muscles go tight, his breathing sharp and erratic. He was right there.

Then I let go.

He gasped, body jerking forward as if chasing the pleasure I’d stolen.

I grinned. "That’s three."

His hands fisted behind his back. His cock—big, throbbing, so helpless in my control—twitched helplessly, flushed red, aching. He looked at me like he was about to fall apart.

"Poor thing," I cooed. "All plugged up, denied three times, four days without cumming, and you’re still just dripping. You must be a mess inside."

He let out a broken sound, shifting, adjusting the plug. I could tell it was getting to him, keeping him stretched while his cock throbbed untouched.

I let the silence stretch, watching him squirm, his need written all over his face.

Then I whispered, "I’ll count you down."

His whole body tensed. I stroked him slowly, deliberately.

"Five… four… three…"

I paused.

He gasped, hips bucking. "Two," he pleaded.

I smirked. "Wait, what number was I on?"

His eyes went wide. "Three," he said desperately.

"No, no, I think it was four."

"No, please!" He was shaking, panting, barely holding himself together.

I laughed softly. "Alright. Three… two… one."

"Cum."

His entire body jolted. His head snapped back against the seat, his mouth falling open in a silent cry. His cock pulsed hard in my hand, so much cum, hot ropes spilling over his stomach, his thighs, his brand-new shirt—the one he’d been telling me about at dinner.

Right as he moaned, broken and wrecked, someone walked past the car.

We both froze. His eyes snapped to mine, wide, horrified, so turned on.

And then—at the same time—we giggled, completely breathless, as his cock twitched one last time, spilling the last drops of his orgasm onto his ruined shirt.

He whimpered through it, hips jerking with each pulse, his thighs trembling. I stroked him through the aftershocks, milking every last drop from him.

When it was over, he collapsed forward, breathless, burying his face in my chest. I let him, running my fingers through his hair as he panted against me, completely wrecked.

"You ruined your shirt," I murmured.

He let out a weak, breathless laugh. "I don’t care."

I smirked. "I bet you don’t."

After a minute, he stirred, still dazed. His lips brushed my collarbone, his hands creeping up toward my chest.

"Can I see them?" he whispered.

I chuckled. "Absolutely not."

He groaned. "Please."

I ran a finger under his chin, tilting his face up to mine. "Beg me."

His eyes darkened. "Please, ma’am," he breathed. "Just let me touch them. Just for a second."

I shook my head. "You can do better than that."

His jaw clenched. He swallowed hard. "Please, please let me touch them. I’ll do anything, I—"

I tugged him up by the chin, just enough to kiss him, slow and deep.

Then I pulled back. "One more time."

His breath hitched. "Please, ma’am, let me touch your tits."

I smirked. "Good boy."

I guided his hands where he wanted them, watching the way his eyes went hazy with lust, how he groaned low in his throat as he finally got to feel me.

But I wasn’t done with him yet.

My hand found his cock again, still sensitive, still plugged. I gripped him, felt him shudder.

"You’re gonna go again," I taunted.

His eyes fluttered closed. "Fuck."

"Ask for it."

His voice was wrecked, desperate, his body already melting into mine.

Second date. He’s my usual type—dark features, that Brooklyn Italian twang, late 20s, a nurse. We’d been texting, a little kinky but nothing crazy. He’d told me he was a switch, though he’d never had much of a chance to explore it. Then he mentioned something that caught my attention: a prostate plug.

"Bring it with you," I told him. "Just in case the date goes well."

He picked me up, and as we drove to the restaurant, I glanced over at him, all sharp in his business coat, his hands on the wheel.

"Did you bring it?" I asked, cutting him off from his in depth ramble on Pearl Jam.

A beat of silence. Then—“Yeah.” His voice was lower, almost hesitant, but there was something else underneath it.

I smirked. "Good. Keep it in your coat pocket for now."

He swallowed hard, nodding. Watching a man slip a plug into the pocket of his perfectly put-together coat? That did something to me. He had no idea what he’d just agreed to.

When we got to the restaurant, I saw a table tucked into a quiet corner, next to the window. "We’d like to sit over there," I told the hostess, not giving him a choice. He glanced at me but didn’t question it. He knew.

The next hour was slow, deliberate. I let the tension build, teasing him in small, calculated ways. I dragged my heel up his leg under the table, just enough to make him shift in his seat. When I leaned in to show him something on the menu, my nails barely grazed his upper thigh—higher each time. I felt him tense beneath my touch, his breath catching.

His cock twitched. I saw the way his hands clenched slightly, how his eyes flickered to mine with a mix of restraint and hunger.

I ordered our drinks without asking him. "I know you'll love it," I instructed. Another reminder of who was in control.

Between sips and conversation, I watched him, knowing the question had to be lingering in his mind. Why did I make him bring the plug?

And then, just as the first round of drinks arrived, I leaned back in my seat and locked eyes with him.

"Go to the bathroom." I let the words settle for a second. Then—"Plug yourself."

His lips parted, breath shallow. A rush of color spread across his cheeks as he shifted, his cock hardening beneath the table. He was silent for a moment, processing, wanting, needing.

He exhaled sharply. "Yes, ma’am."

Without hesitation, he stood and walked off. I sipped my drink, watching his back as he disappeared down the hall.

He returned faster than I expected, red-faced, his movements just slightly stiffer. He sat down carefully, and I caught the way his hips rolled slightly, adjusting to the stretch.

"That was quick," I mused. "You must’ve really wanted it."

His throat bobbed. He shifted again, eyes darting to mine. "It... slid in easily. I think I was just—" He hesitated. "Excited."

I smiled. "Oh, I know you were."

For the rest of the meal, I made sure to keep him on edge. My fingers teased along the insides of his thighs, so, so close. But never quite enough. His cock strained against his pants, throbbing, desperate, and every time he looked at me, his pupils were blown wide.

At one point, his voice dropped. "Please."

"Please what?" I asked, feigning innocence.

"Touch my cock," he whispered, swallowing thickly.

I tilted my head. "What was that?"

His jaw tightened. "Please touch my cock. Just for a second."

I arched a brow. "You're forgetting something."

His exhale was sharp, frustrated. But he knew. He recalibrated.

"Please, ma’am. Touch my cock."

A reward, then. My fingers brushed over his length, tracing the shape of him through his pants. He sucked in a breath, hips barely bucking before I pulled away.

"Good boy," I reminded him, satisfied.

He paid the bill.

As we walked to the car, I glanced at him, noting the stiff way he moved.

"How does it feel?" I asked. "Walking around with that plug in you?"

His voice was breathy, a little wrecked. "It… moves when I walk. I can feel it shifting inside me."

We reached the car, and he went to open the driver’s door, but I stopped him.

"No," I said smoothly. "This is happening right now. Get in the backseat."

His breath hitched. His hand fell from the door handle, and for just a second, he hesitated, blinking at me in the night air.

Then, without another word, he obeyed.

** pt two after this**

Dating apps are exhausting. The endless swiping, the first dates that don’t spark anything, the slow realization that I might be too picky. But I know what I want, and I don’t settle.

Lately, though, my focus had been work. The promotion, the stress, the constant grind—I hadn't truly let go in weeks. I needed to be fucked. Not just casually, not just for the sake of it. I needed to be used. I needed someone to pin me down and take me.

Then, as if the universe—or maybe just a very well-trained algorithm—decided to reward my patience, he appeared.

6’2”, dark features, educated, late 20s, witty, a switch who leaned dom. My exact type.

We met for drinks. My rule? Never fuck on the first date. But from the moment our eyes locked, I felt it unraveling. Four hours of teasing, lingering touches, conversations that danced between flirtation and something much filthier. The margaritas had loosened my body, the joint we shared had softened my mind, and every fiber of me knew—I was getting fucked tonight. I had shaved every inch for a reason.

When he finally asked the question I’d been waiting for, I didn’t hesitate.

The Uber ride was a blur of hands and mouths, breathless laughs between desperate kisses. My dress was already riding up my thighs as his fingers pressed against the damp fabric of my panties. He chuckled, voice deep and smug.

“Already?”

I didn’t answer—I just kissed him harder, hands gripping the back of his neck, pressing my body against him like I could absorb him through skin alone

His apartment—spacious, elegant, oozing old money—only made me want him more. I stripped off my tights as he sat on the couch, lazily packing a bowl, watching me like he already owned me. I slid my panties down, letting them fall to the floor as I straddled his lap, the thin fabric of my dress the only barrier between us.

Small talk between soft touches. Slow kisses turned hungry. The pressure of his hands roaming my body sent a slow, torturous ache between my legs. Grinding against his growing length, I barely managed to whisper one word:

“Please.”

Something ignited in him. In an instant, I was on my back, and his mouth was on my cunt. No teasing, no buildup—just pure fucking hunger.

His tongue worked me over like he’d been starving for it. My back arched, legs trembling as he held me down. I couldn’t even think. Couldn’t process. I was already there—cumming hard, hands in his hair, gasping his name.

“Good girl,” he growled against my skin, and I knew I was done for.

“You needed this so badly, didn’t you?”

I whimpered, breathless, nodding. My body ached for him. I was soaked, ruined, desperate. He dragged the tip of his cock through my slick folds, teasing, making me squirm.

“Tell me.”

I swallowed hard, my voice barely a whisper. “I need it. Please. Use me.”

His smirk was pure sin.

The next two rounds? Filthy. Brutal. Perfect.

Pinned down, used, wrecked—exactly what I needed. Exactly what I had been craving.

He fucked me like I was his favorite toy, his voice dripping with amusement as he told me how obvious it was that I’d been needing this. Needing him. I was drenched, mind blank, body writhing under his control. And when I came, all I could whimper was:

“Thank you, Daddy.”

We collapsed into tangled limbs and heavy breathing. A break—only temporary. Because when I woke up in his bed, he fucked me again. Then I showered, slipped back into last night’s dress, and went straight to work.

Fortunately, I keep a spare suit in my office.

Unfortunately, I spent the entire day thinking about our next encounter.

Little did I know, next time, I’d be the one breaking him.

Pt2

He’s a mess.

Shaking. Gasping. His body is too sensitive, too weak, too wrecked to handle any more, but I don’t stop. I won’t stop. Not until I decide he’s had enough.

His head is buried in the crook of my neck, breath coming in shallow little pants, fingers digging into my thighs like he’s holding on for dear life.

“S’too much,” he whimpers. His voice is wrecked, almost pathetic, like he actually thinks I’ll have mercy on him.

I smirk.

My hand keeps working him, slow but relentless, his cock twitching against my palm. He’s soaked, completely at my mercy, dripping down my fingers like he doesn’t know how to stop giving in to me.

“Too much?” I echo, dragging my lips over his ear, letting my breath tickle his heated skin. “Then why are you still begging for more?”

He shudders, trying to shake his head, trying to fight it, but his body betrays him. His hips keep twitching up into my fist, desperate for friction, for release, for me.

“You really thought I was gonna let you off that easy?” I hum, tightening my grip just to hear him choke on a moan.

He whimpers. Tries to bury his face in my neck, as if he can hide from what I’m doing to him.

“Look at you,” I coo, sliding my free hand into his hair, tugging just enough to tilt his head back. His blown-out pupils meet mine, hazy with exhaustion and desperation, his lips quivering like he’s about to fall apart.

God, he looks so pretty like this.

“So fucked out and needy,” I murmur, letting my nails rake against his scalp. “And you’re still whining? Tsk. What kind of good boy does that?”

He gasps at the words, his whole body tensing, his cock twitching in my palm.

Oh?

A slow smirk curls across my lips. Interesting.

I loosen my grip on him, just to hear the way he whines—a frustrated, desperate little sound—and then I squeeze, watching his thighs tremble as his breath stutters.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” I whisper, voice dripping in amusement. “My pathetic little thing, so desperate to be good for me.”

He makes a broken noise, somewhere between a moan and a plea.

I laugh.

Then I tighten my grip on his jaw, forcing him to look at me. “Tell me.”

“I—” His voice is barely there, his whole body trembling.

“Tell me,” I repeat, lips brushing against his. “Tell me how bad you want to be my good boy.”

His breath hitches. His fingers tighten against my thighs, nails digging into soft skin. I feel the way his body locks up, the way he teeters right on the edge.

"Please," he gasps. "Please let me be good for you."

There it is.

My hand moves faster, teasing his achingly sensitive tip, working him until he’s whimpering, writhing, barely holding himself together.

“Then give it to me,” I whisper against his lips. “Come for me, sweetheart.”

He shatters.

His whole body jerks as he falls apart in my hands, cum spilling over my fingers in thick, messy spurts. His thighs quiver, his voice breaks, and the only thing he can do is hold onto me, moaning my name like a fucking prayer.

I ride him through it, letting him soak my hand, dragging out every last drop until he’s twitching, overstimulated, gasping for breath.

And then I pull away.

He lets out a soft, wrecked whimper, burying his face in my shoulder, shaking from the aftershocks.

I let him rest. For now.

But my fingers trail down his spine, slow, teasing.