Dragons do it better

His fingers slip past the waistband of your boxers, finding you already wet and aching. 'Look at you,' he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. 'So ready for me.' He pushes a finger inside you, slow and careful, stretching your virgin cunt. It burns a little, but the feeling of being filled is overwhelming. You moan, your hands gripping his shoulders.

'Good boy,' he praises, adding a second finger and scissoring them gently. 'Taking my fingers so well.' He curls them, rubbing a spot that makes you see stars. You're panting, rocking your hips against his hand, completely lost in the sensation. He kisses you again, deep and possessive, as his fingers work you open.

He pulls his fingers out, leaving you empty and whimpering. You watch as he undoes his own pants, freeing his cock. It's thick and hard, and your eyes go wide. He lines himself up at your entrance, the head pressing against you. 'Relax for me, baby,' he says, his voice rough.

He pushes forward, a slow, inexorable pressure that makes you cry out. The stretch is intense, burning as he fills you inch by inch. He bottoms out, his hips flush against yours, and stays there, letting you adjust. 'That's it,' he soothes, stroking your hair. 'You're taking me so well. My good boy.'

He starts to move then, a slow, deep rhythm that has you clinging to him. Each thrust rubs that same incredible spot inside you, making your toes curl. You can feel every inch of him, the way he fills you completely, claiming you. His pace picks up, his thrusts becoming harder, more possessive.

'You feel so good,' he grunts into your ear. 'Tight around my cock. Made for me.' He shifts your leg higher over his hip, sinking even deeper. You're moaning with every stroke, your own hips meeting his, chasing the pleasure building low in your belly. You’re close, so close.

You're gasping, your body trembling beneath his. 'Mark, I'm gonna...' you manage to pant out, the warning lost in a moan. 'Come for me,' he commands, his thrusts turning ruthless, pounding into that perfect spot. 'Let me feel it.' Your orgasm crashes over you, your cunt clenching tight around his cock in wave after wave of blinding pleasure. He groans, his rhythm faltering, and he buries himself deep as he finds his own release. You feel the hot rush of his cum filling you, and he holds himself there, his body shuddering against yours.

After a moment, he pulls out slowly, and you both watch as his seed leaks out of you onto the sheets. He smiles, tracing a finger through the mess. 'Look at that,' he murmurs. 'My good boy, taking it all.' He kisses you softly, possessively. 'Mine.'

The thought hits you in the quiet after, as his cum leaks out onto the sheets. His weight is still heavy on you, his hand stroking your side. When he called you 'good boy,' it felt right, it felt like you. But the way he fucked you—the slow, deep possession, the way he filled you up and claimed you—it stirred something else entirely. It made your body feel soft and pliant in a way that's terrifying. It made you aware of the wetness between your legs, the fullness he left behind.

It felt feminine, in a raw, physical sense that has nothing to do with who you are. And the worst part? A secret, shameful part of you liked it. Liked feeling like his girl, just for those moments when you were pinned beneath him, taking everything he gave you.

You don't say anything. You just lie there, staring at the ceiling, as the feeling settles in your gut. His arm is slung over your waist, his breathing slow and even. He’s asleep. You shift slightly, and more of his cum leaks out, a warm trickle down your thigh. You close your eyes, hating how your body reacts to that sensation—a little clench, a fresh pulse of wetness. It’s a body made for this, a thought that makes your skin crawl even as your cunt throbs.

You picture his face when he was above you, the look of raw possession. He wasn’t seeing a man. He was seeing something to take, to fill, to breed. And you let him. You came for him. Turning your head into the pillow, you swallow hard. The truth is a cold stone in your chest. When he fucks you, you don’t feel like a good boy. You feel like his good girl. And you’re terrified of how much you want him to do it again.

The next morning, you wake to his hands already on you. He’s hard against your back, his fingers groping your chest, pinching and rolling your nipples until you’re arching against him. “Morning, baby,” he rumbles, his voice thick with sleep. He turns you onto your stomach without a word, his hand pressing between your shoulder blades. You feel the head of his cock nudge against your entrance, still slick from last night. He pushes in with one smooth, deep thrust, and you moan into the pillow.

His hands roam over your body as he fucks you—gripping your hips, squeezing your ass, palming your breasts. Each possessive touch makes you shudder. You love it. You love the way he manhandles you, the way he uses your body for his pleasure. With every snap of his hips, that shameful feeling blooms again, the one that makes you feel like a girl being taken. And you lean into it, pushing back against him, wanting more.

He sets a brutal pace, his hips slapping against your ass with each thrust. One hand fists in your hair, pulling your head back, while the other keeps groping and squeezing your chest. 'You love this, don't you?' he grunts, his breath hot on your neck. 'Love being my little fucktoy every morning.' You can only whimper in response, your voice broken. You do love it. You love the stretch and burn, the raw dominance in his touch. He shifts his hand from your breast, sliding it down your stomach and between your legs. His fingers find your clit, rubbing rough, tight circles that have you crying out.

'That's it,' he growls. 'Come on, girl. Come on my cock.' The word 'girl' should feel like a slap, but in this moment, with his fingers on you and him buried deep inside, it feels like the truth. Your orgasm rips through you, your cunt clamping down around him as you shake and sob into the sheets. He follows with a low groan, pumping his seed into you once more, filling you up. He collapses over you, his weight pinning you down, both of you breathless and spent.

It becomes the unspoken rule of your relationship. He never calls you a girl outside the bedroom—he uses your name, calls you ‘man’ or ‘dude’ when you’re out with friends. But the moment his hands are on you, the moment he’s pushing inside, the language shifts. His whispers are for you alone. “Take it, girl.” “You’re so wet for me, sweet girl.”

“My good girl.” The words sink into your skin, mixing with the pleasure until you can’t separate them. You never correct him. You just clutch the sheets and moan, your body accepting the praise it was never supposed to want. You start to crave it, that specific humiliation. You find yourself provoking him, wearing thinner boxers or shifting in your seat, just to feel his gaze darken and know what’s coming later. You need to hear him say it, to feel that split inside you—the man you are versus the girl he makes you become when he’s buried deep.

The shame is a constant companion now. You go through your days normally, binding your chest, meeting his eyes as an equal. But at night, when he pushes you against the wall or bends you over the couch, the facade crumbles. His hands are rough as he pulls your clothes off. He doesn't ask. He just takes, and you let him.