Strike One was a reminder of your impact, the satisfying collision of the belt hitting my unspoiled skin mimicking the way you crash into my heart.
Strike Two was a reminder of your stability, the way you landed another blow on the exact same spot, because you knew one wasnāt enough to cause equilibrium.
Strikes Three through Six were a reminder of your patience, building intensity slowly, methodically, meticulously, turning tears into sobs into body shaking with need for moreā¦ rougherā¦ deeperā¦. violent.
Strike Seven was a reminder of your generosity, giving me exactly what I needed in a violent triple tap, making me scream from the agony of jerking my emotions from me.
Strike Eight was a reminder of your love, a light tap followed by your voice helping guide me through a deep breath, preparing me for the final two, for the culmination of your devotion to my needs.
Strike Nine was a reminder of your sadism, both of us groaning in pleasure as you hit me harder than you ever have before, reaching into my pain, yanking it out of me with a moan, and releasing it into the universe.
Strike Ten was a reminder of your ownership, your hand providing the last blow, skin to skin, your possession massaging my marks, my bruises, my soul, demanding me to let you in, punctuating my release with a quick, dirty, violent fucking release of your own.
Strikes are a reminder of our connection, of knowing you make them count, because I can always count on you.
baratheonpilled
dailybridgerton
titsay
theartofmadeline
yousharknotpass
