“I don’t want to fuck you.”
I enjoyed the look of surprise that crossed her face. It took only a second for her ego to override that surprise and for a look of cynical disbelief to settle in its place. Of course I wanted to fuck her, she was clearly thinking to herself, everyone wanted to fuck her.
Dinner was over, the flirting had been thick and suggestive, and now we were sitting on my living room sofa, champagne glasses in hand. She knew this act, she knew what would always happen next, she was in total control. We would play a little, maybe something rough, but the end would always be the same; the two of us untangling our limbs, chests heaving as we sucked in air thick with the scene of sex and sweat.
She had men broken down to their most basic drives and, to her great frustration, that meant all of them were so easily controlled. The new kinkster, the experienced dom, the playful switch, it didn’t matter. Whoever they were, they all wanted to fuck her, to hold her, to have her and that gave her the power. I had watched her frustration, that itch that she couldn't scratch, and nor could anyone else.
She clearly did not believe me, taking my statement as a challenge rather than truth. Standing, she deliberately placed her glass on the side table, bending carefully at the waist to give me a perfect view of her ass. Looking back at me she playfully bit her lip.
I knew this act, this playful teasing was actually an attempt to regain authority. To correct the course of the night back into her control, to put me back in my place.
Matching her deliberation of movement, I stood and placed my glass besides hers, leaning past her as I did so. She pressed into me, placing a hand upon my chest and raising her lips up to meet mine. Lowering my lips I drifted past hers and whispered each word with a calculated growl into her ear.
“I don’t want to fuck you.”
I pulled away from her, snatching her wrist and twisting it painfully aside. My other hand gripped her throat. I marched her backwards, her free hand grabbing the arm holding her throat, fighting to stay balanced.
Her back hit the wall with a thud, the shock of the impact forcing a gasp from her cherry red lips. A fierce strike across the face with the back of my free hand stopped her from dragging down a breath. Instinct kicked in and she raised her hands to defend herself. I forced them out of the way and delivered another fierce slap across her cheek.
I didn’t speak to her, I didn’t order her to lower her hands, I didn’t command her, I just slapped her again and again, hitting her hands away when she raised them. Even as she cried and tried to speak I just kept slapping her, not offering her a single word as I did so.
She dropped to the floor the moment I released her.
She managed to let out a few strangled words between gasping sobs. “What do you... want?” Blood stained her teeth from a split lip.
Grabbing a fistful of her hair, I twisted her head to look up at me.
I saw a flicker of hope in her eyes, almost relief; this was something she understood. Men had been wanting her to strip for them as long as she had been old enough to have some reason to.
Shakily regaining her feet, she crossed her arms, gripped her black dress at the waist and started to pull it over her head.
I actually felt sorry for her.
Sex was her control, and every man would eventually succumb to it. That was her safety, in even the most desperate situation.
She let the dress fall to the floor and tried to smile at me seductively. Her lingerie was clearly to be admired, form over functionality in every way. It had most likely cost more than her dress. All I saw was a bleeding lip which trembled as she struggled to regain control. The smile failed to reach those calculating eyes, but I did finally see something there I approved of: fear.
I didn't allow her to pause, to regain balance. I wanted her stripped down to nothing, and her clothing was just the start.
She wriggled her hips as she followed my instruction. Starting to play with the strap of her bra.
I back handed her and followed it up with a quick strike to her hip bone.
"I don't want to fuck you, so stop trying.
Crying she began to remove her bra without ceremony. Her hand shook as she let it drop to the floor.
She finally looked naked, standing against the wall with just a thong left.
Looking pointedly at the last strip of lace which hid her cunt, I raised an eyebrow. Looking up at her I finally saw some hesitation - some unwillingness - as she looked away, not wanting to look me in the eye. She was starting to understand that she wasn't in control.
I stood staring at her, letting the silence grow. She knew what was expected, I didn't need to say anything more. With a gentle sob she reached down and finally removed her last piece of clothing.
I pushed her up against the wall, my forearm pressed against her throat. My left hand went down to explore her shaved little pussy, her tool, her most powerful weapon. It felt small and wet in my rough hand.
"I don't want to fuck you." I gripped the mound of her cunt. "But I will rape you."
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