▐║ ⌖ [01.] sender bends receiver over a desk and fucks them from behind. - niran. @brokenfist
It’s not about playing nice. It never has been. You observe Niran keenly, astutely, taking in exactly how he roughs up on Noname, treats him as less than ⸻ jarring, in a sense, reflection imparted onto you, seeing exactly how Professor treats you played out in infinite motion, and yet you still do not stir, you do nothing to allow expression to level upon your countenance, you stand and you observe to best appease both parties; you don’t pick sides, you don’t play favorites, and you, silly Leopard, you don’t make choices ⸻ and bow your head to him aloofly, complicit in his thinking he can get away with whatever he wants. (He certainly can, that’s the thing. You’ve spent enough time with unsavory crowds to watch the worst of the worst get away with their atrocities. Compared to them, Niran is a saint. You would never disclose this.) Hence, you’re a dog if he wants you to be, he can push you around if he wants to, you won’t bat an eye toward the contrary because you figure you could be rid of him if push truly came to shove. Not as though you want to speak it into existence. You’re like Noname, in a way, favorable towards attention’s most addictive qualities.
Events therefore always play out differently between the two of you: you assume submissive role because anything else would be completely out of the question, and it is a tolerable deviation from your typical carnality, the foreplay is limited or otherwise not able to be found, though you figure it too romantic regardless. With him, you covet the violence, let him see if he can force reaction from your ice-wall of indifference through unquantifiable acts of brutality. Hitting you or spanking your ass vivid or hooking his fingers into your mouth to stifle the nothingness that never follows through. A hand around your throat that relents only when you’re teary-eyed and scarlet has suffused all over your face. You can take it, obviously, but you can’t help but wonder what he genuinely gets from this.
Whatever. Joined in unison at some nice hotel you didn’t care enough to catch the name of, only that the reception desk turned their heads to you and nodded with prim smiles as though they could approximate exactly what was to play out once Niran clicked the door shut, you’re chasing release you cannot find elsewhere. That’s why you do it, at least. You’re not a desperate girl, and you’re certainly not snared around his finger like whoever else he gets up to this licentiousness with, but this is control you get, in your own way. The bed looks nice, towering high in liliaceous immaculacy, thick pillows lining the top perimeter while the downturned comforter balances the rest. It’s too nice, untouched since the two of you set food inside. By no surprise to you, his sights are set elsewhere; split-second and a flit of your gaze reveals exactly where his attention has fixed. A black-marble desk, perpendicular to the wall.
You don’t need to be told. You’re good, that way, faultless not only in how you follow directions but also how you intuit, pick up on what goes without saying, act responsibly. Clothes are shed without fanfare, even the azure of your matching bra and panties, skill developed through unsavory circumstance, and he’s shoving you down against the desk before long, a collision of your ribcage against the stiff surface. You don’t whimper, don’t complain. You stay in place. You don’t even look at him as he readies himself, strips down enough, gives tell-tale rustling of the harness tugged up onto himself as poignant indicator ⸻ then he’s over to you, maneuvering your hips and thighs exactly as he sees fit, fingers ghosting over your core.
Not as though you’re getting preparation or even warning before he pushes into you, no leeway provided for you to adjust to the full girth stretching you out. Teeth clamp together to restrict a hiss within the cage of your mouth, unprepared for the hand that sneaks in and shoves your face down against the desk, pinning it in place as he builds up a rhythm fucking into you. Niran’s harsh with it, rough snap of his hips against your body every time he sheathes completely inside of you, all before drawing himself back and doing it again. Again and again. He grabs at one of your arms, splayed against the speckled surface, and twists it back, borderline painfully, forcing it down at the small of your back. You can handle it all. You adore this, cherish it even. You’ll even let free a wanton moan ⸻ albeit a quiet one, still melodious in its quality ⸻ as your own kind of reward. He doesn’t need it, but you’re not a cruel lover.
When he releases his hold, you stay in place, eager to see what he does next. It’s always something, something to appease those brutal whims. Bottoming out inside of you, he leans forward, chest flush against your back; his arm curls around your neck, throat tucked in the crook as he bends you, angles your head back while he continues ramming into you. This is blissful, you think, heat rising to flush across your cheeks as you measure your breathing, honeyed vocalizations fluttering beyond your lips. You’re losing yourself, and for now you may forget the rest of your life, every battered memory a non-factor for as long as he roughs you around.
