there's nothing like looking up at your man after he experimentally spits in your mouth and asking, "can you slap me a little?"
the question will bounce between you for a second. you'll be reminded of those computers on sleep mode with the rainbow bubbles scattering like marbles in space. he'll glitch. the anticipatory silence yawns wide between you as he wraps his head around what you'd just asked him, picking between each letter, each syllable, each word before he finally manages to take in the question altogether.
his eyes will glaze over with foreign want. he knew you were a freak. obviously. how much, though--- that's a different question. but he's been doing his research for you. he's been corrupting his search history with ways to please you, but most of it was a reach. obviously. you wouldn't actually want to go that far... obviously?
don't you know how long it took him to even get around to spitting in your mouth? hello?
he gives you a little tap on the cheek, and the corner of your mouth twitches up into the start of a laugh. he looks so out of his depth above you, so sickeningly horny that it feels paralysing, and yet too unsure about what to do about it to do anything at all. the only thing that he's sure of is that he'd rather be castrated than do something to accidentally displease you. it's that very look that turns you on even more; that frantic nervousness, that desperation, that acute need that has made him so pliant and malleable. it's funny. it's funny because he's doing all these things to "dominate" you when you're the one in control.
"I'll tell you when it's too much."
he tries again. his palm landing against your cheek is punctuated by a small clap, and he grimaces, his gaze scouring the rest of your face for an indication that you don't like it. he ignores the twinge between his legs and calls himself every degrading combination of slurs known to man.
"Harder," You insist, your heart pounding in your chest. the wetness between your legs has slicked down the inside of your thighs, and it's so hot, so sticky, so humid that the skin begins to sting and get irritated. but it's not enough. he's so close. "I want you to slap me. Like, don't knock me out or anything. But humble me."
"So sure," You say. You make sure to say it with the kind of tone that has enough sharpness not to be questioned, only obeyed.
His eyes flutter as he gulps. "Okay."
this time, he really slaps you. he slaps you like you're some whore he hired off one of those sketchy ads cluttering those sketchier websites, like he picked you up from the club, like he bought you and now owns you. he slaps you with just enough disrespect to humiliate you. the rest of it feels more disciplinary. like you're dumb. greedy. needy. like you're so cockdrunk you can't even think, which is exactly where that slap sends you.
when you look up at him, your eyes are softened with love.
it sends him over the edge.
"Fuck," he mutters, planting his hand flat against your chest and stamping the mattress with your body. he gets it. it all clicks. it's yet another disgusting part of himself that you've irreversibly awakened. he would have never have known he was into it if it weren't for you.
gentle. sweet. romantic. vanilla.
how far the mighty have fallen.
"Fuck. You freak. You like it when I hurt you? Fine. I'll hurt you."
