Must I

August 12

Must I always be so cruel?
I bound you gently, wrists and ankles spread wide and you are the X that marks the spot. With just the slightest push forward, it almost feels like you're suspended halfway in freefall - floating, but not. The immediate dull ache in your shoulders assures you of that.
What will my pleasure be, born in your flesh and mind, seared into your soul. Perhaps I'll use my toys: whips and canes that leave stripes on your skin like ruddy red highlighter, or paddles and straps, leaving bruises you feel deep in your bones. At least I'll probably open with floggers and percussion, letting you drop into a rhythmic trance.
Or maybe I'll be more primal...use my hands, nails and teeth - any part of my body to express my ravenous desire. Snaking behind you, I might catch your throat in the crook of my elbow, with any flex threatening your consciousness. Perhaps I'll just grab you by the hair, yanking your head around rudely as I spank your face...spank your face. No, you know I'm going to use my long nails to shred your flesh, making it sizzle burn as layer after layer of dermis is scoured away, trapped beneath my fingernails.
I could always write humiliating secrets you try so hard to hide all over your body. Drawing pictures of dicks on your face spitting their loads in your mouth, a yawning ****** on your pathetic tits - someplace for me to aim, a dumpster over your clit on your bald pubis because that is your cum dumpster, after all.
To your surprise, I stand before you, my hands slipping between your breasts, down your torso (your nerves jump to attention in case you're tickled), and cup your mons venus with my hugging palm. My fingers trace your velvet folds, squirming between and pulling that quivering quim wide causing your southmouth to open with an audible wet *pop*. Your breath catches in your throat as my nimble fingers dive into your whimpering hole.
You drip nearly instantly from my knuckles, my middle and ring fingers plunging into that sloppy twat, rubbing against your internal walls - hunting blindly in the darkness of that cunt.
My probing fingertips finally caress your pleasure center, the only brain in your entire body: your g spot.
And I stroke it.
And I pump it.
And you are pushed to climax, ripped from your bound body without even asking. Over and over, the first few shattering your mind like glass exploding into a million shards leaving your mouth agape. I don't stop though, but why would I? My pleasure is still quite a few orgasms down the hole.
Just my two fingers, as if beckoning your cunt to weep down your thighs and drip to the floor, triggers your body into uncounted involuntary spasms echoing through your legs and arms.
Still, I do not relent.
You mind becomes mush, as I finger fuck you into a brainless cum dummy. Whether from the trembles that agonize muscles throughout your body like you've just ran in a marathon, or the parched and desperate thirst that plagues you from me milking your fluids dry leaving that cunt to spit sand, you know you're going to be in ouch and discomfort for days, if not weeks to come - recovering from my desire to make you cum.