His Hands

I only asked him to slap me in my face because I knew he’d do it. I knew he’d take his hand from where it fit so sweetly in the curve of my body where my ribs could be seen poking out under boobs and over hips. He’d pick up his hand from where it felt good and he’d make it feel bad. Because I wanted him to. Because I needed him to.

I had faith in his hand to only do as I asked of it. I knew his hand would hit and fingers would enter where they should. Fingers would slide into me when I said “yes” and when I said “yes!” they would go deeper.

I only asked him to go deeper when my voice left my lips to express ecstacy and he was confused because I should have hurt so bad. I asked him to lift me up and throw me down and fuck me so hard I couldn’t stand afterwards. I wanted him to fuck me and leave marks where he did and so he did. Because I asked.

Laying there underneath him during the act was the perfect place to be. I knew he’d turn his face upwards and keep his dick downwards, inside of me, and excavating the parts of me I asked for him to mine. I kept asking, asking, asking and begging and saying “please”. When I begged, he’d cover my mouth which I loved because I couldn’t breathe as well and my insides would burn just like my outsides.

He only asked me if he could stop when tears welled up in his eyes because he couldn’t fuck me like that anymore. He’d collapse onto me and sweat would pool where our chests met. His head would fall onto my shoulder where I let him lay and he’d kiss my neck. I’d let him slow down and rock into me and kiss my neck and bite my ear a little because he knew I liked that. Soon, my muscles tensed around his and his into mine and suddenly, we would both exhale. His hand would come to my cheek and his lips to my lips and then we would lay there together.