When You Dominate Me
The exquisite pleasure in letting go
We’re both here. We’re both hungry for each other, and we know what’s about to happen.
We went out tonight. We listened to live music and talked for hours over drinks. Real conversation about life and art and sex. We talked a lot about sex — the different things we both like and need.
All that talking really heightened the anticipation — because, for me, intellectual stimulation is one of my favorite forms of foreplay.
The moment we step inside your house and close the door, I feel it. That crackling electric spark just before the first kiss.
You put your hands on my shoulders and turn me to face you. You slip my coat off of me and it falls to the floor, neither of us caring to pick it up.
You step toward me, closing the space between us. Mere inches separate our bodies, and I can feel the desire radiating off of you. I feel it the same way I see it in your wide eyes.
You’re ravenous.
When your lips are so, so very close but have yet to meet mine — I can feel that delicious tension intensify. It’s an actual physical manifestation of sexual need that travels from my chest to my cunt, making me ache with the urge to feel your lips against mine.
But I wait. I want you to decide when. I make decisions all fucking day, and I need a break.
You grab the side of my waist with one hand, just above my hip bone, and you squeeze, hard, as you push me back against the wall. Your other hand is at my neck, your fingertips tangled in my hair, your thumb guiding my jaw up, tilting my head back at the angle you desire.
Your lips inch closer until finally, they’re pressing against mine. A sigh of relief escapes me, and that seems to light a fire under you.
You grind into me, pinning me against the wall with your hips. I feel your erection over our clothes, pressing into me as you coax my lips open and slide your tongue inside my mouth.
We kiss deeply, your tongue exploring. I can’t help myself and open my legs wider as you rub up against me. I’m desperate to feel more friction in just the right spot.
But you — your job is to manhandle this body. I always have so much to do, so many responsibilities to take care of. Now I need you to be the one in charge.
You grab a handful of my hair and yank my head to the side so you can kiss my neck. You don’t have to be feathery light. You can suck and kiss and bite a little. You do all these things, then bring your lips down to explore the cleavage above my low-cut dress.
Then, keeping a firm grasp on my hair, you yank the neck of my dress down and bring my bra with it, stretching the fabric so my naked breasts spill out over it.
Ropes and handcuffs and binds are lovely, but they’re not a necessity. You can give me that same feeling of absolute surrender without the trappings.
You let go of my hair and encircle my wrists, pushing my arms high above my head until they hit the wall above me. You hold both of my wrists in one of your large hands and keep them pinned against the wall. When I struggle against your grasp, I can’t budge.
It feels so satisfying.
I’m powerful and independent in every other aspect of my life — and I wouldn’t have it any other way. But this — this juxtaposition of exchanging my power for these few moments— it’s exquisite.
Your lips go to my left breast and your hand goes to my right. You tease my nipples with your tongue, your lips, and your fingertips.
I moan in pleasure, and you muffle my cry with your lips. Then your other hand travels below my skirt. You shove your fingers down my underwear and plunge two of them inside my wet, hungry pussy. My muscles clench around your fingers as you work me. You thrust them in and out of me painfully slow at first.
Then you speed up, finger-fucking me harder, deeper, the palm of your hand rubbing against my clit.
Oh, yes.
I throw my head back as I feel myself getting closer to the edge, breaking our kiss and crying out. I love to get loud when I’m feeling this good. My vocal response to pleasure is just another extension of my body.
I pull my wrists against your bind as I thrust my hips harder against your hand, wanting more. When you pull your wet fingers out of me and focus them solely on my clit, gliding them over my swollen bud, I cry out louder with each new wave of building pleasure.
You increase the speed of your fingers, sliding them up and down over my clit and labia. Then you switch things up by massaging my pleasure center in a circular motion.
My mouth forms a silent O as you circle my clit over and over and over, increasing the pressure as you push me to the precipice.
The orgasm is about to hit me hard. I take a breath to scream, and that’s when you let go of my wrists and clamp your hand down over my mouth.
I grab your head and scream into your hand as I break down in a long, shuddering orgasm.
There’s nothing quite so freeing as allowing myself to fall apart right in front of you.
I know — strong women aren’t supposed to want this. It’s not how a good little feminist gets off, according to some.
My orgasm is so intense, I’m practically melting into the wall. I’m melting into you. I’m about to fall into a puddle on the floor, but you put your hand on my throat and squeeze, keeping me right where I am.
With your other hand, you undo your fly and bring out your smooth, hard cock in one quick, fluid motion.
You rub the head of your cock against my clit, then lower it to my opening, teasing me, making me wait.
It’s excruciating.
When you finally enter me, please don’t do it gently. I want you to fuck your way inside me. To pound me from the very first thrust. I want to feel you impale me with your cock and crash your body into mine.
I know — strong women aren’t supposed to want this. It’s not how a good little feminist gets off, according to some.
Fuck that. This is how I take my pleasure. This is how I feel empowered.
The muscles of my cunt contract when you enter me in one hard, forceful thrust — stretching my orgasm and making it last a few delicious moments more.
You know me by the way you fuck me. You know it can’t be too gentle. It just doesn’t have the same therapeutic effect.
There are so many responsibilities on my back. So many people relying on me. There’s so much I have to be on top of.
So letting go and surrendering to you is pure ecstasy.
I need you to thrust hard, and you do. I need you to take pleasure in my body, and you do.
You squeeze my throat and pull my hair and fondle my breasts and kiss me with furious desperation. You say things like, “Your cunt feels so…fucking…good around my cock,” as you rhythmically pummel into me.
Our physical connection is so intense, it’s downright spiritual. When I come the second time, I take you with me, squeezing your cock as my muscles clench in the throes of climax.
You lose control even as you’re controlling me, throwing your head back and filling me up with your come.
You take a deep breath and shiver, and I feel your cock twitch inside me. The weight of your body against mine is heavy as you come down from your high, and I love that sensation.
There’s nothing quite so powerful as allowing you to dominate me.