Vignettes

Primitive

His body pressed beneath mine, spread beneath me like a banquet. His beautiful, v-shaped back, its muscles rippling as he writhes in need. His arms, corded with muscle as he clenches his fists in pleasure and pain while my teeth dig into his flesh and his face tightens in pain even as he thrusts his ass back up against me, asking, wanting, needing. 

Gods! He is so beautiful now, like this, open to me with every line of his body. Offering to me everything that he is. His soul is in his eyes in this moment, and I am overwhelmed with tenderness and the need to protect him for the entire world... even as a deep, primitive part of me wants to sink my teeth into his neck and crush the spine with teeth I have never had. 

Healing

My body is wrapped around his, tight and hot and hard and sweaty as my hips pump into him and his arch to receive me. My hands are wrapped around his wrists, holding him in place with the force of my will far more than the strength of my body, and my legs are wrapped tightly around his, binding his body with mine as my beautiful cock slides into him so easily. He is making those little noises that I love, moaning and whimpering with every thrust, occasionally wincing when I press too deep but it only spurs me further. I want  to hurt him with my cock, want to fuck him until he is sore and begging me to stop. 

Part of me wants to make him pay for every poor lover I've ever had, every man who's forced his way into my woman's body and hurt it. Every man who's believed that my pain is his right, my cooperation in in his harm of me is a given. 

I want to make him pay for all of those men, want to fuck him as they fucked me- hard, fast, dry, not caring that he writhes in pain more than pleasure, not caring that his whimpers are those of hurt. I want to fuck him and not care that he is sore, hurting, that he will be for days. I want to fuck him like too many men fucked me. 

And yet as I see the lines of his body offering himself to me, his beautiful eyes wide with the giving over of himself to me, I know that this man will accept that pain if I give it to him, will pay penance for everyone who's ever hurt me, and will thank me for the opportunity to do it. This man will never be one of those, and it it makes me love him even more than I already did. 

So I slow my movements, changing my angle just a little to ensure him greater pleasure, and I smile as I watch his face tighten in something like joy, something like agony, as the sensation builds until he is clenching his hands so tightly around mine, whispering over and over, "Yes!"

And something that was broken in me begins to heal.