“Is that all you’ve got?” I imagine you’ve practised that li
“Is that all you’ve got?” I imagine you’ve practised that line a thousand times, each one attempting to increase in confidence, smooth out the cracks in your voice, make it sound like a challenge rather than a pathetic reinforcement of your position. Confidence is yours, at the best of times, but I strip that away from you until you’re just you, every façade you can think of tattered, laying in pieces on the floor. That moment, that accusation, has to be tethered to your very core, made a part of you, before you can utter those words. Before you can goad me, before you have the daring do to let each syllable slip past your lips. Is that all I’ve got? You have to comprehend the gravity of such an utterance. You have to understand that no, that’s really not all I fucking got, you cheeky little tart. You have to ken that I can go much further, parse that my reserves are untapped for your own sake, and your little petulance is going to end up with you sore, used and utterly spent. But that’s what you want, isn’t it? You want fingers around your neck, in your hair. You want each follicle to cry bloody murder as its grip on your scalp is threatened. You want the meat of my palm against your body, each time a harder impact. You want to bruise. You want your body to be a roadmap to my deviance, a thousand reminders of your position under me. Is that all I’ve fucking got. Hah. You underestimate me, little babyslut. You think I’m all refined English manner, Gentlemanly conditioning. You think that because I open the door for you and let you sit first at the table I’m unable to unleash the full force of my will on such a wonderfully feminine form. I’ve got more. You’ll have more, you greedy little thing. You gluttonous fuck. You perverted wonder. -- source link
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