Kaya met her Master at the airport. On the way home he was struggling to prioritize. Did he want food, sex, or sleep first? You get one guess:
I pulled the skillet out of the cupboard and bumped into him when I turned around. He snatched me by the hair and threw me face down over the table. I grunted — and grinned — on impact.
“I guess it’s sex fir-”
“Shut the fuck up.”
He threw my skirt up over my back, yanked my thong to the side and spit on his cock. I just had time to think but you didn’t even see my cute bra and panty set and then he was thrusting, ramming, forcing up into me. Pain blossomed as my dry cunt struggled to rearrange itself around him. I pressed forward as hard as I could, thighs against the table edge, and lifted up on my tip toes, seeking a measure of relief from the relentless stabbing. He waited until I couldn’t move any further away and then followed, grabbing my hair, pulling my head back, slamming me against the table.
Each thrust was met with a whimpered “ow”, involuntary mostly. He loves this kind of sex, the painful-for-me kind. Loves watching me obey and spread my legs and offer my holes while my body clenches and my face tightens against the pain. “It isn’t hurting me” he says, pleasure smeared across his face. He laughed somewhere behind me. And then “You fucking whore” before his other hand smacked loudly against my ass, and then punching, 2, 3 times, deep bone-thudding punches that sent instant cramps into my ass muscles.
Funny thing about masochism — I like it when it hurts. I like it when he takes me, ripping into my dry cunt or slamming into my ass, grinding the pain into my fuck holes, no escape, no choice but to just hurt and suffer for his pleasure. It turns me on, it makes me wet…
It makes me wet.
Too soon, too wet. It stops hurting. Entirely too soon I’m wet and slippery and he’s sliding in and out with ease. The pain eases and my ‘ows’ turn to ‘ohs’. My body relaxes and I begin to lean back into it. My hands unclench, my ass lifts.