“Did I do that?”
“Christ, I’m sorry”
“Don’t be, I like it. I like being marked, it reminds me I’m yours. You should like it too. Don’t you?”
“Yes, no, I don’t know. You know I’d never do anything to hurt you.”
“Not even if I asked nicely?”
“C’mon Chelle, don’t tease me, you know what I mean.”
And I do. I know he wouldn’t do anything to harm me, but I also know that next time we’re in bed and I twist my fingers through his and pull at him, or nip him on the neck with my sharp sharp teeth that he’ll understand my signal and grip my arms tightly, pressing me down into the mattress. I allow him to hurt me, I want him to hurt me. I like it, it turns me on and gets me wet and slip slidery so it is easier for him to slick suck fuck me.
But what really turns me on is the moment he changes, the moment he lets himself go. I wait until then, until I know he’s dropped from his everyday self into the man only I see. The man that squeezes my arms so hard that there’s no need to dust me for fingerprints; the evidence of passion’s crime is browning on my arm.
This erotic short story and picture is my contribution to Sinful Sunday, to find out who else is playing this week click below.
And just so you know, the bruise is from my first pole dancing class, it seemed a shame to waste it.