Yours

He is on top of me and inside of me.  Pinning my wrists to the bed with his hands.

"Who's slut are you?"

"Yours."

Crack

The slap stings my face.  I am surprised, caught off guard. He's never hit my face before. 

"Wrong answer, slut.  Try again.  Who's slut are you?"

"Yours."

Crack

The other side this time.  I'm not that dense.  I know what he wants, but I'm not ready to give it to him.  I want him to force it out of me. 

"Who's slut are you?"

"Yours."

Crack

We go on like this for awhile.  I am fascinated by the sensation.  It stings.  In the instant of impact it hurts, but the pain fades quickly.  Mostly I am fascinated by the look on his face as he hits me.  He's irritated that I either can't or won't understand what he wants from me, but he's not motivated by anger.  He's completely in control of himself.  He likes slapping me.  Likes watching me flinch and gasp.

A half dozen repetitions and the blows start coming harder.  My eyes start to water. 

Crack

I've had enough now. 

"Who's slut are you?"

"Yours, sir."

He made me really mean it.


A few days later he puts me on my plane, and I touch the faint bruise on my left cheekbone and smile as I watch his city sprawl out underneath me.  I may not be the type to call a man "Master" and worship at his feet, but I do love those moments when my lover makes me completely forget myself.