Cabana and Pool side Pleasure

Ellen looks forward to spending time with me, pinning her down is my favorite part. It’s especially true when I telegraph that I’m going to do it. That I show her, tell her, that it’s coming so that she can put up the biggest, fight she has in her. So when her eyes narrow and her breath quickens and her muscles are bristling with all that extra strength and I sweep it away? Push her down into the position I want her in like she has no strength? That way she knows that I own her. And we can call it whatever she’d like and we can pretend it doesn’t happen, whatever it takes to soothe her, make her whole. Make her want it again. But we both know the truth when I do it. As strong as she gets, as smart as she is and as dedicated to the fight as she can be—the moment I want to take her, I can. So keep struggling, grunting, narrowing her eyes at me. I want that, too. I want to gaze into her fire with my calm and demonstrate again that she is being taken. That she cannot clasp her legs together tight enough that I can’t pry them apart. That she can’t push her arms against mine to move them as I do. Ellen is mine. This afternoon is about what we are, who we are, to each other. And I am the monster that stands tall above her that my shoulders are half her height. Whose hand is nearly the size of her face and can easily take the air from her mouth or neck despite every effort made to stop it. I love her because she admits what others hide from. I love her because she’d deny every word of it to any other man or couple, any friend or relationship in her life, but as soon as she closes our door she’ll admit it’s true. Even when infuriated. Even when defiant. I love her because she is the only girl I’ve met that isn’t afraid.

My second favorite part is when she stops struggling. I never know if it’s a feint or not, and that is alluring beyond my ability to state. Sometimes she runs out of energy and others she is just looking for an opening. So what’s it going to be? Good girl or bad? I won’t ask her to answer. I suspect she often doesn’t know herself. I move my hands from her wrists and tilt my head as I look down, wondering what she’ll do. She simply breathes heavily, eyes ignited, gazing up at me. I rip her blouse open and it sends buttons off like rockets. Ellen gasps and then narrows her eyes. ” I liked that shirt…” Why else would I do it? I lean down to kiss and lick her stomach, to take a little of it between my teeth and clamp down. I want to hear her acknowledge me and sing my praises through the moans, the gasps. It’s only when I feel her hand on the back of my neck that I know she is going to be a very good girl this afternoon and I am grateful for it. I love when she submits. It makes me up my game-anyone can dominate an opponent. It’s a bit harder when they’re playing along. A quick jerk back, two hands on her hips and I flip her over to deliver a swat to her ass-I can never resist-and I pull the blouse off her. It tears, here and there, but it is already acknowledged in past tense. I strip her down. ” You can’t just do this when you like.” She says it with her head still buried in the mattress. ” What if I had a bad day at work? What if I wasn’t in the mood?” Which I assume is trying to draw me out of the moment because as much as she wants this, she loves making me concede even more. There isn’t anything she can say though. I’m as much hers as she is mine. I am tied to this outcome with all my being. I need her to cum for me. I require it. When the last of her clothing is off I push two fingers into her cunt without pretext or warning. If she is not wet now then what are we even doing together?

I slide in with some ease, some groaning on her part. ” You’re hurting me.” Ellen starts to say something else but the blood is rushing to my ears and I can’t hear her, like I’m deep underwater. Sometimes her pussy does that to me, and just knowing that she is wet makes the drumbeat louder. So I turn her over again and I push my lips against hers. The only difference between this kiss and strangling her is which part of my body I’m using. She goes limp beneath me. I’m a verbal person by nature and so I hope she takes it as the compliment it is that I refuse to speak to her in this. That instead of telling her what I want I wrap my wrists around hers and pull her, pin her again against the wall. I guide her hands above her head, her body a foot from the wall, like she is under arrest. Then I stroke her, run my hands over, her, cup her breasts and her neck. I take special pains to play with the parts that I sometimes neglect.