Sometimes there’s this thing he does. Or, more specifically, this thing he makes me do:
His hands on the inside of my thighs, prying me apart further. Sharp slaps on the tender skin up near my crotch.
Placing one hand firmly on each of the cheeks of my arse so he can… wait, pause for a second while he gets a good look then… spit.
I feel vulnerable like this – it would never have occurred to me that I’d enjoy it. Being scrutinised so closely that it feels more like an inspection than a fuck. If you’d asked me, in abstract, if this was the kind of thing I’d find horny I’d have shuddered with nervousness and probably begged you not to.
But then one day he asked me – or ordered me, depending on how you interpret what he says.
“Use your hands to spread yourself apart – there’s a good girl.”
Unngh, fuck. Something about the firm, matter-of-fact way he said it. Something about the catch in his voice. Something.
He bent me over the sofa and told me to hold perfectly still. Legs straight but spread, back arched, hands on my own arse spreading myself wide open.
Then he spat. Once, and I felt it warm and wet in the crack of my arse, running down towards my cunt. Twice, and I could hear him rubbing it into his cock. The third time he spat on his hand and rubbed his saliva between my legs.
When he pushed his cock inside me he made an appreciative grunt. As if I was doing well. At that moment the only contribution I was making was in holding myself wide – spreading myself – so he could get his cock even deeper. And yet standing stock still, cramped into just the right position, I was doing better work for him than if I’d been riding him with all my energy.
He put both hands on the small of my back, and held me steady while he pounded into me and each stroke felt deeper than the last.
My legs started to tremble. My hands slipped. He slapped me once – hard.
“Get back in the right position.”
And as I spread myself for him again – as wide as I could this time – he let out a satisfied “that’s it” as he pushed in even further. I gripped myself tighter to make sure he could do it again, my humiliation at being made to spread turned to an oddly satisfying pride. A need to do more things like that. To hold myself tight for longer. To clench my cunt tighter. To spread myself wider. To get that nod of appreciation as he settles back into fucking me.
Now every time he fucks me like this I slip a little, drop position and fail to spread myself for just a few seconds. Because the whack of reproach feels so good, and I want him to order me again. To tell me to spread myself. To get that tiny bit deeper.
And to tell me ‘well done’ when he’s finished.