What do you say? Thank you

Image by the incredible Stuart F Taylor

Note: I wrote this one quite a while ago, and it happened even longer ago. 

His flat is filled with mirrors, which is helpful for two people who really love watching ourselves fuck. He plays Massive Attack at just the right volume, which is great for two people who really like fucking to Massive Attack. And as I hold myself up on the corner of the kitchen counter, one foot planted on the surface and another on the shelf nearby, holding my cunt at the perfect height for him to slam his cock home, he growls: “What do you say?” And I tell him, breathlessly, “thank you.”

When he stuffs it all the way in, swift and hard, knocking the wind out of me – thank you.

When he speeds up, making me jiggle and tense with the effort of holding position – thank you.

Each smack against my naked flesh – thank you.

What. Do. You. Say?

Each word punctuated by a vicious shove and the sensation of the head of his dick slamming the back of my cunt – thank you.

We fuck like this for just long enough that my arms nearly give way. Enough for the telltale twitches in my cunt to begin, so I can mix my ‘thank you’s up with babbled whimpers and bursts of ‘I’m gonna come round your cock.’

That’s it. Good girl. Say it again.

Thank you.

Earlier that evening I’d told him about a fantasy I’ve been having lately – where I want him to make me really beg for his cock. Pinch my nipples and smack me and run his hands all over my writhing body but refuse to fuck me until I’ve shown him how much I want it. Hold off until my cunt aches and my brain goes blank and all I can think of is the release – the relief – of feeling him slide inside me. Deep and firm and slow so I can squirm on it, appreciating every single inch of what he’s giving me.

He forgot to do that, because we were horny. Sometimes you just need to fuck, and this was one of those times. Everything pointed to fucking. Not later: right now.

Massive Attack. Kitchen mirrors. Unhealthy love that borders on addiction.

So he didn’t make me beg for it, but he did make me say ‘thank you.’

Spread wide open, clinging to the kitchen counter, crushing the shame and guilt under a torrent of impulsive fucklust, I told him ‘thank you’ over and over, and I fucking meant it.

His hands gripping me round the waist and his dark dark eyes staring into mine, he called me ‘good girl’ and meant it too. Biting his lip and grunting as he slammed it home. Giving me the thing I am not supposed to want. The thing that will leave me with a misery hangover for the rest of the week.

There are lots of things I crave which I know I shouldn’t have. Wine, cigarettes, my ex-boyfriend’s dick.

And in the moment I could say ‘no’ or ‘stop’ or ‘we mustn’t’, I could commit to making better choices next time. I could make sad eyes and tell him we need to put a proper end to this, because love is an addiction and cold turkey is the only way to beat it.

But that isn’t what I say.

I say thank you.



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