Please Sir. Fuck me like you’re angry at me.


Please Sir. Please.

Fuck me like you’re angry at me.

I don’t care how you take me down. By the hair, pulling me whichever way. By the wrist, gripping me too tight, letting me know of your displeasure, letting me think of the bruises I’ll wear tomorrow as a reminder of your fire.

Take me by the throat. Take my breath away til that precise moment where thrill turns to fear. Take me like you don’t give a shit about me because you’re so fucking pissed you can only give a shit about the red in your vision.

Just take me.

Fuck me hard. Fuck me raw. Fuck me everywhere and anywhere and keep me unable to guess where your heat will come from next; when it will end.

Shove my face in the pillow to mute my screams. Spank my ass like I deserve that fucking pain. Tell me hot in my ear I deserve every bit of it.

Just fuck me. How you want. How you need. Don’t let me come. Or do. Whatever you feel deserving. This is your release.

And when it’s over and I’m red and sore and sobbing and atoned, pull me close and we’ll unleash our complimentary gurgle of laughter, breathing in the realness of the situation.

Each of us knowing that in the world of my unending obedience, you, dear Sir, can still fuck me like you’re angry at me.

Kind Regards,
Mrs. Darling

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