He grabs me by the throat, slams me against the wall.

"Little slut, is that what you like? Tell me how much of a whore you are."

I fervently shake my head, no, no, I won't, I will never admit what I like because I want to be a good girl. But secretly I do want this, I might even need it, and the thought both frightens and arouses me.

Of course my arousal is not something that is going to escape his notice. He slaps me, bringing me back to the present, shaking his head in imitation of mine.

"No? You won't admit what a dirty little slut you are? But why not? You know that I already know, and you already know."

But the embarrassment, the shame in admitting out loud what I want keeps me mute, save for a few incoherent syllables that come out of my mouth. I start to fall a little, my knees growing weak. He notices, and pushes me harder back against the wall.

"I wonder what your pussy has to say about all this. How is it feeling? Does it yearn for my cock?" With a quick motion, his fingers are inside me, feeling around roughly, encountering the clearly evident wetness there. "Looks like some parts of you can't lie, darling."

He catches my eye and forces the contact. I whimper. He lets me go, and I slide to the ground.

"That's right. At the floor, by my feet. Exactly where a worthless little slut like you should be."



"Have you been a good girl?" he asks me.

I nod. "Yeah."

"Now why don't I believe you when you keep saying that?"

I keep my mouth closed. What is it with dominant characters and rhetorical questions? This time, I have in fact been a "good girl," unfortunately for me, since I do so enjoy being bad. Besides, it doesn't really matter how good or bad I've been. Either one leads to a punishment, and as he says, "you enjoy it that way, Jane." And I do.

I'm standing up, by a wall, in the entrance way of my apartment. He's got one hand squeezing my breasts, and one punctuating his remarks with sharp, quick smacks to my ass. I'm embarrassed to look at him, knowing what he's planning on doing to me, and knowing that I asked for it.

Of course, it is just the kind of embarrassment that I love, the kind that puts those butterflies in my stomach. I'd been waiting for this moment all day, and my panties are proof of that. I keep my eyes downward, until he grabs my face, pulling upwards until I have no choice but to look him in the eye.

"Slut, you want this, don't you?"

Rhetorical or not? I'm guessing not. I nod my head.

"I can't hear your head rattle!" He says firmly, ccompanied by a quick slap to my cheek to make the point.

"Yes, yes I want this, Sir," I manage to whisper.

"Good. Because I can't wait to give it to you."



"God, this pussy is so wonderful." You whisper, your breath warming my ear.

"I am so lucky that it is mine."

I get even wetter at that comment.

You're fucking me from behind, and as you tease me with the tip of your cock dipping into your wonderful pussy, you squeeze my ass and I squirm. I do so love it when you squeeze my ass. Especially after you have smacked it around a little, or a lot- as the case may be.

"Lucky that this ass is mine."

I close my eyes and relish the feelings, of you inside me, of my warm ass against your body, of your hand by my neck, of your voice whispering dirty, dirty things that make me tingle with anticipation.

Slowly, you push harder, harder, until you are almost all the way in, filling me, making me feel my own wetness. Telling me how much you enjoy when I am so slick that you feel no resistence going in, that I am clearly a little slut who enjoys this so much, I couldn't even try to hide it if I wanted to.

"So lucky that you are mine."

Of course, I don't want to. I want you to take me, to fill me the entire way as you now are, to use me like you do, and when you are done, regardless of my own pleasure, I want to thank you and know that I have served a purpose.



You're behind me, and I lean back a little, feeling your warm breath on my neck. You'd just walked into the room, and I'm pulling clothes out of my bag, getting prepared for the weekend. All of a sudden, you grab me and pull me towards you. Next thing I know, my pants are around my knees, my underwear are being pulled down, and your thumb is inside me, your fingers cupping my mound, teasing my clit.

I'm thrilled inside, and nervous outside, because you seem to be in a rough mood. Because all of a sudden I've peaked, and now you're pulling your cock out of your jeans, and pushing my chest down onto the bed, barely missing a beat as you thrust inside me. It's good, I'm noisy, and being able to scream into the comforter is always helpful. My clothes come off, but I barely notice.

I orgasm once or twice positioned like that, before you gruffly tell me to flip over, putting my legs up by your shoulders. You stare at me, and I feel a little slutty being on display like I am. I think you can read my thoughts, because that's what you call me "my slut" before you shudder and finish inside me.



This is turning into a bit of a series.

I'm alone with my vibrator, and I'm thinking dirty thoughts. I have permission to come as many times as I want, and I plan on taking advantage of that. I tease my clit, thinking of how you went down on me last night, teasing me with your tounge. I rub myself lower, as I imagine you calling me a slut and whispering naughty things in my ears as you play with my nipples. I push my vibrator inside of me, fantisizing about the next time you'll tie me up on your bed, spanking me until I beg you to take me, and I finally come thinking about having your cock inside of me, pounding me as I tell you to fuck me harder and harder.


I'm tied up on the bed, face down, and I can't hear what you're doing. The first hit of the flogger on my back comes as a shock, and I breath out an unfortunate "ow" before I realize what I'm doing.

"What was that, Jane?"

"Nothing, Sir, it was nothing."

"Are you sure? Because I am sure that I heard you say 'ow.' You aren't allowed to say 'ow,' if you recall."

Another hit, harder than the last, though I manage to stay quiet for this one.

"What are you supposed to say, Jane? What do you say when it hurts?"

"Thank you, Sir."

"Good girl."


"What does this mean, Jane?"

You have a hold on my collar, pulling me so I can almost not breath, so that I am rather uncomfortable, so I have no choice but to answer you, because I can't do anything else.

I linger a bit longer than you'd like, and you jerk my collar again.

"Stop pouting and answer. What does this collar that you are wearing mean?"

In a small voice, I respond, "It means I belong to you."