He makes me beg for it.
The hand at the back of my neck is steady as he pushes in from behind. God, I love how hard he fucks me with so little regard for my pleasure. He makes me work. Work as hard as my restrained body can manage.
He stops thrusting and I cry out in frustration. My hips move back to feel him hit that spot inside me.
“Harder.” His hips push forward, nearly pining me to the couch, thwarting me. “Push back harder.”
Push back harder if you want to come
I sweat, pant, work to grind back. My cries are frantic, desperate as he makes me beg. Damn him! I want to bite him, bruise him, make him fuck me harder.
He growls and flips me to my back, unwinding the rope enough to make his tasks easier. He positions me exactly how he wants so I can’t get away even if I wanted to. The bend of my body leaves no doubt he’ll work his hardest to pull praise from my lips and an orgasm from my cunt.
That first thrust finds my cervix as his hand finds my throat. I groan even as my breath restricts, his hips on a mission to punish me.
Punish me. Steal my breath. Take until I’m a bruised, wet, exhausted mess.
I beg for that with every thrust, every yes, every “please, fuck me harder.”