Roughness

As if he had just been shot out of a cannon as part of a major circus act, he rapidly rose from the futon and lunged over the coffee table, but I was even faster, gaining a momentary advantage by darting to the side while he was in midair. The way he rolled and sprang back to his feet was perfect proof that he had not lost any of his former martial arts training.

Unfortunately, being winter, there were no windows open, nor was the sliding glass door open, so I could not just quickly escape outside. Taking the time to open a window or a door - especially if they were locked, which I believe they were - would cause me to lose the advantage, giving him those precious few seconds to catch up to me and seize me. My best bet was to try to evade him as long as possible.

Into the kitchen, out the other side to the tiny dining room, back into the main hallway. My heart was pounding in my chest, its sound loud in my ears. I had to outsmart him somehow, turn left instead of right, but in the small cabin, there were only so many places to go, and even fewer places to hide.

He caught my hair, the pain in my scalp excruciating. I screamed loudly, but only he and any animals near the secluded cabin would have heard my cry. To his credit, he did not yank me back to him by my hair - he simply held firm, as if he was taunting me, waiting for me to step backward to lessen the agony dancing across my skull.

Somehow, I stood my ground, my mind racing in a search for possibilities.

Without warning, I kicked backward, and connected with the side of his thigh. He had clearly anticipated that and had turned aside. It was obvious that he knew me very well.

Then he was pressed against my backside, a hand still pulling on my hair while his other hand groped at my heaving chest. I could feel him growing against me, an unmistakable lengthening as he seized a breast and squeezed with incredible force, the sweatshirt and the bra not nearly enough padding. Despite myself, I cried out again, my hands trying to force him to release my breast.

His evil chuckle shot through me. His intent was clear: He was going to have me, when and where and how he wanted. I shuddered greatly as I remembered the last time, less than twenty-four hours earlier, when he had plundered my ass while choking me, only allowing me enough air to ensure that I did not lose consciousness, forcing me to simply endure as he took his pleasure from my tightness.

"Thinking about yesterday?" he growled into my ear, his voice deep and menacing. "Thinking about how I fucked your ass and hoping I don't do it again?"

Still with a hand pulling firmly on my hair, he marched me back into the tiny dining room and bent me over the sturdy table. He had positioned me so that if I looked up, I saw the reflection in the accent mirror: a thin young pale woman with a tear trickling from her left eye, and a tall dark man with a very muscular build using the woman's hair as leverage to keep her in place while his other hand worked at the front of his jeans.

As soon as I saw the same anatomy which had violated my body seemingly minutes beforehand, I tried to fight back, but he yanked my hair to lift me back up to a standing position and nonchalantly proceeded to squeeze my vulnerable neck in the crook of an arm. It was not enough to sever my necessary air flow, but it did pacify me, giving me a significant reminder that he was in total control, that he had the ability to render me unconscious - or worse - at any time so that he could use me in peace.

I trembled against him, my mind suddenly focused on the shallow breaths attempting to reach my lungs. I gripped his arm with both hands, pulling even though I knew from experience that it was a futile act, whimpering as I felt his free hand fumbling with the button and the zipper...

I could only watch the reflection in the mirror as my pink panty was revealed. Pink: the eternal feminine color. Pink: the color he loved to see me wear. Pink: because of him, the color I associated with plunder and violation.

He practically threw me forward to bend me over the table anew. I barely had time to brace my hands on the wooden surface, but before I could recover, the jeans had already been yanked down just enough. I tried once again to free myself, but he simply pinned me down and removed his belt, using it to secure my forearms together in a tight leathery knot at the small of my back. At least with the belt around my forearms, he could not use it to beat me.

That did not matter, for he could still spank me, and he did. The speed of his arm moving through the air was awesome, resulting in blow after powerful blow to my pink-covered ass. The tears finally fell uninhibited, the willpower gone as I sobbed shamelessly for him, knowing that this was what he wanted.

He loved to see me crying from consensual roughness, because that meant that he had finally broken me down, that my walls had finally crumbled.

Unusually, he did not make use of me. The tears were enough. The tears were what he had wanted. The tears satisfied his sadistic nature - for the moment - but he ensured their flow my pulling my hair again, making me look at the reflection in the mirror, making me see myself crying as I sobbed softly from how he was hurting me. And oddly, as he pulled my hair, he nudged aside the crotch of my panty and masturbated me.

On this occasion, I was the only one to orgasm, and it was a sweet release made all the more delicious by the ongoing roles we were playing over the long holiday weekend.