It hurts when he first puts his cock in her. Hurts a lot – as though he’s splitting open some long-sealed place in the pit of her belly. Makes her buck against the bed and scream as he drives deeper with each little stroke. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even pause. Perhaps, she thinks dimly, he intends it to hurt. His cock is among the largest she’s seen, thick as her wrist. Enough to make any woman catch her breath and grip the sheets.
It might be okay if she could move, but he’s holding her firmly down, bent over the bed, her body pressed into the covers. His legs are locked behind hers, keeping them spread and open. She can’t even tilt her hips, can’t pull away, can’t raise her body off the bed to make the place where he enters her even a little less tight. It’s a new sensation, this incapability. Even when her last boyfriend used to whip her with his belt she could pull away, flinch, try to take it on one cheek or the other. When it has hurt before she’s always been able to adjust a little, find a position where she could take it. But he won’t let her move, not even an inch, and he’s driving into her hard, fast, as though he’s trying to hurt her.
For a minute she feels something like panic. The pain is bright and sharp – the same kind of pains he felt the first few times she fucked. She had almost forgotten how acute it could be. If he gets any rougher, she thinks, she won’t be able to take it. And yet she will, she knows. However painful it gets. She’ll take it, tough it out. She takes a fold of the bedcovers in her mouth and bites down hard to muffle her own screams. It would be so much easier if he’d gagged her. If she didn’t have the option of begging him to stop.
She can feel the pain washing over her as he fucks roughly into her, hips slamming against her naked ass. It’s like passing through a waterfall – the deluge of it, soaking her, the white hot heat of it. For a minute or two it drowns her and then – to her surprise – she finds herself passing through. Emerging, the sharpness dropping away. Where a moment before it was agony, now she feels only rough, loose kind of pleasure. It’s as if she’s saturated. Some switch has flicked. Her brain can’t process any more.
She spits out the bedcovers. He’s every bit as rough as he was before, holding her in place every bit as firmly. She doesn’t know what’s changed, but something has changed, and she grips the sheets and screams for him to fuck her, to fuck his slut, to do it harder, to make her feel it. And he does. Hard. Harder. Driving into her in a way that would have made her scream and jerk just minutes ago. Now it feels… different. Good. Like the only thing she wants.
Her climax takes her with the same savagery as his fucking. It is hard and sharp, a violent shaking that wraps itself around her whole body. She feels herself pulsing in his grip. Feels her cunt clutching. She screams, long and wordless. His cock still sliding in and out of her, his hands still pushing her firmly down into the bed. There’s pain in her orgasm, and it is – in that moment – indistinguishable utterly from pleasure.
She shivers in his grip. Shivers through the climax. Feels him stiffen inside her and spill his seed, groaning and pressing her down harder as he does so. She is floating now, as the waves of pleasure recede, in the aftermath of her orgasm. Brain fogged. Endorphins trickling through her system, breath settling, pulse thrumming as he falls still inside her, as the fucking ends. She doesn’t move. He’s holding her against the bed softly now. She could prop herself up if she wanted to, but she doesn’t. She lies with her cheek against the covers, paying attention to her body. The little aches. The thick wetness between her legs. The twin notes of pleasure and pain diverging once more, pulling gradually apart like sirens falling out of sync.
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