I’m kissing you.
Maybe mauling is the better choice of words, since I kiss like bites, sometimes having to hold myself back from nibbling too hard on your pretty pink lips in the excitement of desiring more.
It’s not necessarily that I want to make it hurt. It’s just that I don’t want to stop.
That if this pressure feels good, more would feel even better.
And where is the line? It’s somewhere tenuous, right between that place where you moan and you yelp, and I’ll keep pressing until I find that sweet spot and then feel that tiny pit of hunger in my own lips that wants.
It wants to keep going, maybe even until it feels a drop of the slick salty iron of blood. But my conscience says no. And I ease up, feeling your body unclench beneath mine.
I pull back and look at you, and your eyes are glazed in that way that says you belong to me. And I place one hand against your stubbled cheek, caressing it. Petting it. Holding it where it needs to be.
You know what I want, and I can see from your expression whether you want it too. Are your eyes pleading? Your beestung lips trembling?
Is your cock hard against my other hand?
You know you can always say no. I wait for permission when it comes to this. Especially after that first time. When you cried, and I worried I had done something wrong. I hadn’t.
My hand on your cock feels like it’s thrumming in anticipation, or is that just your heartbeat I feel pulsing under your pants?
And then my hand on your open cheek. Priming you for the moment. Giving you time to understand what’s coming.
Before the slap.
So intimate. My eyes looking straight into yours. Watching you register the sting. The way it feels when my palm connects. How your eyes widen, a hint the watering to come. The small sound that escapes your mouth. My thumb stroking your jawline like a razor blade, supporting you and threatening you both at once.
“Please, Ma’am,” you say.
I feel my fingers twitch with impatience. I’m so eager to make you feel.