Playing With Monsters

The S & M of BDSM - Fiction story

Warning: This one is rough. Not for the faint of heart. Also, assume there is wonderful after care after it, because there would be, I just didn’t write it this time.

The Monster never wakes gently. One second I’m asleep, the next his fist is twisted in my hair and he is starving. This is how it feels when he wants me. Come in if you dare.

(FICTON …or reality?)

The hand in my hair, close to my scalp at the crown of my head, woke me just as his fist began to close. My eyes snapped open, instantly alert—calm, half-awake, yet completely aware.

My Monster wanted to feed.

A second later, his free hand cracked across my jaw in a sharp slap. The bruise already there flared hot, forcing tears to my eyes.

Had I done something wrong? It was always my first thought, even though I knew, I knew, my Monster was always rough.

“I said wake the fuck up. What are you doing sleeping when I want you?” No pause for an answer. Another slap.

I made a small, helpless noise. I couldn’t move. He loomed over me, pinning me down. There was nowhere to go, and nowhere I wanted to go, despite the shock of the wake-up. My heart hammered, but so did my focus. Tunnel vision narrowed to My Dark Daddy. His voice, his eyes, his need.

“You make me so fucking hungry,” he hissed, the words rapid and furious. “Dirty fucking slut. You make me furious. Possessive.”

Vows, promises, and curses poured from that rough, graveled voice that had crawled inside my head and poisoned my blood. My ears caught how much he wanted me, needed me, and my soul rooted itself there.

“Who do you belong to? Who do you belong to? Who the fuck do you belong to? Answer me when I talk to you.”

“You, Daddy. I belong to you.”

“That’s fucking right.” He shifted, sliding off me and onto the floor. His fist stayed locked in my hair as he dragged me behind him, forcing me to scramble.
“On your knees. Head down. Head fucking down. Let me see that ass.”

I dropped to the floor with a thud, obeying, panting, making soft distressed sounds like a rabbit in a trap.

He released my hair, but the sting lingered. Naked, the fresh bruises across my ass stretched and throbbed. The bites on my inner thighs burned. Cool air kissed my raw, dripping cunt, making my clit pulse with desperate want.

Every move, every action was ownership.

I was the exorcist for his demons—the ones no prayer or confession could ever free him from.

He switched on a light. His palm smoothed over my ass, gentle for a moment, before his fingers traced up the inside of my thighs, gliding over the marks his teeth had left. They reached my center. “Filthy bitch. Still wet? Why the fuck are you still wet?”

His fingers sank into me and I whimpered in gratitude.

“I want you,” I whined.

“Still? You still want me?” He made a fist and pounded into me, shoving his fingers as deep as they would go. The fast, hard thrusts that I loved.

“Yes, yes, yes. Please—please—please.”

“Whose cunt is this?” The words hit like a punch.

“Yours, Dark Daddy. Master’s.”

He pulled out and shoved the same fingers into my ass. I cried out at the brutal speed. “Whose ass is this?”

“Yours, Daddy. Yours.”

“Fucking mine. My bitch. My whore. My cum-slut.” He pushed me forward and forced his fingers between my lips. “Open. Clean my fingers, slut. Clean them off. Make love to them.”

I took shallow breaths through my nose, found his eyes, and worshipped his fingers—licking, sucking, swirling my tongue while I held his gaze, and feeling a smile tug at the corner of his lips. I adored his hands. I wanted his filth. It was my right, and nothing would make me reject it.

“You are such a fucking whore. Look at you—back on your knees, head down, ass up.”

Something in the fierce growl of his voice and the wicked glint in his eyes pulled at a bubble of delight in my chest. A small giggle escaped as I obeyed.

He stood and brought his hand down hard on my sit-spot. The sting shot up my spine. I jerked forward and giggled again.

“Did I tell you you could move?”

“No, Daddy. Sorry, Daddy.” My tone stayed playful. He had pushed me completely out of everyday headspace into that other creature—the one that could take everything he gave and still beg for more.

He spanked me again. “Count, bitch. Count what you earned.”

“One. Two. Three.” I couldn’t hold still no matter how hard I tried. On the fourth spank he braced me between his strong thighs, spilling curses and commands the whole time.

I made a lot of noise. The more he gave, the sharper the pain became. Twitches ran through my body involuntarily. By the tenth spank I was gritting my teeth, groaning low in my throat.

“What can I do to this ass? What did you beg me for? I asked you a question.”

“Anything,” I panted with my answer.

“Hold fucking still then. Stay right there. Show me that slutty cunt. Show me that asshole.” He stepped away.

“Yes, Daddy.” I held position, breathing through the burning heat radiating from my ass. He returned. I felt the cool tip of a marker on my skin. All the while, the profanity kept flowing. The marker stopped moving. Another pause.

“Lay down. Let me see my slutty pussy. Do you think you are going to give this to someone else? Do you think you want someone else to have this? Can they do what I do? Your such a fuckin whore. Just for me. Mine. Open your legs. Lift. Bend your knees. Are you looking at me? You had better be keeping your eyes on me.”

He was the most beautiful monster I had ever seen. I loved how his jaw hardened. The strong curve of his neck into his shoulder. The flex of his arms. I watched him write on the inside of each of my thighs, then the bare swell of my cunt. He slapped my belly twice, meeting my eyes.

“Who owns you?” He growled it like he could stamp the answers onto my soul, carve them into my bones.

“You do Master.” I smiled. His intensity always fed me in the strangest ways. I wanted to laugh with joy at being able to be so close to such a magnificent dark beast. He was the deepest part of black, every cast off sin: inky, oily, glowing with sweat.

He leaned forward, wrote something on my forehead. Setting aside the pen, he grabbed his phone. Took pictures.

My smile dropped a little, but I kept my eyes on his face, watching his concentration, his focus. The way his shoulders were sitting, the tension in his neck. He was pleased, and he was relaxed.

The warm little spot in my chest, the one he’d claimed, opened up, a heat lamp with happy music. My smile went loopy.

He grabbed my hand, pulled me to a stand and into the bathroom. Turned my head forcibly toward the mirror. Handed me my glasses.

I saw the black of words old ones scrawled across my chest, plus the word Slave across my forehead, and the word Master’s with an arrow pointing toward my cunt hole. His words spread across my ass too, but it was hard for me to see.

I was watching his face, his eyes. Listening his heart as he stood behind me. “My whore, my ass, my cunt, my cum dump, my slave.”

He turned me, pinned my chin between his fingers. “Who’s?”

I smiled, “Yours Daddy.”

His mouth slanted across mine, tongue dipping in. I kissed him back, instinctively stepping forward into the kiss. He was so warm and hard as I let his language flow over me. The words I wanted but would never demand- because this was deeper, what he spoke with me and into me. This was rare. I’d never had this much raw honesty and pure obsession with anyone and I would do anything to keep it. It burned. But all of it had become necessary.

His hands went into my hair again, gripping, putting me where he wanted me.
The kiss was hot and quick. My lips stinging, he used his hold to pull me with him into the shower. “On your knees, bitch. Eyes on me.”

“Yes, Daddy.” I went to my knees, happy to be there. The shower was small and I was eye-level with his cock, his strong legs.

“Eyes. On. Me.” He took his cock in hand and pissed on me.

The warm stream hit my face, my smile, my chest. I tasted it, smelled it. Held still for it. It dripped down my body into some of the small open sores he’d made, stinging.

I blinked, met his burning gaze. Licked my lips and grinned like a drunk fool. Cum leaked out of me from earlier, his and mine. I was marked from neck to knee. And now pissed on. I felt totally claimed, possessed, wanted.

“Look at you, you gorgeous, filthy thing. You love this.”

It wasn’t a question. I answered anyway. “Yes Daddy.”

“You want this.”

“Oh, yes Daddy.”

He helped me stand. Kissed me again. A seduction. A thank you. Slightly less hungry, no less feral. Licking inside, sucking on my bottom lip, letting me taste him, tasting me.

“You did so good for me, so good for me. You make me feel so good.” He purred into my mouth, into my skin.

He reached between my legs. “Can you piss? Do you need to piss? Piss for Daddy, baby. Do it.”

His hand was right there. I had to push against my own hang ups, force my bladder to empty into his hand.

“That’s it. Good girl.”

I felt like I’d accomplished something huge. He let it cover his hand, stream over his legs. Smeared my own piss across my chest, then my mouth, then kissed me again, wrapping his arms around me like he never wanted to let go.

He washed me, after. Laughed when I tried to wash him. My legs turned to jelly as he calmed and his voice changed, and I started to tremble with a as he soaped my hair, my body.

“Probably need to feed you.” He said.

(Insert after care here…as well as many check in’s after. Though he knows me well enough to know when my joy is slipping. Or maybe there is no he…)