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The first time you told me, “I like it rough,” we were in our hotel room overlooking the Strip.

You were just *slightly* tipsy on mini champagne bottles, the effervescent bubbles still popping on your lips while you nuzzled my neck. I’m surprised I didn’t ejaculate right there, with the hair-raising goosebumps of *possibility*, leaving you to find a warm pool of semen spreading across my dark denim.

Instead, I said quite matter-of-factly, “Oh yeah?” in the cool, comfortable baritone that I know makes you want to go off the pill. But, as I unhooked my belt, I pushed a little further, “You don’t even know what rough *is*.”

You bit your bottom lip, did that cute little nod, and then titled your head to the side. Of course it drives me wild when you play dumb. Your hand–so small and cold and *weak*–grasped mine. You laced your short digits through my long ones and brought my palm to your neck. And you just barely whispered, *”It’s like this”*. And it was the hottest thing you’ve ever done.

My palm slipped past and my forearm squeezed gently but firmly around your throat. You knew that you could trust me to be careful–firm, but sweet, just the way you like it. And then I was climbing on top of you, pushing you face-first into the plush white comforter used in every hotel room. Your dress was already half-unzipped, the smooth slender arch of your back warmed beneath my other hand.

*ZIP*

“Let’s get the rest of that outta the way,” I teased as my hand slipped beneath the spread hem to cup your ass. You curled up against me, encouraging me to fill my palm. Easily done with an ass like *yours*. And suddenly, all those memories of groping and lightly smacking it turned into fantasies of bending you over my knee and *bruising* you properly.

“This is **mine**,” I hissed in your ear. And to make it slightly unclear which *part* of you I was referring to, I lifted your cheek and threaded my middle finger between your thighs. But you knew. You knew it was **all** mine.

You managed to free yourself from a pile of pillows and made your voice quiver, “What are you going to do to me, *Sir*?” There it was–that *word*. You weren’t as green as I wondered.

I considered my reply. My options seemed limitless. But this wasn’t some Fifty Shades bullshit. Consent is hot. Even more so when it takes the form of begging, groveling, whining, or moaning. You were gonna *come clean*. You were gonna submit and **admit** what you wanted me to do to you.

So I grasped your ass, your hips now wiggling out of your dress, “Tell me what you want me to do with *this*.” I ended the sentence with emphasis, my fingers digging the period into your firm flesh.

“I want you to hit it,” you replied, your teeth already digging into Egyptian cotton.

“How hard? Like **this**.”

*SMACK*

The sound bounced between us and the high ceilings. I reached over, turned up the TV. Another CSI rerun.

“Mmphf. More.”

“More *what*? Be specific.” I was looming over you, my shadow making you look tiny. I leaned forward to whisper into your ear, “Your mouth is good for two things: sucking my cock and telling me how you want to be *fucked*.” God, what a word to use when I’m talking about you.

“Make it red.”

*SMACK*

You cried out before biting down to muffle the sound. Your hair was tousled now, falling in cascading waves across your blushing cheeks.

“Just red?” I dug my fingers into the sore spots.

“Maybe blue.”

*SMACK*

“Blue would look good on you.” And I didn’t realize it then, but I was growing into this burgeoning dynamic. All it took were those four words from you–*I like it rough*–and I was slotting comfortably into Dom space. The wondered of leaving marks on you–bruises, welts, and more–had my erection demanding to be free.

I wanted to *feel* how wet you were–not with my hand, but while I was deep inside you. I wanted it to pour over me, to coat my cock as I stretched your cunt. So my belt was off and around your neck. And I took a break from smacking your ass to simply grope it for leverage.

How many times had we fucked before that night? And yet, it felt like the first. You were so remarkably *tight*. As soon as my cockhead was against your slit I knew it’d be a fight. But I let you squeeze my hand while I claimed you anew. God, you were running like a stream over me. Pouring juices down my balls as I squished them against your lips.

Then–fuck–then I *really* started fucking you. I’ve never heard your ass clap that loudly against my thighs. Fuck I was bottoming out on every thrust. You were fucking *screaming* but you loved it. You kept bouncing your hips backwards, desperate to have me inside you even as I retracted. The room was filled with nothing but the hot slapping of my flesh against yours and I wondered–just for a split-second–that maybe you really should go off the fucking pill.

But then my mind went blank as I moved a hand to the belt and pulled it backwards. You arched your back, let out a gasp, and your pussy clenched around my shaft like a fucking glove. I don’t think I could have pulled out if I wanted.

Tighter, tighter, tighter–the belt and your cunt.

I was panting and huffing and grunting and———-*fuck*.

There it goes. Straight into your womb. My seed spilling out, filling you up, drenching your pretty pink pussy with white.

“*Good girl*,” a phrase that made you shudder around me. Followed by another hearty *SMACK*. Who knew I’d enjoy watching your ass jiggle so much. It wasn’t quite bruised, but it was sure looking red. A good begin. I knew there was plenty of time ahead of us. But, for now, I told you to get dressed. We were going back out.

“No panties and no tissues.” Back out indeed. And you were gonna let my sperm roll right down your legs while I kept one hand ‘round your waist. Because now, you were **mine**.

NSFW: yes

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