Sore

I was sore. An entire day of sex will do that to you. And that's exactly what we'd done the day before - from the time he'd arrived in the morning until he went home that evening, he had fucked me in every conceivable way, only stopping long enough for me to catch my breath before he started on me again. We never left the room. I had been useless at dinner with friends later on, preoccupied with reliving the day and so exhausted I could barely keep my eyes open. I was asleep that night before my head hit the pillow.

Now here we were again the very next day with me on my back and him on top of me, holding me down by the wrists, the flimsy lace thong I'd put on that morning pushed to the side to accommodate his cock slamming into my raw, aching pussy as if he were trying to split me in half. "It hurts..." I moaned.

His face darkened. "Oh it hurts, does it?" he asked me sarcastically. He pulled back from me, releasing my wrists and grabbing at my thong. I could hear the lace tearing as he pulled until he ripped them from my body and stuffed them hard into my open mouth to silence my complaints. His hands found my wrists again and he held me down and fucked me even harder than before while he looked me in the eye and reminded me that I was his slut, here for his pleasure, and he didn't care if I was sore, in fact I didn't even know what sore was.

I wrapped my legs around his waist and held on tight while he showed me.