Showing off my new (and very tight) jeans to the sadist I’m flirting with right now gave me the idea for a fuck. A fuck that’s so harsh that every stroke is a painful reminder that I’m their slut. I think that’s something they could dish out – and get off on making me take for them. So I wrote about it, featuring a dominant enby and a slutty transmasc queer at a sex club.
They dress me for the event, of course. They pick out the short shorts and the tight t-shirt and the chest strap that lets them pull me against them for a kiss where they bite my tongue. (“I like it when you have handles, slut.”) They tease me for the bulge in my shorts even though they’d told me which packer to wear.
They dress me up to show me off, to remind me that I belong to them. They want to make me conscious of my body, exposing more than I’m comfortable with. But if they dress me up like a little slut, how can they expect me not to be slutty?
So I am. I giggle. I flirt. I grind against people when I’m dancing. I let other people tug on my chest harness and ask them – in a low whisper – to pull my hair until I moan. I blush while talking to a dominant in a leather jacket with turquoise hair, and let them bend me over a spanking bench. I don’t let them hit me, but they cuff my hands my back and tease me by scratching the back of my legs.
I don’t look at my sadist, but I know they’re watching me – and I know that they know exactly what I’m doing. I’m taunting them, begging them to stride across the room and force me to my knees. Dressing slutty isn’t fun unless they treat me as their slut, and show me that no one else can touch me unless they let me.
I want them to fuck me so hard it hurts, as a reminder that I’m their slut. I’ll regret it when they’re fucking me of course, but I want them to make me regret it. Even though they’ll try and make it as painful as possible – which I’ll deserve, because I’m really rubbing it in their face that I’m not respecting them right now – it’s what I need tonight.
I need them to remind me of my place.
I could ask them for this, of course, but playing the game more fun. This way, when they grab the back of my neck and force me to look at them, I will squirm in genuine fear. Tonight, though, they’re really letting myself dig myself in deep before they make me face my bratty behaviour. Which means when they do fuck me it will be harsher and more sadistic and everything I’m craving.
When they come up behind me, they whisper that it’s time to make me pay. They touch me ever so gently, hands slipping around me to grab the front of my harness. No escape, not that I want one. I push back against them and feel their cock hard against my ass.
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice your slutty behaviour, or where you hoping that I would?”
They can’t see my face, but they don’t need to see my flushed cheeks to know why I was provoking them.
“You wanted me to fuck you as a reminder that you’re mine, didn’t you? Well you can bet your ass that I’m going to make this one really hurt. Or rather, I’m going to beat your ass to remind you that you can act like a slut as much as you want, but I know that what you really want is for me to remind you that you’re nothing but a pretty set of fuck holes who can only get off when I let zir.”
I’m already so hard, and all they’ve done so far is fuck me with words.
“Bend over slut. You’re already blushing so much, imagine how humiliated you’ll feel when I leave you with your shorts around your ankles and my come dripping out of you. I’m going to fuck you so hard that you can’t breathe and then leave you aching and panting.”
I whine, and then bite my lip to stop myself making any more embarrassing sounds. Their mocking laugh tells me that they’ve heard. They push me away from them, so I stumble into the spanking bench, then their hand is on my lower back.
“C’mon, slut. Bend over or I’ll force you to hold your ankles while I fuck you until you cry.”
They tug my shorts down roughly, and don’t give me even a second to prepare before they start spanking me. No warm up today; they go in hard and fast. It doesn’t take long for them to push me to the point where my eyes are smarting and my arse burns with a sickening pain and I’m trying to get away from them. They pin me down, using their weight against me, and make me take more. They know my body well – they know how to push me to my limit, and then a little bit beyond.
I want them to stop. No, I want them to keep going. My world shrinks to the heat of their hand on my back. I’m floating in an ocean of overwhelming pain, I hardly notice when they stop spanking me. Lube, slicked on their dick. More lube, which their fingers smearing it over and teasing it into my hole. And then they’re fucking me, and each thrust feels like another stroke of the beating. It hurts and I hate it, but my dick twitches. They keep whispering to me, a stream of filthy words that blur together and only cease when they dig my fingers into my waist as they come.
I can feel lube and come trickling down my thighs, but they kiss the back of my neck and hold me tightly. Despite their threats, they don’t leave me alone.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.