Visitation Rights

by Mef D Falson

Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Heterosexual, True Story, Vignettes, MaleDom, Rough, .

Desc: BDSM Sex Story: Sam is in town for the weekend. She needs a place to stay and "there's no fucking way you're making me sleep on the floor," she proclaims. **Warning:* Story contains (entirely consensual) violence.*

Sam was back in town for the weekend.


"Could we do supper?" she asked via a facebook message.

Unless commanded to, it wasn't in her nature to apologize. This time around, I wasn't feeling so forgiving.

"Not interested, but do enjoy your weekend," I replied.

The four days that followed before friday night where busy enough that Sam wasn't even a gentle ember in my thoughts.

It was nearing midnight when I finished my walk home.

The front door was already unlocked. I paused. Reaching into the archives of my mind I rummaged about for the right memories. I thought I had locked the door on my way out, but was I sure?

My spare key on the kitchen table was the first clue that somebody had been in my apartment. With a will of their own, my eyes darted about the room, cataloguing my possessions. It seemed as though nothing had been stolen.

It took me a while to notice what was out of place. My hair was still wet from the shower; clothes in hand. I walked into my bedroom and just as I reached for the lightswitch I heard an appreciative whistle.

Click. Light flooded the room.

There was a girl in my bed. The brunette was not a regular fixture in my room. The bedside table that held her purse belonged there. She didn't.

"What the hell Sam," I said, "You can't just let yourself into my house!"

About 180cm tall, Shoulder length light brown hair she alway wore in a ponytail. Streamlined facial features granted by her Nordic heritage. Light blue eyes that sometimes bordered grey or flushed a devilish crimson red when way too tired or high. I met her on my first day of freshman year about 9 years ago.

There, tucked in my bed, lay a cornerstone of my personality. The nurturer of my confidence in bed and the obstacle I surmounted to find a true confidence in myself. I owed her everything and I owed her nothing.

"I used to," she said. She tried to pout, but failed and grinned instead, "Come on Mark, you gonna kick me out?"

I could already guess she wasn't wearing a shirt from the way her bare shoulders stuck out from under the blanket. Noting my internal debate about what to do, she took the opportunity to sway me to her favor.

Now I knew for sure that she wasn't wearing a shirt. No bra either. I could see the top of her abdominals. I had long ago stopped thinking about Sam's body as the place where she lived. Sam's body, by her own design, was a tool. She spent hours at the GYM sculpting herself so that no matter where you looked, it hinted at muscle underneath. She was a yoga instructor; Full time. The way her slight musculature stretched instead of bunched gave you the impression she was flexible even when she wasn't stretching.

Her body wasn't a home. It was a tool. A tool she used for work, sure, but it had always seemed to me that its most earnest application was pleasure. Mostly her own.

I'd long ago learnt to decouple sexual appeal from sexual attraction. It wasn't the easiest lesson, but it had always let me treat Sam like a person rather than aphrodite incarnate. Her flakiness and my resulting apathy formed the very cornerstone of our relationship.

"I'm way too tired for this right now, Sam," I said, trying to sound blase. I knew better than to hope my brief study of her body went without notice.

She stood up, my blanket settled at her feet. To my sensibilities, a girl looks best in a matching pair of bra and underwear. Somehow concealing a little bit of flesh makes the entire package all the more appealing. Perhaps the contrast in color helps too. Sam, however, is the one exception to that rule.

Sam makes a point of being the exception. A charm I'm not at all immune to.

She prowled toward me. Her eye contact so intent that it kept me frozen in place. The intensity of her stare was a technique she had learned from me. Just about everything I knew about sex came from years of patient, shameless instruction from her. This stare, that she used against me now, was the only gift I had been able to give in return. She claimed it worked on anybody, but I knew I was uniquely susceptible.

Flakiness and apathy may have been the cornerstone of our relationship, but what came next encompassed all the rest.

Some men are ass-men while others are boob-men, at least so I'm told. I never had a preference. I've always been about the eyes. Open up those windows to your soul and let me peer in. Let me see the lust that runs like rejected lightning over the surface of your desires.

Eyes form the marshes of desire and embody the sexiest way for somebody to say, "I need you. Take me."

Do that and you will have my undivided attention.

"I really don't have anywhere else to go for the night," she said softly, "All my eggs in one basket and there's no fucking way you're making me sleep on the floor." She wrapped her hand around my cock.

I wasn't fully hard yet (that sometimes take some work) but I was too far gone to turn her away anymore. For all her manipulations, her stare showed me the only thing that mattered at a time like this. She had a need. She needed me to do the very thing she'd so restlessly taught me to do so well.

I wrestled with my annoyance at being so casually dismissed and then, a year later, so effortlessly won back. I ground the self-doubt to a fine dust and used my annoyance to add fuel to the fire. It worked better than I expected.

The growl came from a place I didn't know existed within me. Her eyes widened. A thousand more years of yoga would not have granted her the reflexes to escape me now. The only way out was a word. She was far too invested to utter her safety just yet.

I wrapped my hand around her throat. Instinctively, her hands came up and grabbed my wrist as she tried to stop me. It lessened the pressure on her neck enough that, my other hand on her hip, I had the extra leverage to lift her off of the ground before I drove her body against the mattress.

We'd both been here a hundred times before. My monster, just under the surface but so well trained, growled its appreciation at the surprise evidenced by her delayed reaction.

"Struggle," it growled dangerously, "Is this all you've got?"

Regaining some of her senses, Sam redoubled her efforts. The real trick about choking isn't stopping the oxygen from getting to their lungs. The trachea is sensitive enough that best practises all agree you don't touch it at all if you can help it. Burning lungs might be part of the appeal for some people, but for Sam it was the high triggered by oxygen deprivation in the brain.

A hundred times and yet it never came completely naturally. I still analysed every move and evaluated every point of pressure. My need for perfection ruining Sam's need for the primal.

I adjusted my grip, letting her struggle for breath while still stunting the flow of oxygen to her brain. I let the monster surge forward again. It wanted a tighter grip, but I held the leash. Instead, it switched focus. My other hand, already at her hip from when I launched her onto the bed, violently penetrated her pussy with two fingers.

Sam's eyes bulged as she stilled to let the sensation flow through her. Fingers resting inside of her, I used my palm to force her pelvis firmly into the mattress. My fingers were an added flair; My palm was needed to stop her from bucking once her brain started to send out the panic signals.

As I started to reposition myself on top of her, she started pulling wildly on my arm. Her torso flexed. She kicked. She pushed a hand against my face. Her efforts to make me ease up were useless. Her body was screaming danger.

With silent, menacing eyes, I watched for her to tap out. Alert and ready to react.

The reticent part of me urged her to tap out. Wanted an end as though some small victory could be found therein. 'All this drama for a few seconds of action, was it worth it Sam?' I would ask.

The monster urged her to fight, it wasn't done playing. It wasn't ready to be caged. Tired of an autumn it was too colorblind to apreciate, it was ready for winter. Ready to pounce.

For a moment I thought she would do it. Her hand steadied and came up. I kept my vigilance. The lack of blood in her head finally took over. She suddenly went still. Pupils dilated.

An unusual moment of silence hung between us. She was on the cusp blacking out. I knew she wouldn't mind, but I couldn't let that happen. There had never been a plan, but that was not part of it.

I loosened my grip on her throat and just as the fresh blood surged into her skull, I lined myself up. My body and mind were gloriously synchronized; I was rock hard. Using my weight, I penetrated into her with one smooth uninterrupted motion. The fingers must have helped for though she could have been better prepared, there was relatively little resistance to my sudden intrusion.

I hoped the sting would shunt her back into reality. She was too busy gasping for air and feeding her brain the fresh oxygen. Her vision cleared and the spinning sensation faded as her body fought to prioritise her survival.

I bottomed out in one smooth stroke and stayed seated within her.

She grunted, her delirious brain interpreting the sensory overload. She lay still for half a moment before her entire body shook.

Now she was wet. My cock could literally feel her insides preparing for what they knew must come next. For what always came next.

Did she just...

Sam wrapped her arms around my neck, "Holy shit. Fuck fuck fuck. Oh god, I just came. Oh fuck."

.... There is more of this story ...

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Consensual / Heterosexual / True Story / Vignettes / MaleDom / Rough /