Manhandling.

There’s something about it. There’s something about being thrown across the room as though you weigh as much as a bird with their pneumatic bones — nothing at all.

There’s something to be said about how quickly it sends one into their subspace. It’s instantaneous. Immediate. The way my body bounces on the bed. Or the way the back of my head slams into the wall behind me — the impact clanging inside my brain. Echoing. Each resonation emptying more and more thoughts until…nothing. Until all that’s left to think about is Him. How I can please Him, how I can serve Him, how much I want Him to use me — His property.

And use me He would.

I can already feel how His hand would wrap around my throat. How it would tighten, His grip properly placed for the desired effect. His fingers would squeeze on either side of my trachea, applying the perfect amount of pressure to cut off, not just oxygen but blood circulation.

It would take seconds for my vision to blur — even less than that for my panties to saturate. The world would start to spin, my head growing foggy, my thoughts — what little I would have, would start to become disoriented, scrambled.

The mere thought has my cunt throbbing.

I wouldn’t be able to speak underneath His administrations, but my eyes would do my lips’ bidding. They’d widen, sparking with the stoked flame of heated desire. Their relayed message would be crystal clear. He knows that look well. There would be absolutely no mistaking it. No denying the aura of instant submission — whole and complete — presented only to Him.

Forever only to Him.

I know exactly what would happen next. He would turn me around — the harshest of tugs. Remove His hand from my throat and wrapping it instead in my hair — tangling that fist in my curls resembling that of a birds nest.

He’d slam my head against the wall once again, pulling down my pants as the reverberations ricocheted against the walls of my skull. There would be no regard for the integrity of the denim. There is only one thing He cares about and my Mom jeans are certainly not it.

My chest would be heaving as He’d slide my soaking panties to the side. Not a word would be spoken as He’d shove two fingers inside me — laughing as the apex of my thighs seeming to suck Him in on its own accord. The walls of my cunt slick with arousal — making the invasion effortless.

My cheeks would bloom scarlet as His laughter would flit in my ears and fill my head. The condescension. He knows exactly what it does to me. Knows exactly how it makes me feel. How it makes my knees weak. How it makes my body flush.

“You want me to fuck you don’t you? Your cunt is fucking dripping and I’ve hardly touched it.”

Of course I don’t say anything. He already knows His words run true.

“But you see my sweet, sweet, slut. I’m not interested in your cunt. Today, I want your ass. Are you going to be a good girl for me?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Good girl.” He’d praise me, pumping His fingers in and out of me until my arousal would be dripping down His hand. He’d continue until my moans would change pitch. Until my body would start to writhe. My mews growing more and more desperate with each passing.

My back would arch. My nails would start to dig into the paint on the wall. And just as I’d be climbing that glorious mountain. Just as I would be about to reach the climax. The peak. Just when I was about to careen from the ledge and freefall into an unending chasm of orgasmic bliss…He’d pull out and trace that sensitive, quivering rosebud. That touch would make the hair on my arms, the hair at the back of my neck stand on end.

Every nerve of mine would light aflame. The fire burning white hot. Spreading. Unyielding. A raging wildfire with no stop in sight.

“Are you ready Little One?”

“Yes Sir.”