She Wilts

For nearly two years you and she have been enemies. Rivals in every sense of the word. Dressing, behaving, and in many ways BEING just for each other while at the office.

Your every conversation biting and catty.

Your every look a glare that would melt the skin off of a lesser woman.

An intensity that boiled and bubbled until finally she slipped you her phone number. A number you immediately used to begin malice-and-insult-filled text conversation that led you here — to an unassuming boutique hotel just off the interstate.

And though she had promised you that she would leave you in a puddle of your own release. That she would break your pussy and breasts — body and spirit.

When you grab her hair, and rip her down to her knees.

When you drag her cheek to your freshly shaven mound and then her mouth to your sex, she wilts. Giving you no resistance. No refusal. She instead accepting your demand of subjugation.

In an instant.

In a flash.

Her hands moving to your hips as you drop back down to the wicker love-seat behind you.

Her eyes, that had always been filled with fire, softening to the point of tears.

Her every touch a sign of submission.

Her every sound made weak and half-pathetic.

For a moment you worry it is a trap, but as she slows with every soft tug of hair you give, and retracts tongue with but a word given to do so. You know.

Your rival wanted no more than this. In every glare. In every insult. In every cross-word and bumping of hips, she sought to make you strong.

To make you cruel.

To make you insistent, so that she might give in.

Miss your rivalry though you will, you’ll take a slave.

One who’s obedience you can cherish, as you punish her softly for ever pretending she was your equal.

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