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He fucked like he did everything else: slow, deliberate and with purpose. He always fucked you. He never made love.
He never showed an ounce of tenderness although some might think he did. All was a ploy, a carefully crafted lie, the script of a play long written, that always had the same ending and Khan was the one that decided how and when it finished. There was no leeway for either actors or audience. All were his pawns. He decided what the puppets said or did and whether the audience laughed or cried.
He was fucking me now, slow strokes, a mockery of a caress inside my body and while his breathing was controlled as always, a whisper of a sigh meant to feign uncertainty, I was trembling and shuddering, eroding my teeth while I clenched my jaw trying not to let any plea out. It was futile of course – I always ended up pleading, begging and sobbing – always. On the nights I was lucky he simply obliged and on most others he got creative.
Tonight he was playing the victim.
“Tell me what you want love” he breaths tenderly against my lips.
“I'll do anything if you just ask.” he sighs against my ear and I grit my teeth even harder. One of these days I'm sure I'll bite my tongue off.
“You know I need a guiding hand. I'm just a product, a machine, I need a master.” he mocks while nuzzling my jaw in imitation of a perfectly well behaved house cat. If only I didn't know that he was anything but. The man was a jaguar.
The comparison went even further. Just like with any feline, a person in HIS possession went into one of two categories: prey or toy. I went into the second category and he was going to play with me until there was nothing left. Once upon a time I had fantasized that, according to the second scenario, all will end when I was dead. He got easily bored you see... By all my calculation the torment should have ended long ago. I was wrong. This was a sophisticated predator – he had no wish for my life since that could be easily ended - he wanted my soul.
I sometimes fought him, when my frustration got the better of me. It was futile. It had always been futile.
On days like today he wanted no complications so he tied my wrists together and against the iron cast headboard (he got nostalgic about some things from the life he left three hundred years in the past). It was just pretense – a sign for me to behave. I was not about to struggle since I wanted to spare myself as many “love marks” as I could.
He cupped my jaw gently and nuzzled against my temple before placing a tender kiss on my left eyelid and next to the corner of my mouth. He was still moving very slowly, like a bow tenderly playing the stings of my body - and my body was singing! My breath hitched, my hips were begging when my mouth wasn't yet ready. My chest was rising faster and faster and he took it as an invitation to include my erect nipples into his concerto. The conductor finally got what he wanted – his lead singer had finally joined in.
I whined!
I had long got used to my mouth letting escape sounds that I did not know I could produce and that I was deeply ashamed of, but Khan never seemed to get tired of them.
“Oh love... was that good?” he asks with uncertain pride. If it was anyone else I would be quick to offer reassurance.
He always called me “love” in mockery of the sentiment I held so high, an emotion I held above all others and that had ultimately placed me in this position. It was not that he could not understand love, devotion, loyalty ... he just found me unworthy of them because they made me weak instead of strong. In his eyes it was that and my not being perfect like he was, that branded me as less.
I was just a mere human after all.
He doesn't move faster, he just starts to move differently, with firmer strokes, clearly aimed at making me fall apart. His murderous hands hold me with such tenderness that I'm almost tempted to make this day the one when I start to believe the lie and the liar.
I don't know what does it in the end, if it's the different rhythm that his hips set or the fact that I make the mistake of opening my eyes to find myself staring directly into his.
Have I told you already how intense everything about him is? He never did anything half measure. Until him I thought the same about myself.
So, I (predictably) finally give in.
“Please” I whisper with an aching jaw from clenching and a mouth full of saliva.
It is not enough; the first offering to a God must be seconded. He's not satisfied with feeble attempts so he stares at me, finally letting a subtle curl to his lip break his mask.
He stabs his hips forward as if by accidental excitement.
“What love?
“I need to come” I answer shakily trying to shorten my suffering. He can last at these games for what seems like forever so I always end up in a position similar to this no matter the scenario.
“Oh dear heart I know you do, but you have to tell me exactly what you need from me.” he says with a pleading voice and eyes and lips that betray him as they form their customary arrogant expression. He is used to winning. I am such a fool! Of course he is used to winning since he never lost nowadays – not to me or anyone else for that matter.
“ Harder, do it harder “
I know it’s not enough.
“ Fuck me harder. Please.
”
I scream the last word because he drives into me just as it forms on my lips.
He is generous tonight.
And that is my last thought before he fucks me just as I asked, taking all conscious thought away with his movement inside me. I wish I could say it lasts longer, that it is magical, that I see stars (I haven't seen that stars in a long time. I have seen nothing outside this room in a long time.) Unfortunately there is no magic here – just a man that knows the instrument he is playing better then it could, if it had a conscious. I always dissociate myself from my body. I would go insane if I didn't.
I finally come and it is no less spectacular or draining than any other time.
I feel exhausted and when I finally try to unclench my fists my fingers ache and tingle. I always do things that hurt me around him, no matter if they are with or without intent.
My eyes are clenched shut. I cannot bear his smugness just yet but he has no mercy. His fingers tickle my wrist as they find their way between mine and clench around them like a true lover would. The hand that is not used for emotional torture finally attunes to the other as he settles on my side, grabs my chin to lift it up so that he can place soft sated kisses on my neck.
I can feel the residue of his release inside me but he still undulates his hips as he pretends to cherish me like a true lover. I am almost grateful for my bound hands because he is so good in his deceitful ways that I might do something shameful like cuddling right now.
One more drag of perfect lips against my upturned jaw, a playful nip and a very slow drag of his (unnaturally) still hard organ between my cheeks is all I get as warning before I hear :
“Again”