Chapter One
It’s difficult to explain how pride and masochism can go hand in hand to someone
who doesn’t feel the same things I do, doesn’t have the same – emotional response I do to
certain things… But pride is at the heart of this story; mine and Tony’s.
Tony is a sensitive artistic soul. He is an amazing artist, and extremely
passionate about a lot of things, from art – of course – to politics and philosophy. He’s
wonderfully intelligent and has a keen wit. He’s cute, too, with a narrow face and a mass
of boyish blonde hair spilling down around his ears. However, he’s a slender man, not very
muscular, and not much good with things like tools or cars. He’s also short, at five foot
6, and that really bugs him.
I know he’s happy that when something breaks down around the house I can fix it. My
dad made me extremely good with tools and repairs, for he was a contractor and I used to
trail him around the house when he was making repairs. I learned a lot. But while Tony is
too smart to complain about that, I know it’s a blow to his male image, you know? Just
like his size – and mine.
I’m not super tall or anything, but I’m three inches taller than him. I’ve also
been into yoga and tai-chi for years, and my body is fit and toned. In fact, he gets so
little physical exercise I’m almost certainly stronger than he is, which I think he
suspects as well. I don’t put up much of a fight when we wrestle around, but I’m not sure
he doesn’t know that too.
And he fumes when we’re together and men look at me. He’s possessive, and afraid
that for some reason I’ll leave him for some big, muscular, more manly man. As if I was
interested in that sort! But I can’t help it that men look at me. I don’t dress
provocatively, though I do dress to look nice. Tony likes it that I look nice – probably
more of that masculine need to show off what he “owns”, I guess. So I tell him he really
shouldn’t complain that other men find me nice looking, as well.
I have very pale skin, and very red hair which falls to well below my shoulders. My
breasts are just on the small side (thank God) of getting me labelled busty, with small,
almost delicate pink nipples and very tiny areolas. I’m slender, with a very narrow waist,
decent hips, and a nice tight butt. I have large green eyes, full lips, and perfect teeth,
along with a small, snub nose. Of course men are going to look at me!
Intellectually, I know Tony understands this. Emotionally, he’s irked because, I
think, even though I’m with him, men aren’t intimidated into not looking. If he were a
big, mean looking brute, he thinks, men wouldn’t dare look at me so openly. He’s probably
right, too. But shit, so what?
Anyway, all of this means that Tony seems to be constantly trying to assert his
manliness, his masculine dominance, in a way. I recognize that this is mostly driven by
his subconscious, but it can still be irritating at times. Still, I often try to
accommodate it. He believes in equality of the sexes. I know this, so it’s no great blow
to my pride to let him show me what a big strong manly man he is sometimes.
And in fact, sometimes I get off on sublimating my own instincts for dignity and
pride, the way I like to carry myself, the determination to be treated respectfully and as
an equal. You see, a part of me would love to dress down, to wear low-cut tops and short
skirts, and act trashy and slutty and have all the guys panting after me. A part of me
would love to be a sleazy, sexy, wild, wanton woman! But my pride and dignity get in the
way. I don’t want to be looked down at as some cheap bimbo flaunting her tits to get
attention. Which is exactly the way many, if not most, of my friends look at girls who
dress down.
Heck, it’s the way I usually look at them too! I know it’s a stupid, patriarchal
attitude born of the cultural notion that women ought to be chaste and meek and mild
mannered and modest, but like Tony, sometimes my intellectual awareness is overpowered by
my own emotions and instincts.
And since both of us are very firm in our belief in equality and partnership, the
place where we both tend to give vent to our subconscious desires is in the bedroom, or
more specifically, during sex.
When we first started sleeping together, Tony was very gentle and romantic in bed.
He was patient, and incredibly good at interpreting my responses to what he was doing. He
has soft, gentle hands, but is so very intense, if I can use that word, and determined to
give me pleasure. Again, I almost immediately decided he was trying to please me in bed as
a sop to his feelings that he wasn’t masculine enough. He wanted to do more than please
me; he wanted to drive me crazy in bed. And he succeeded!
Tony is so good with his fingers, and with his tongue, and with his cock – which
unlike him, is neither slender nor short, that my sex life with him was great. I had
absolutely nothing to complain about, believe me. But then I started picking up some of
that “I am the man” attitude from him in bed. At first it was just kind of like, moving me
around – not roughly, but firmly – and I liked it.
A lot.
Maybe there’s a subconscious side of me which wants to be with a tough, strong,
macho man too.
So when we were making love, and he gripped my hips and just flipped me over onto
my stomach, then spread my legs and yanked my hips up into the air I was – to be honest –
thrilled, and excited, and aroused. He entered me from behind, firmly, smoothly, driving
himself into me to the hilt as he gripped my hips, and rode me to a delicious orgasm.
It was great!
He did that a few times, got into the habit of doing it, and then one day he did it
and slapped my ass; not badly, but still, it was a bit of a shock. And again, it was kind
of a thrill, him displaying his manly nature. I guess it was a thrill to him, too, for he
slapped me again when I didn’t protest, and he started talking dirty. He wasn’t insulting,
but he was being – macho, you know.
“Yeah! Take that, baby! You love it, don’t you! You love that cock!” he growled as
he drove himself into me from behind.
And I did, and I was hot and turned on by his behaviour, by his words, and even
while I gasped as he slapped my bottom, they were only love taps, and my arousal only
deepened.
A little after that, though, he started giving my butt slaps out of bed, outside of
sex, though in a joking fashion. The first time it happened we were in the kitchen, and
discussing something about politics. He gave my ass a sharp smack and then gave me a mock
scowl as he pointed his finger at me. “I’m the man. You don’t disagree with the man!”
I snorted and stuck my tongue out at him. It was just a joke, after all.
But he began to do that joke more often. We would always be disagreeing over
something, and if I was standing at the time, and if we weren’t face to face, he would
sometimes slap my bottom and say something like “I’m the man. I decide,” or some variation
of that.
Which never, of course, won him any arguments.
Slowly, our sex began to get rougher, too, although at the time I just thought of
it as more passionate.
The first time he grabbed my hair he barely pulled it at all. He’d just flipped me
over and entered me, after slapping my butt a few times. And now he grabbed my hair and
pulled it back – firmly but gently, and slapped my butt again as he thrust into me.
And this time he said “Yeah, take that cock, bitch! You know you love it!”
And I did, but even though I was really aroused I felt a bit of disapproval of him
using that word. I wrote it off, though, to more of his masculine need to dominate. The
pulling on the hair, though, was kind of exciting, and when I didn’t complain he started
to pull a little more on it, and then a little more, and then to do it a little more
roughly.
Just as when we had started having sex, I realized he was gauging my reaction, my
response, not wanting to do anything which didn’t bring the response he was hoping for.
But I was all for it. It was turning me on, making me feel like a hot, nasty,
slutty girl. Yeah, I was a little indignant, too, but that was like nothing given how hot
I was.
He was riding me doggy style more often now, and began to pull more on my hair,
after that, more roughly, which sometimes hurt, but was such an incredible turn-on that I
never protested.
Then one day he really got into it. He did the whole flipping me onto my belly
thing, more roughly, more forcefully than usual, yanked back on my thighs, slapped my ass
stingingly before yanking up my hips, and then thrust into me so sharply it actually hurt
a bit. He grabbed my hair in one hand and one of my breasts in the other, and started to
thrust into me hard and deep, so that, while I actually considered protesting, saying
“hey, not so rough” I was instead just gasping and grunting for the first several seconds
– and then didn’t really care because I was feeling so turned on.
“Yeah! Take that cock, slut!” he growled.
And this time he dropped his belly down onto my back as he rode me, and bit lightly
at the nape of my neck while he growled like an animal! It was wild!
His right hand was between my legs, rubbing my clit, and he had my breast in his
other hand, squeezing tightly.
“You’re my bitch, April,” he growled, biting into the nape of my neck and growling
as he thrust into me.
“Tell me you’re my bitch!” he demanded.
“Hngh…huhnn…I-I’m you’re bitch!” I gasped excitedly as I rocked to the hard thrusts
of his hips, as his cock sliced in and out of my tight, moist pussy, as his fingers
stroked almost roughly over my clit.
He growled and bit into my earlobe. “Tell me you’re my slut!”
“I’m your slut!” I moaned.
He raised his chest off my back and ground his hips against my upraised bottom with
his cock achingly deep inside my tight belly, then gave a sharp yank on my hair and
slapped my bottom.
“Show me how much you love it, slut,” he growled. “Shove that tight ass back
against me!”
I gasped in pain at the pull to my hair – and in excitement, as well, and thrust
back at him.
He slapped my bottom again. “Show me you’re my slut,” he growled.
I began to thrust back as he thrust forward to the point the power of the strokes
hovered on the edge of pain. He reached forward and roughly groped my breast, then pinched
the nipple.
“Tell me you’re my slut, baby!”
“I-I’m your slut!” I gasped, rocking back.
“Louder, slut!” he demanded, slapping my butt.
“I’m your slut!” I cried, getting more aroused now by how thrillingly nasty he was
being, how nasty I was being.
He slapped my bottom and yanked on my hair.
“Keep shouting it, slut!”
I was getting close to orgasm, and I cried out the words again and again as he
rammed himself into me, as he slapped my bottom, and then, as the orgasm came, much to my
dazed shock, slapped my breast as it wobbled below me. I hardly paid it much attention as
the avalanche of pleasure swept me up in its embrace, but it was a definite surprise, even
in the midst of the swelling climax.
Then I was only thinking of the pleasure and hunger and the wild rush of heat
through my body as the orgasm howled through me and set me jerking and shaking against
him, my pussy sucking and squeezing down on his stiff pole as he thrust it deep again and
again and again.
Afterwards, in the sanity of a clear head, I remembered and found it a bit
unsettling. At the same time, it made my face flush a bit with delicious excitement, for I
had surprised myself by such wanton behaviour. I was not altogether happy with Tony’s
behaviour, but I wrote it off to his need to show his male strength and dominance.
Boys are so silly, after all!
That was kind of a transition event, though, for after that he began to talk dirty,
and make me talk dirty, most of the time when we were having sex. I found this troubling,
but mostly didn’t say anything about it. At the time these things happened, well, I was
excited, aroused, and found the dirty words added to my sense of excitement and passion. I
knew we were equals, so it didn’t really matter if I shouted out degrading words in the
middle of the act.
And I guess that kind of appealed to that side of me which fantasized about being
dominated by a strong, powerful man.
I’d only moved in with him a couple of months earlier, into a small cramped old
townhouse on the edge of the university. I was working in the HR department of a medium
sized IT company, while Tony was working as a waiter and of course, perfecting his art.
That meant I was almost always up well before him, and the next morning I was
downstairs in the kitchen, drinking my coffee, and feeling a touch dozy like I often am in
the morning. I was surprised, but not unduly so, to hear Tony coming down the stairs, but
he does occasionally get up to see me off so I really thought little of it.
I was wearing one of his old shirts, with only a couple of buttons done. He came up
behind my chair, leaned over my chair from behind, and started to kiss the nape of my
neck. At the same time his hands slid down over my shoulders and right into the shirt, his
right hand cupping and squeezing my left breast and his left cupping and squeezing my
right.
I moaned a soft protest as he dug his fingers into my breasts a little deeply, and
turned my head towards him only to find his lips on mine. His fingers eased their grip, so
I lost my thought of protest as his tongue met mine. He was being unusually frisky for
this early, but I didn’t really mind. But then his right hand slid further down inside the
shirt as his left slid out and gripped my hair, pulling my head and shoulders back across
the top of the chair.
“Toonnyy!” I protested.
He wasn’t hurting me, or being rough, but it was morning, a work morning, and not
the time we usually indulged in these kinds of games. And I was still kind of drowsy and
tired. But he got his fingers between my legs, and his lips on mine silenced further
protests, and I started to feel a sudden throbbing heat emanating from where his fingers
were squirming away.
And I thought, okay, a quicky, a morning quicky. I can do that. I owe that to my
sweetie now and then, don’t I?
He eased up and back, still with a fistful of my hair right behind my head, and
pulled so that I gasped and was awkwardly forced to my feet, and he yanked back so my arms
windmilled a little as I stumbled against him. He shoved the chair in against the table
hard, and then very forcefully shoved me into it and bent me over.
“Tony!” I gasped.
He flipped the shirt up, slapped my ass and forced my legs apart with his knee, and
I felt his hardness rubbing up and down my rapidly moistening pussy. I had half tried to
stand upright, but his hand was firm on my hair, holding me down. He slapped my ass again
as he entered me, and then abandoned my hair, grabbing my wrists where I was almost
instinctively struggling a little and pinning them together behind my back.
He yanked on the shirt, pulling it back over my shoulders, then twisted and bunched
up the fabric in such a way as to pin my arms together behind my back as he forced his
cock deep.
I was... confused, uncertain how to respond, excited, in a way, but a little
indignant, too. I was like – what the fuck - you know?
“Hungh-HuuuuuuH!” I gasped as he rammed himself into me.
He gripped my hair again, pulling my head up and back, and lifting my torso a bit –
enough to slide his hand under and grope my breast as he bent forward to bite into the
nape of my neck. I tried to shift my hands and found, to my surprise, that he had somehow
tied off the loose shirt in some way that my arms were bound behind me.
That was – exciting, for some reason, if a little surreal.
“Tony!” I groaned.
Then he dropped away, pulling out of me. I felt his hands on my thighs, forcing
them even wider apart, and then his mouth was wide and taking my entire pussy into it as
he began to suck and lick voraciously. I gasped and moaned, my hips spasming as his
talented tongue whipped across my clit, and I gasped and felt my eyes rolling back in my
head as he swirled and stroked it back and forth across my throbbing clit.
He rose again and plunged into me hard enough to hurt, but it was a good hurt, a
hard, throbbing ache which made me shudder with excitement. I was getting wet very
quickly, and this he-man stuff was turning me on. Tony grabbed my hair again, slapped my
ass, and called me his slut as he thrust into me, and all I could do was shudder and moan
in pleasure as his cock cleaved the puffy, swollen lips of my sex and drove deep into my
belly.
“Tell me you’re my slut!” he ordered.
“I-I’m your s-slut!” I groaned as my body rocked to the hard thrusting of his hips
and he forced my head up and back by the hair.
He took my right breast into his hand, and pinched the nipple.
“Say I’m Tony’s slut,” he growled.
“I… I’m … Ow!” I gasped as he pinched harder.
“Say it, slut!”
“I’m Tony’s slut!” I gasped, not at all sure I liked this, but feeling a wave of
heat anyway.
“Again, slut.”
“I’m Tony’s slut!” I gasped as my bare toes pawed helplessly at the linoleum below,
my arms twisting feebly against the tight shirt binding them behind me.
There was some soft butter on the table, and he reached a hand to it, which I
didn’t even see. The next I knew I felt his finger, slippery with warm butter, against my
anal opening. I gasped aloud, and he released my hair and slapped my bottom as his finger
squirmed and twisted and pushed into me.
“Tony!” I groaned in protest.
That brought another slap to my bottom.
“You’re my slut. My slut does what I tell her,” he said. “My slut’s body is mine to
do anything I want with.”
His words were deliberately provocative, and outrageous, and I recognized them as
such, which was why instead of angering me they aroused me. Although I have to admit to
some indignation, as well.
We had not actually done any anal up to then. He had sort of hinted at it earlier,
and then asked directly, and I had said it was not something I was comfortable with
because it was degrading to women, and more likely to hurt than bring pleasure. He had
dropped the idea.
Now as he pumped into me, as he gripped my hair and twisted it back, his thumb
pumped in and out of my ass and, you know, it didn’t hurt. That surprised me a little, and
some of the anxiety its penetration had aroused in me faded. His cock moved in and out,
in and out, in and out, and his thumb did the same, in counter tempo. He removed it and
inserted a longer finger, then added a second beside it.
I was in that state of dazed, glassy-eyed pleasure I get into in the run-up to
orgasm, my breasts pillowed against the table, my breath coming in short, rapid gasps and
groans. There’s no excuse for me being surprised when he pulled out of my pussy, slipped
his thumbs from my ass, and then pushed his fat, helmet-headed cock into my ass, but I was
honestly very surprised anyway.
“T-Tony!” I gasped with sudden vigour.
He slapped my bottom stingingly and said “Quiet, slut!”
“Ow! Tony,” I protested again, squirming against him.
“Are you my slut?” he demanded, bending over me, his breath against my cheek as I
felt a finger stroking my clit.
“Are you my slut?” he demanded.
“Yes but –”
“Say it! Say I’m Tony’s slut!”
“I’m Tony’s slut!” I groaned.
But, I meant to add, but – but! – but I didn’t, and he straightened, and I felt his
cock sinking into my anal opening, pushing me open wider. It didn’t really hurt at all, so
I held my tongue as I felt his cock entering me. He groped my breasts, and pulled my hair,
and called me his slut and his bitch as he worked his cock into me. And while it hurt a
little as it pushed deeper, well, it wasn’t much in the way of pain. It was more of a
pleasant ache, to be honest.
The whole idea that his cock was in my ass was a hot dark shocker, though. My bare
toes were kind of sweeping and pawing at the linoleum, for he had my legs forced really
far apart, and with the back of the chair under my abdomen holding my hips up high they
were practically off the floor.
Oh God it felt – exciting! With his cock back there, the sensation so unfamiliar
yet – somehow natural. I felt full, spread wide, but comfortably wide. And now, his cock
was moving in and out in a tight, but slick, slippery way that I was finding increasingly
erotic and sensual as my muscled eased. My heart was beating faster, my pulse racing and
my entire body was growing flushed with inner heat as he thrust in and out with long, deep
strokes.
Jesus, why had I not had him do this sooner, I thought dazedly. It felt so good!
“Hunggh!” I gasped as he gripped a fistful of my hair again and yanked my head
back.
He slapped my butt at the same time, sharply, stinging.
“Tell me you’re my slut,” he growled.
“I’m your slut!” I moaned.
Another sharp slap on the butt.
“Again, slut!”
“I’m your slut!” I gasped.
He worked his hips in and out faster, and then still faster, and every now and
then, with him jammed to the hilt inside me, his cockhead giving me cramps deep in my
belly, he’d stop and grind himself firmly into my butt before pulling back and stroking
again.
He pulled even harder on my hair, lifting my head up and back, and then raising my
upper torso off the table. He roughly groped my breasts as he thrust in and out, then
jammed his hand downward so his fingers could stroke across my clit.
I just lost it then, gurgling and gasping and moaning like a demented woman as a
violent orgasm churned through my body and mind, the pleasure long and intense, stunning
in every sense of the word, consuming me and leaving me dazed and drained and laying
across the table with glassy eyes, arms still kind of bound together behind me with the
shirt.
| 
