A wild animal

You give her what she mouthed.

The first thrust is deep and unkind in the best way, and Sandra’s silent fuck me breaks into an actual sound. Then it stops being a simple pinning and turns into a match.

She does not lie there and take it. The second your grip on her wrists loosens even a fraction she twists, hooks a leg, and rolls you. You hit the mattress on your back with her already sinking down onto your cock, riding hard, hands on your chest, that red ass slapping down with every drop. She is trying to make you come first. That is the game. Get the energy out of her by winning it, or by losing it—she does not care which, as long as someone breaks.

You last on the bottom longer than you expect, then sit up, wrap both arms around her, and dump her onto her side. She laughs, breathless, and tries to lock her thighs. You get a hand between them and rub her clit while you fuck her from behind, short brutal strokes that make her swear into the pillow. She reaches back, finds your balls, and squeezes just enough to make your rhythm stutter. Cheap. Effective. You bite her shoulder in revenge and she moans like she won a point.

The wrestling stays erotic the whole way through.

Sweat. Sheets twisting. Her tits mashed against your arm when you get her on her back again. Your cock slipping out when she bucks too hard, then slamming back in while she is still grinning about it. She tries to pin your shoulders; you let her think she has it and then fold her legs toward her chest, folding her in half, driving down until her eyes roll. She comes first like that—sudden, messy, a startled cry—and you do not stop. That is the rule she set with her body. Keep going until the gremlin is empty.

She is not empty.

She recovers fast, shoves at your hip, and you let her flip you again because the look on her face is too good. She rides facing away this time, showing you the spanked colour while she works you, looking back over her shoulder with her mouth open. You grab her waist and thrust up to meet her. The sound is filthy. Wet. Relentless. When you feel yourself getting close she feels it too and slams down harder, trying to pull it out of you like a prize.

You drag her off before she can finish you that way, put her face-down, and take her from behind with your chest to her back, one hand in her hair, the other under her rubbing her clit. She comes a second time with a broken noise into the mattress. That one finally knocks some of the bounce out of her. You follow a few strokes later, buried deep, filling her again while her pussy flutters through the aftershocks.

You stay like that until both of you are shaking and stupid.

You pull the belts off the floor where they have been lying since last time.

Sandra sees them and her whole face lights up. You roll her, gather her wrists, and bind them behind her back like you are trying to tame something that still has fight in it. The leather cinches. She tests it at once, shoulders flexing, and then kicks you off the bed with both feet—not to escape, to make you work. Arms restrained, legs still free. She loves the direction this is going. You can see it in the way she gushes onto the sheets when you catch an ankle and lose it again.

She makes binding her to the bed a project.

Every time you get close to a bedpost she flails, twists, laughs, rubs her soaked cunt against your thigh like a bribe and a distraction in the same motion. You get one leg strapped wide. The other is chaos. She kicks, bucks, tries to close what you have already opened. For the last belt—the one that will fix her free ankle to the opposite pole—you have to finish her off with your hand first. Two fingers and your thumb on her clit, ruthless and fast, until she comes with a broken shout and her muscles go slack enough to hold. You use that window. Leather around the last ankle. Tight to the post. Done.

Now the animal cannot move.

Legs spread wide, arms locked behind her back, helpless on her own mattress and visibly dripping from how much that does for her. She is panting, smiling, eyes dark.

She starts coaxing you with her mouth because her hands are no longer available.

“How are you going to brand your new pet,”
she asks, voice hoarse and delighted.
“Make it clear you own me. I’m not free. I’m not wild anymore. You domesticated me. I’m your property. Say it. Do it. I want to look down and know who I belong to.”

She turns herself on more with every sentence. Each claim makes her hips twitch against nothing. She is expecting hickeys. A necklace to match the one she gave you at dinner. Teeth on her inner thigh. A mouth on her breast.

She is not expecting the Sharpie.

You find it in the desk drawer—black, cheap, the kind she uses to label deck boxes. You pop the cap. The smell is sharp in the quiet room. Sandra’s eyes track it, confused for half a second, then very, very interested.

You kneel between her spread, bound legs and set the felt tip just above her cunt, on the soft skin of her mound.

She goes still.

You write slowly so she can feel every letter.

DADDY’S

The ink sits dark against flushed skin, the word ending just high enough that she will see it if she looks down, low enough that underwear would hide it and a lifted skirt would not. You add a small crude heart under the apostrophe, nearly making it look like a arrow pointing at her snatch. Sandra stares at the upside-down letters as best she can, chest heaving, and a helpless sound leaks out of her.

“Oh my god, i didn't know i needed that”

“You asked to be branded.”

“I thought you were going to bite me.”

“I still can.”

She is gushing again, the fresh orgasm from your hand already forgotten under the new heat of being labelled. The belts creak when she tries to close her legs and cannot. The word sits there above her dripping pussy like a caption.

“I’m yours,” she whispers, and it does not sound like a line anymore.
“I’m actually yours. Leave it. Don’t rub it off. I want it tomorrow. I want it as proof, like the rest of the burn.”

You cap the marker, set it on the nightstand, and look at what you have made: your girlfriend, bound, marked, asking to be kept.