I Like The Pain

This is going to be more. This is going to hurt in the best way possible. Blake is angry and he wants to make me pay and god I want him to. I want him to hurt me.

So I moan and I wriggle my hips. I press my ass back towards him and I squeeze my hand around the head of his cock, twisting it as if I'm trying to draw a little bit more out of him which is probably really exactly what it is that I'm trying to do.

"You're a whore in training," he curls in my ear, and it makes me shudder.

His words are poison to me, but not all bad. They're honey, sickly sweet and suffocating. They slide down so right and they coat me so thoroughly that I have to gasp, closing my eyes so that I can concentrate on breathing alone because it's getting harder to do now, it's getting harder to do anything that doesn't come wholly natural to me.

Lucky for me. There is at least one thing I don't have to think about.

"You were made to be a whore," he goes on, speaking my truth, "Your body was made for fucking. Your spirit was made to be used. You were made for this purpose, to be nothing more than a sex toy for men."

All of his words have a ring of truth to me. And when I think about what I've done since I became a woman, I find it even harder to deny.

I have sucked my way from one man to another. I may not have spread my legs and welcomed them in, but I have literally lost count of the number of men I've brought to climax. Hell with most of them I don't even know their names.

So what better term is there for me than whore? What could better outline my singular purpose?

I love it. I love being that woman. I love giving to them and I love this feeling, over and over and over a-fucking-gain. Just getting used, time and again, just getting what I get in the end.

Their satisfaction. My reward.

"And I know it's been hard for you," he tries for sympathetic, but I can hear his mischevious smile tells me that he doesn't really mean it, "You were probably raised to be better than this. I mean you were probably told to be a good girl and we both know what that means. To not run off with boys. To not let them touch you, not let them push you to do things that you'll regret. Keep your legs shut and be proud. Be the good girl, or none of them will want you.

"So you fight against it, but the truth is you're fighting what you were made to be. What you are meant to be. Your fucking destiny. Emily, you're meant to be a whore. You fucking love it.

"So you're torn, right now. Pulled between what you want inside and what you think you ought to want. A simple little slut one minute and a mouthy little bitch the next. You clamp your legs shut because you were raised to be better than this but you really want nothing more than to spread them wide and let me inside, don't you?"

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