Every Last Inch

"Good girl," he says, drawing back before slamming forward with his cock.

"Little whore," he says next, pausing with himself buried inside of me before pulling back once more.

Slamming down onto me, burying himself inside of me, he calls me, "My perfect little angel."

And then he draws back again and teeters at the edge of me, right up until I moan with a need that I feel and I hate and then and only then does he slam forward once more, violently giving me every inch of his cock and calling me his, "Dirty slut."

He kisses my cheek. He kisses my neck. He runs one hand down from my hip to the fullness of my ass and draws it back, cracking it down onto the meat of me so hard that I squeal in surprise and would jump if I could move more than an inch from him.

"I wonder which you prefer? Which one you really prefer, that is."

Almost lazily he starts to pull out of me, with each stroke like that. Not gentle but more of an afterthought and an absolute contrast to his press forward which is fast and needy and insistent.

A taking. A claiming. A repositioning of our paradigm.

"All girls like to think that they're the good girl, but you're not the good girl now are you Em? Good girls don't take a cock in their ass for the first time in a dirty alley. Good girls don't get off on being called bad. Good girls don't give their ass up to a guy they hate, and you do hate me."

I don't know how right he actually was about that. Well, about parts of it. I did hate him but I didn't know if I liked being thought of as the 'good girl.' Maybe at times, perhaps, but when I played the part of bad it seemed to fit me so much better.

So maybe he was wrong. Maybe not all girls liked to think of themselves as good. Maybe I didn't.

"You may have preserved your virginity, for now, but you've almost given me something more powerful. Do you know what that is?"

I moan because it's the only thing I am certain that I can do. But the sound of it makes me blush and then flush crimson as I feel myself bend to the point of breaking for him.

"You've given me your dignity," he tells me happily, only too happy to take it from me because, "That isn't something that's easy to get back."

Humiliation.

There it is again.

My own pleasure at the degredation of myself. A potent fascination with losing my dignity because he's right, what I'm doing now could never possibly be mistaken for dignified.

The alley smells stale and rank and now it smells like sex too. The sounds of my moans and of our bodies coming together echo off the walls and rebound down on me, buffeting me with the acoustics.

I am humiliated. I am degraded. I can smell the scent of it in the air and I can feel it and I can taste it and I can see it. Trapped and loving it as he takes me up against this wall, as he pumps into me and I take him time and again until the pain of it gives way to something new and old at the same time.

Because I'm pushing back again. Because I'm tensing and flexing around him. Because I'm begging him, not to stop, but to give me more.

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