Lovingly

“Get on the bed, properly, faggot,” Amy orders me, and I immediately comply, pulling myself up onto her bed, and turning lengthwise. Looking over my shoulder, I watch her climb onto the bed, then feel her bare thighs brushing against my own.

One hand against my sacrum, she aligns her crown to my hole, then reaches up and grabs hold of my hair. Amy twists her fingers sharply to get a good grip, then yanks hard to make me whine in pain. She leans close, then murmurs into my ear.

“Do you want it, faggot?” Amy says, so soft it's as if she's afraid someone might hear, even while we're alone in her room. My eyes flutter, and she twists my hair, forcing me to turn my head so I can look over my shoulder and make eye contact.

“Yes!” I breathe one tiny word in answer, and Amy answers with a slow, driving thrust. She grinds herself to the hilt, and across my prostate. I arch involuntarily, my spine bowing toward in alignment with Amy's hand on the small of my back.

“Do you prefer it fast, faggot, or slow?” she murmurs her question, her eyes searching mine in earnest. I'm not just some meaningless slut, not to Amy. It seems she wants me to authentically enjoy it, wants me to love having her pounding me.

“Hard, I think, but, slow? I don't know,” I answer truthfully, and Amy nods. She draws out slow, grinding herself along my prostate in the process, until she's almost out. Then she drives in slow, but I can feel all of the muscles in her arms, thighs.

She pushes in until her balls rest against my perineum, until my hips are pinned against her bed by her force. Her eyes fix themselves on mine, like two rings of polished cocobolo wood, focused on two more. My cheeks slowly turn to warm pink.

“Want me to go faster?” she asks, instead of making a big deal of my blush, but it's impossible for her to not have noticed. Appreciative of the lack of fuss, I nod. Her hips sway faster, drawing her cock out of me, as slowly as she slid it in, to start.

Then her hips sway forward, the faintest hint of acceleration as she pushes in, until her balls sway against my ass. Amy's lips brush the nape of my neck as she pulls my hair, and she kisses softly. Her fingers tighten, making me whine in pain.

“Take it, you little slut!” Amy purrs the words against my neck, kissing delicately, before lifting her head away, her long hair swaying, swept over all to one side. Her fingers in my hair yank hard, enough to make me yelp and my spine arch.

Then she disentangles them, sliding one hand down to my shoulder, the other up to the other one. Her fingers curl and she grips my shoulders, pulling her hips back, then driving in. She's accelerating, but at a practically imperceptible pace.

“Amy ... !” I whimper needfully, as she grinds across my prostate, teasing me with how slowly she's increasing in speed. My spine arches and twists faintly, as I press my palms against her mattress and look over my shoulder for eye contact.

“Yes, slut?” she answers archly, her lips cocked to one side in a smug smirk. Amy knows exactly what she's doing right now, proof positive I'm definitely not the first bitch she's fucked. Albeit, maybe I'm the one she's been working toward.

“You can go faster, and harder,” I moan, keeping my voice soft, “You ... you know. If ... if you want.” Amy's hands drag down my back, scratching hard all the way down to my hipbone. I arch and gasp, quivering in pleasure and pain, at it.

“Ohh, it's about what I want, is it?” Amy replies, sneering at me mischievously, maintaining her eye contact as she lets her fingers curl on my hips. She leans down, even as her hips draw back, and then drive in again, bringing her mouth closer.

“What if I want to slow down, instead, take you a little easier?” she murmurs into my ear, questioning, “What if I like this view, of you, a little whore, tormented, trembling under me?” My eyes flutter, and I can feel her slowing as she speaks.

“Please go faster,” I murmur softly, “please go harder.” Her fingers cup my hips with feather-light tenderness, and she smirks as me, brushing her palms up my back, then back down again. This time she doesn't even bother to scratch me.

“Beg, faggot,” she commands, simply. I've never been good at begging, which means I'm probably fucked, and not in the way that I want to be. My eyes flutter at her, maintaining eye contact over my shoulder, as she snickers at me wickedly.