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As he paws my butt cheeks, kneading my flesh way more roughly than during the massage he treated me to earlier, my hips try to lift off the table, seemingly trying to seek more of his ministrations. I hear him growl again, and the sound sends a shiver down my spine that ends with me clenching around him.
“Fuck, little doll. You like being manhandled,” he rumbles behind me, not a question, an observation. One that surprises the both of us. Because I really, really do.
“Yes, Master,” I exhale, my heart starting to race with anticipation, because something within me senses I’m about to get exactly what I asked for, and then some.
And then it happens.
With a brutally tight grip on each of my hips, I feel Seven pull all the way out of me, and then he thrust back inside so swift and hard it feels like my brain sloshes inside my skull.
He does it again.
This time, I feel my teeth rattle, and my eyes roll back in my head.
Again.
And again.
And again.
And by the sixth thrust, I’m back to being that fully surrendered fuck toy, just taking everything he’s willing to give, each stroke pulling me deeper and deeper into an ocean of mind-numbing bliss.
I could drown in it, and I would die happily.
And then I’m aware he’s pistoning his hips faster than I’ve ever felt before, his right hand leaving my hip to grip the back of my neck, then moves to my shoulder to give him even more leverage to fuck me like a savage beast. Like he’s breeding me. And I freaking love it.
“Color?” floats around in my head, and I don’t know if it’s a distant memory of some other time he asked me to check in, or if it’s been freshly spoken in my ear. Either way, my response leaves me in a sigh.
“Green, Master.”
If he hadn’t just asked me, then the words would only serve to urge him on. And that is fine by me.
Somewhere along this floating journey, a voice whispers that this must be subspace. The way people always described it before, it sounded much like dissociation, but my husband had assured me it was a much more positive experience than that.
I had dissociated during my assault five years ago, and while you’d think your mind shutting down to protect itself during a traumatic event would be a good feeling, it was actually scary and traumatizing in itself, since at the time, it didn’t feel like I’d ever come out of it, not even when I was safely back in Seth’s arms.
This is nothing like that.
This is what movies make you think being drunk or high feels like before you ever try those things yourself and reality bursts your bubble.
This is like that one quick second between a happy dream and waking up, when you don’t quite know what’s real.
And as blissfully relaxed as it is, I also feel stronger and more powerful than I’ve ever felt before, like I’m invincible. Like no amount of pain could hurt me in this state. In fact, it’s almost as if the more pain I’m given, the deeper into this level of consciousness I’d go. And it occurs to me that this is probably what masochists are seeking whenever they play. Yes, they get off on the pain itself, but the pain leads to this. The delicious in-between. That same relief you get when you scratch a mosquito bite so hard you draw blood, and even though it hurts, you keep scratching, because the relief is worth the pain.
And then I’m coming. I’m orgasming, my pussy spasming and rippling around my Master’s relentless cock as he pounds into me. But it’s not the usual earth-shattering explosion that hits all at once after a build-up of stimulation. It’s completely different, like I’m living in that moment right between the detonation and the mushroom cloud, as if someone hit pause on the exact frame that only shows a cylinder of flames before there’s any smoke.
Or that moment after a scream but before your next inhale.
And I’m not coming out of it.
Yet unlike when I dissociated, the thought of staying like this isn’t scary. I don’t want to struggle against it or fight my way back to the surface of cognition. I could live here forever, with my Master fucking me into literal oblivion, my only purpose in life to be the vessel he takes his pleasure from.
“Color?”
“Fuuck…”
“…fill you up until you can taste it…”
“…marks on you, don’t you?”
