This piece, written for the Kink of the Week prompt; Brutalism/concrete, turned into a collaborative work. I sent my story to @domsigns to edit, when he sent it back it came with some added musings, which I decided to keep, so the words in italic font are the thoughts my story inspired in him
I want you to take me somewhere dark and gritty, where the walls are damp and cold and the floor is dirty and unforgiving. I want it to smell like a place no one cares about, that unmistakable scent of urban decay where musty earthy smells combine with the acrid aroma that only man leaves behind. I want the walls to hear my cries and moans and reject them in echoing waves feeding them back to me; forcing me to hear myself.
I know just the place. We discovered it on one of our walks, I could almost see the wheels turning in your head, now I just need to get ready, arrangements to make, people to call.
There are shadows, dark and deep that I cannot see into no matter how hard I search them. The light is enough that I can see you and the walls and the floor around me but those shadows they are full of the unknown. What do they hide? Maybe nothing, maybe someone, maybe something? The shadows feel like eyes watching me, unknown spectators come to witness my debasement. You talk to the shadows, musing aloud to them about your possible enjoyment of what they are witnessing. I listen for their reply but all I can hear is me and you. Is there really someone else there?
The beauty is that you will never know for sure, but I will. I know how just much the thought of being watched, of others seeing you, talking about you, makes you wet.
The rope binding my wrists is coarse. You have tied it in such a way that no matter how I twist and turn it refuses to budge. Not that there is any hope of me getting away as the rope is securely fastened to the hook in the ceiling above my head. My arms are not quite stretched taut, I can still drop my shoulders but it is only a small mercy on your part.
I find it adorable that you think you will be shown any mercy.
I can’t decide if you tear and cut my clothes from me or if it would be worse (better) if you slowly, lovingly, stripped me naked. Taking my clothes, one item at the time and carefully folding them in a neat pile just at the edge of the darkness. There would be something deliciously menacing about the control that would take, considered and deliberate, yes, like you knew you had all the time in the world to play with your toy.
I have been planning for this and sharpening my knives all week, how you will tremble as the knife passes between your clothing and your body, the cold steel against your tender flesh. It will be slow and cruel never giving you a moment’s respite.
You circle me, assessing your handy work, your eyes caressing my flesh with the cool thoughtful gaze. You reach out and take one of my nipples in between your thumb and forefinger, gently plucking at it like it is a delicate soft fruit. I hold my breath, bracing myself for that moment when you dig your nails in or twist it tightly but it never comes. I am relieved/disappointed. You continue your slow walk around me, a hand caresses my bottom, and a finger brushes a strand of hair from my face. Loving and gentle, it is strangely, thrillingly out of context in this environment that suggests anything but soft and gentle.
There is nothing quite so appealing to me as the deliberateness of it all, the intent conveyed with every movement, and every touch but it is the subversion of your expectations that will add the greatest spice to our little tête a tête
The flogger is in your hand, this is my fantasy so where it comes from, how it got there are details I am unconcerned with. It hangs loosely by your side; you look so comfortable with it, like it is the most natural thing in the world to you. The look in your eye makes me shiver and I spin on the spot, turning to face you. You laugh
“Come on now, Slut, that won’t stop me, you will only make it harder on yourself”
The drip, drip, of water leaking in and pooling on the concrete floor fills the silence as we appraise one another. I blink first. A small smile forms on your lips. I turn my back to you.
The words I utter will not just be for me, but also for the shadows that crowd around us, the visions in your mind of men, watching, growing hard, wondering if they might get to have just a tiny taste of the woman displayed before them.
I want you to flog me until my skin is red raw, covered in welts and raised lumps where the ends have whipped round and bitten into my flesh. I want to hear my cries fill the shadows, I want to dance and twist, and beg and plead and growl and swear and fight and rage and when you are done and I am hanging, breathless and bruised by my wrists I want to look up and see the sweat running down your brow and watch as your roll your shoulder in an attempt to loosen the muscles that has gone tight in response to the repeated movement. I want to know that you worked for my pain.
The strokes of the flogger will fall on you, over and over like a ceaseless rain, washing away all of your resistance until you fall into that place, that place of acceptance where you know just what you are, an empty vessel waiting to be refilled. This is never an easy journey for you. Always you resist and fight, and make me take that from you. The sound of my breathing growing heavy with each swing is part of what helps you free yourself from everything but this moment and the next blow that will transform all thought and feeling into nothing but a blur.
I want you to kiss me as you untie my wrists and don’t bother to catch me as I crumple into a pile at your feet, after all, I am yet again, exactly where you want me. You casually unzip your fly and draw your cock out in that way that men do, one complete movement that is utterly second nature to them. You reach down and clasp my chin in your hand, tilting my head up so that my mouth meets the head your cock. You rub it slowly across my lips as if you are applying lipstick to me, painting me with you and then you are inside me, filling my mouth with as much of you as you can, holding my head firmly in place, ignoring my fluid filled cries, you rock slowly in and out, taking your pleasure just as you like it.
This is the moment when I will know you are mine, when I have marked you and readied you to be used as we both need and desire.
You are still fully clothed, a powerful contrast to my nakedness. I have some fight left in my but in comparison to you it is nothing. You pin my arms down and use your legs to crudely spread mine, forcing your way in between them, pressing down with your body weight you gather my wrists into one hand and with the other you reach down to my cunt and use your fingers to splay me open.
“I can smell your cunt.” you growl into me ear
“You smell like an invitation to my cock, you smell like you want it, like you are begging for it. Fight all your want but your smell calls you a liar”
The concrete is cold and rough against my back; I can feel the grimy dirt digging into my flesh as you hold me down beneath you and fuck me. Brutal, hard, each trust dragging my hot bruised flesh against the unforgiving floor, dirt smears my face and clings to my hair; I can even feel sharp little bits of grit working their way into the crack of my arse and the folds of my cunt.
Dirty, filthy, slutty, fuckhole….that is what I want.
And that, my dear, is what you shall get…
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