I can’t decide. I don’t know if I should wrap you in my arms. Plant gentle pecks on your pretty face. Nuzzle you into my neck. Or if I should hold you against me hard, gagged, hooded, clamped as I bruise your insides with my claim to my fuck-toy rag-doll with needy wet holes that you are.
I guess I’ll do both.
We will start slow. Your collaring for the night will be an act of love. I will administer it with a feathery touch and a warm whisper.
We will then find our rhythm. My debauchery of you will be an act of love too, dearest. I shall administer it with reverent vigor.
I will start with your lips. And I will know you will fail. You will enunciate. Force words upon your tongue that stir your loins. You are mine, are you not? Say it. Your heart thumps achingly at the timbre of my voice in heat, no? Say it. That pang of hunger in your belly will only be washed down with my seed, yes? Say. It.