"I am not," she growled," going to put up with this."
Is it wrong that her rage and her fury were music to my ears? Is it wrong that I was already dropping to my knees, obediently staring at her glorious leather boots, and waiting for my punishment? Is it wrong that we both knew that I deliberately broke a rule - a small infraction of her clear instructions - to invite her to serenade me with her displeasure?
Is it wrong that I was aroused, my cock swelling in my leather trousers, and in need of release?
As her hand struck my cheek, she deliberately tucked her nails and left me weeping crimson tears. I'm twice her size, walked out of Afghanistan with a pack and kit heavier than her, and yet she can wound me in ways that make it hard for me to breathe. "I expect so much better," she hissed. Her hand drew back, and I flinched. Her cruel laughter accompanied the next blow. "So much better..."
Our first date had been coffee on campus. I had rotated back, needed work, but my only option was the loading docks until I finished a degree. First day, running late because I didn't know where I needed to be, and she was the furious angel who grabbed me by the shoulder and literally shoved me down the hallway in the right direction to my class. I've been frog marched with more delicacy.
Every other step, she punched my kidneys to make me hustle. When we walked in and the professor looked up at us, she just snarled, "The big ape got in my way." And that was that. Coffee after class, my treat, and I was hers. She walked right by the self-service counter while telling me to get her two brown sugar packets. She was impatiently tapping her fingers against the table while waiting for me by the time I pushed through the crowd and got to where she was sitting.
"Yes, Ma'am," I answered. Years of service had instilled automated deference, but it feels real with her. "I am aware that I am inadequate and flawed." I'd also learned it was best to confess to my weaknesses.
Slender fingers took hold of my chin, forced me to look up, and her smoldering rage made my heart roar within my chest. "This was intentional. And it's not the first time." Adrenaline spiking, I was trembling as she bent down to look me in the eyes. "I've had enough of this."
I was shitting my pants. She was going to break up with me over my stupid attempts to get her attention. I was so fucked. "Yes, Ma'am... Sorry, Ma'am... It won't happen again, Ma'am." I was stammering, battery acid in my mouth, and I couldn't figure out how to fix this. "I..."
"Shut up. Take off your clothes. Fuck me like you mean it. And stop deliberately adding one or two of my white undershirts to my dark clothes when you wash them in the laundry." She grinned and gave me a playful smack. "You, dumb shit ape."
You know that feeling you get, when you should be totally relieved but you're still panicking, so you're queasy and all out of whack on the inside? Yeah. That one. "Yes, Ma'am," I was swallowing my words because I felt like I might be sick. "Right now?" Totally brain scrambled. Who asks for a personal invitation to sex after being told it's on?
Shaking her head, her claws raked through my flat top as she stood up. "Jesus fucking christ... what do you men do when you're unsupervised?" My eyes dared to follow the long line of her knee high leather boots, traverse the delicate tanned skin of her toned thigh, and fell into the mesmerizing cradle of her lace panties. "You see something you want, soldier? Better show me what you've got."
I can take an order when I hear one. Apparently sometimes it just takes repetition for me to get my act in gear. I got to my feet - and she really is only chin height when standing in front of me - and popped my waist button before pushing down my zipper like I was doing a hydration drill. No hesitation. In the hand, ready for action, and mostly hard to show I was proud to be assigned to the mission.
That was the right answer. "Come here, you," she growled happily and wrapped her fingers around mine. "I've needed to sink my teeth into something all morning."
Oh, shit. I forgot to mention something. She's a biter.
