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Making it Real

They had been there previously in a lesson and she had lost comprehensively at the real-life simulation. It was time for a rematch.

Locked in the room with him forcing her back against the wall and ripping at her clothes, she is horribly aware that this is not a drill.

Last time, she had lay down and allowed him to assume his mount. Now, she is taken down to the hard laminate floor unceremoniously, his legs straddling her body, hands around her throat, choking the life out of her as she scrabbles at his wrists and arms, trying frantically to reach his face, his eyes. Panic and confusion interfering with her thought processes so that the memory of even the most practiced of escapes eludes her.

Just like before, every time she bucks her hips, she forces his weight forward into his hands, further cutting off the blood and air to her brain. With the soft, velvet darkness approaching, perforce her struggles quieten. Sensing the lack of fight, he relaxes his grip slightly, just enough to bring her back as he alters his position and moves into her guard. His legs between hers.

She remembers how it was before and notices the difference. Tonight, there are no other couples laughing and squealing, pretending to engage in the same fruitless quest for the reality of dominance or escape. That day there was a pact between one pairing. An agreement to keep the force as realistic as possible within the controlled environment of the self-defence class. The consequent admonishment of the teacher that, with her unsuccessful efforts, she had just become a statistic had been rather alarming.

This time there are no rules. Just a man reaching under her skirt and dragging at her thong before fumbling for his zipper. Focussing his attention on readying himself, he momentarily takes his eye off the ball. She has used the intervening years wisely and learned well. The slightest decrease in pressure is enough. Intertwining her arms around his and kicking down with her foot against his knee, she twists violently knocking him offbalance. It is not quite enough so she slams her foot down against the ankle, shrimping and escaping out from under him.

But she is not quick enough to escape. From the ground, he lassoos her with his calves and she lands awkwardly, the roles reversed so that she is on her knees between his legs. Ripping at his shirt and plunging one hand through the luxurious dark hair on his chest, gripping hold and smashing her other palm heel into his throat. His legs lift and tighten around her waist, squeezing her ribs painfully and her instincts take over. Elbows forcing backwards into the two delicate spots on his inner thighs, she hears him exhale sharply and swear. But he releases the pressure enough to force herself up and out. Hampered by her trailing underwear, her knee drops forcibly onto his thigh as she scrambles out and over, laughing inwardly as he yelps, before landing her entire bodyweight across his chest, elbowing him in the throat and attempting to control his arm.

Before she knows what is happening, his other hand is between her legs. Like a guided missile it seeks out its target and locks on until she finds herself lying across him, holding convulsively to his forearm, all thoughts of the wristlock forgotten as her vocal chords involuntarily signal his successful gambit. His triumphant whisper of ‘I told you!’ is accompanied by the trickle of warm liquid running down her inner thigh.

The loss of concentration is punished and she is flipped onto her back again. Knees up, she fends him off, once, twice and, on the third time is subdued. One hand maintains contact with her throat as the weight of his landing body forces the air out of her. His knees forcing hers apart whilst the other hand pulls at the remaining clothing between them. Forcing his way into her.

No more the silken seduction of a four-year courtship or the preparatory skirmishes of frantic foreplay, just a hard cock plunging deep inside her as he holds her down and she submits. The no-frills end of a long, tortuous, twisting battle of will they, won’t they.

Crescendo after crescendo of violent pounding in search of some sort of completion culminating in an abrupt denouement when the doorhandle rattles and his wife’s voice shouts:

‘*****, are you in there?’

Originally posted 2008-12-30 04:38:00. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

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