Cataclysm

I love a good action movie. Pierce or Tommy Lee or Chris (take your pick, Hemsworth, Evans or Pratt) saving the known universe from any number of world changing events. Milla and Kate fighting evil.

External evil versus self-preservation  is taught and understood in fairy tales and action movies alike, but self sacrifice is saved for the purest-hearted and is only available when saving others.

But what if you don't want saving? Who defines evil?

A few weeks ago, I wrote that I didn't really dream of a job when I was growing up. That is true. but I did think about several service roles, including ones which would involve the sacrifice of a sex life for celibacy. Sacrificing self to become an acolyte.

I love the mythical world where these choices are stark and clear.

I'm still into self-sacrifice.

So to this week's Wicked Wednesday prompt.

Catastrophe

1 : a momentous event ranging from extreme misfortune to utter overthrow or ruin

2 : utter failure : fiasco the party was a catastrophe

3 a : a violent and sudden change in a feature of the earth

   b : a violent usually destructive natural event

4 : the final event of the dramatic action especially of a tragedy

Perhaps I've ended up more Cataclysm, than Catastrophe, but they have crossing definitions...

Lost in the seductive glow of my e-reader, the sudden burst of living room light burns my eyes.

“Upstairs. Now,” barks my man.

The flippant answer doesn’t make it to my mouth, retreats from this harsh, naked animal that is sometimes my husband. Unable to react as quickly as a switch, I mutter and take my time closing my book and darkening the lights as I climb the stairs behind him. With every action, the part of me that operates day to day is also shutting down and rising is the slut that answers to this part of him.

The slut and the wife battle as they pass. I don’t deserve anger for staying up and reading my book says the part of me that wonders if the children have uniform ready for school in the morning.  That isn’t what this is and you know it says the slut.

He closes the bedroom door with a gentle snick and slides the bolt home. Without words we start to methodically shed my clothes.

The battle is still unresolved as he pushes me down, knees hitting the waiting pillow. Stays that way as I open my mouth. As his fingers position my head. His musky cock, thick and dry, drags against my tongue and probes the roof of my mouth. Dabs the soft walls. Forces my focus to that small knot of action. Breath and gag and swallow.

Seconds left of the wife’s fight for control, trying to swallow and suck and lave, and then surrender. Trails of spit push from the corners of my mouth and hang from my jaw. Hair trapped by his large palms, glasses askew and eyes watering. Face fucked.

The slut takes it. Welcomes it.

The wife waits for waves of bitter, salty absolution that don’t come.

Moved from the floor to the bed, my blurred body is manhandled and draped over a stack of pillows. The wife doesn’t want this. Wants him to come in her mouth and let her sleep.

She hates the slither of rope. Wants to snarl at the matter of fact way he moves and shapes limbs from positions that are almost tolerable to one precariously unbalanced. Pulled apart, trussed like a joint being prepared for the oven. Ankles splayed from knees. No privacy in arousal, running as viscous streams, cooling tears of humiliation and want in equal measure.

The somnolent night is undisturbed. He doesn’t speak, preferring to listen to lips raw and swollen that scream truth than the lying mouth that would deny him even now. The useless, silent mouth, aching and empty and hungry.

Paralysed by the civil war, my arms lie loose against the black sheet, held motionless by something unfathomable that might be shame, might be pride. A heavy leather juggling ball is placed in the cradle of my left palm, weighted with significance. I curl my fingers to cage it but touch it as little as possible. The wife would throw it away. The slut squeeze it close. I accept it.

The first slap blooms from sound to sting. The second. I paddle into the white noise echoing through my nervous system as if dipping my toes into the lapping waves of an ocean. Let it wash away the need to count. To measure. To control. Waves taking my feet from beneath me. Tossing me with changes of rhythm and power. I want to sink and he pulls me back.  Spreads me open with controlling fingers, abraded skin tender. Stinging.

This has never been about what I want and always about what I need.

I need to be used.

Hips snap, plunging forwards with a wet slap into open, wet cunt, sensationless within the song of nerves clamouring for attention. Cheek pressed into cotton sheets is roughly scraped with every lunge despite the fingers yanking at my hair holding me bound to him. Arse in the air, hips improbably spread, the slide of knees halted only by screaming muscles, he pounds punishment into my flesh until I hear him. Until I listen.

Here I am. Unified and calm and dazed by storm, the small weighted ball my anchor.

Pulling back, the balm of cool air lasts seconds. Sharp cracks of palm shock my ears before the burn heats new fresh skin.

No hesitation. Four fingers in my quiescent passage, slick with welcome, he thrusts home in the same rhythm as he fucked and slapped. Relentless. Time passes unmarked. A twist, knuckles squeezing flesh against bone and his hand is fully seated. Buried. Watch strap grazing my lips and aching pressure on my cervix.

Stillness: the only disturbance his rasping breaths grating my ears.

My body is screaming but my brain is silent.

Everything fades to the squish of the lube. The rush of sickly sweet cherry. The slickness that somehow doesn’t disguise the callouses on his thumb as it demands entry.

My fingers don’t twitch as he pushes inside. The ball doesn’t move as he stretches me open. Thumb. Finger. Two thrust deep and twisting.

The gaping hole he has reduced me to. Waiting to be filled.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Breathing is the only control left. That, and the ball heavy in my palm.

His fingers flex deep inside, neither pain nor pleasure, just possession.

With a sharp, centering slice, I split under his relentless pressure and feel every ridge and valley as he inches forwards. The bouncing pattern of nudge and retreat, until his hand, slippery and cherry-scented, combs tear wet hair from my face and gathers it again in haphazardly cruel grip at the nape of my neck. Pulls. Distracts me for a fraction of a second and holds me there on the precipice.

Fucks me for his pleasure.

Stuffed with his hand.

Filled with his cock. 

Again and again and again. Breath huffing from slack mouths with every rutting drive.

The twist and drag and weight of his hand as he rakes his dick over his fingers, my body his glove as he wanks in my arse.

Nothing but him in my body and my mind.

Stutters to crescendo. A whisper of sound ground through clenched teeth. Heat. Maybe. If I were sure in the physical sensations. If I wasn’t forced apart by the furious pulse of flesh trapped between and around. Brought together by his ownership.

His sweat soaked body draped over mine. The wet gush as hand slides loose. Deflating cock slipping free. World re-framed. 

I am never more at peace than I am in that moment.