The most frustrating thing of all, is that I don't even know if I actually want him or if it’s the fantasy he’s become in my head. 

He's arrogant, full of himself, cunty, and maybe it's all a front, maybe he's as insecure as the rest of us, but somehow I doubt it. He's hot and he's good and he knows it. 

I hate that I want him so much. Hate that every time I see him my stomach goes, a twisting anxiousness that can last for hours. I hate that he's got me on a thread, and that I know he'd love that. That the sadist in him would adore that he's got me so fucked up without even having to say a word, possibly even more so than if he did. 

If he knew, and he probably does, I suspect he'd laugh, tell me what a pathetic little slut I am and I'd like it. Because it's true. I am pathetic and I am a slut. I want his approval, desperately. I want him to want me in whatever way he desires, whatever way he needs. If he wants to tie me up and tease my pussy until I cry I'd let him. If he wants to bend me over a desk and spank my ass until it’s red raw, glowing and bruised, I'd let him. 

I want his large hand around my throat. I want it pressing me into the mattress as he fucks my hungry cunt with a dildo that's just on the wrong (but oh so right) side of big. I want him to slap my thighs and tell me to keep still as I strain against the ropes around my wrists and ankles, to keep quiet, to take what he's giving to me. And when I do what he asks, I want him to smile, a wolfish smile that probably has tenderness somewhere but mainly lets me know he's not done yet, and then tell me how well I'm doing, what a good good girl I am. 

I want him to make me lose all control of my body, to make it tremble and shudder, to make my mind go completely blank. I don't want to have a single thought when I'm with him, I just want to be used and teased and humiliated. I want to be pushed to the edge over and over again then overstimulated until I cry out. I want him to taunt me for being so needy and desperate. For pursuing him with nothing short of desperation. 

'Pathetic little slut,' he'll tell me again, 'so eager to debase yourself for me.' 

I want to be able to answer him, even if my throat is dry from panting and gasping, with “Yes, Sir,” or, if the moment feels right, "Yes, Daddy.” I know, hope, there’ll be a dismissive puff of air, barely audible, but enough to let me know that I’m acting exactly as he expected, like the grovelling, needy whore I am. 

“Good girl,” he’ll say again, an edge to his voice, perhaps, if I listen carefully enough, a suggestion he’s impressed, that he never thought I’d be able to do this. Because I’m too inexperienced, too green, too eager, too desperate, that I’ve got too much of a soft underbelly. 

But instead, I’ll be there and I’ll be in pain but a glorious pain, one that zips around my body in shocks and waves, and makes me feel alive and tethered. A pain that allows me to know my body more intimately than at any other time. From the sting on the soles of my feet and the burn on my ass caused by a beautifully agonising impact session, to the delicious, sodden ache between my legs where my cunt is flowering open for him, to the sweat on my brow and the lactic acid flooding all my twisted and unused muscles. 

I want that to not be the end though. I want him to untie me and force me from my prone position. To kiss the red marks from the ropes and push my hair back from my sweaty brow and tell me we’re not done yet, to get on my knees and put my hands behind my back. And I will, forcing my limbs that feel like they’re full of liquid to work and get onto the floor, pain in my knees as my weight presses me into the rough carpet in the cheap hotel room. 

I want the large hand I’ve been dreaming about to cup my head, to tilt it towards his gaze so I’m looking up the full length of his solid and imposing body, his cock hard, wet and straining just inches from me. I want to know what’s coming but still feel surprised when the thick head brushes against my lips when “That’s it, well done” purrs from above me, loosening my jaw and letting him slide in unencumbered. 

I want it to be too much, to choke and splutter as he holds my hair up in a loose ponytail while he thrusts back and forth. I want him to tell me how beautiful I look with tears in my eyes and his dick deep in my mouth, tip bashing the back of my throat. I want to know my make-up is sliding off my face from the sweat and tears. I want to taste him and devour him and give him all the pleasure he deserves. I want him to take, take, take. To leave me ruined and helpless. 

Then I want him to scoop me up, to hold me close, the sweat sheen warmth of our bodies against each other. I want his palm, wide and grounding, to hold my head and stroke my hair. His lips, so full and tempting, to press on mine, morphing into a deep, soft kiss that makes me whimper as his hand cups my jaw, thumb stroking my cheekbone, the other hand splayed and possessive on the small of my back. I want to nuzzle into the crook of his neck, to concentrate on the ache of my limbs and tiny little aftershocks of too many, but not enough orgasms, as he makes me drink a cold, bitingly sweet, painfully fizzy full fat coke. I want him to kiss the top of my head and tell me how good I’ve been, how amazing I was and how proud of me he is for taking everything he gave me, that he knew I’d do this well, that I was made for this. 

I want him and I want it all and I hate it.