The Scriptwriter

You walk in the door and I already know the script before it ever plays out. 
I know, because I am the scriptwriter.

Dominant to my core, I stopped fighting this a long time ago and only accepting people in my world who’d embrace it; who want to submit, not force me to be the one ceding ground.

The very notion that your desire to please me is not even an afterthought. It’s not a pre-thought; it’s not a thought at all. This may sound rude or uncaring, but I am who I am, and we are doing things my way. That is just the way it is going to be.

We — will always do things my way

I know the script…I always know the script…because I write the script every, single, time. And you will love my narrative as it plays out.

I’ll kiss you like a Billy Joel song, soaking you as my hand encases your neck and I shove you into the wall and my lungs play the chorus like a drumbeat, feeding life into us as we breathe heavily. Your hair yanked from the back while my lips never leave yours. Your tongue is sucked with an angry lust as new thoughts are circulating in my mind, reminding me that your pussy is quickly getting wetter and wetter and my cock is getting harder and harder.
Our screenplay is always perfectly executed because your playwright never has to wonder what is next. I am entering Domspace now as I kiss you, completely in control and focused, having memorized every line and never having ever read a draft.

My hand slides down to find the meat of your pussy so that I can grip it, squeeze it, claim it, and make you fucking remember that you are about to be fucked — hard and rough — by a real man.

Your warmth and wetness are like passing Go on the Monopoly board, signaling to me that I am winning this game now, and whatever I am doing, I am doing it right. Your clit is in circles now and your knees keep losing strength as I watch you dance for me each time I bring you to the edge and shudder, shivering like I left the window open.

This moment is when I begin to break you down.

Tossed onto the bed as your black yoga pants hit the floor and drop to my knees knowing soon you will think differently of the world around you. My mouth and tongue start to make your clit my strings on your wrists, forcing you to dance how I want you to dance for me as you cum over and over and over, and just when you think I might fill you with my cock, you remember I am that same motherfucker who knows where your G spot, A spot, and O spot are.

I reach inside you at will. I never let up on your clit and you dance for yet again. Squirming and writhing, I gaze up to see a woman completely void of the notions of space and time, lost in another world, so I reach my free hand out, find that feminine neck again, and squeeze.

Maintaining is the name of the game now — keep at it as long as I can stand it. “Stay with it,” I repeat to myself. “Keep going until you’ve broken her,” I think.
More orgasms flood you and I am beginning to need for your wetness wrapped around my cock now.

Mounting you with raw devotion to pull more cum cycles from your body through my cock, my hand never leaves your graceful neck and I fill you with the hardness that I’ve felt pressing into my Levi’s for what seems like an eternity now. Since the moment I first kissed you with your back against the wall

You feel like heaven and beat the deepest parts of you and your moans of pleasure feed me more and more. Over and over and over I’d stay inside you forever if I could.

But I can’t, so I flood your now sore kitty with my seed and let my cock go flaccid inside you, imagining what it must look like as my cum spills out of you, over your rosebud, and onto the comforter I have no intention of cleaning.

I collapse into you, kiss you like I mean it, and remind you that I fucking love you.

My script was never in question. I knew exactly how it would play out.

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