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« Last post by Nicole on Today at 05:15:54 AM »
Your panic is unmistakable now. I feel it in the way your body tightens beneath mine, in the rhythm of your breath as my weight settles and refuses to move. The floor is cold against my knees, solid and grounding, and I widen my base without thinking - hips low, legs tight, anchoring you in place.
This is the moment I recognize every time.
The moment the noise drops away and everything becomes simple.
I’ve always loved this part, not the hurting, not the spectacle, but the clarity. The honesty of it. When there’s no story left to tell yourself, no excuse to hide behind. Just pressure and will and the truth of who gives way first.
I feel you try to buck again. It goes nowhere.
I sink heavier, tightening my legs around yours, threading them deep and slowly spreading your legs apart so you can’t move. Each frustrated movement dies under me, smaller than the last. I don’t rush it. I don’t need to. Just moving you slowly, steadily toward the ultimate humiliation.
My chest presses into yours as I settle lower, the contact unavoidable now. I register the solid resistance of your body beneath me as something in the way that has to be controlled. Every breath you take lifts against me, shallow and panicked, and I stay heavy through it.
I slide my forearm back across your throat, just firm enough to keep your head pinned and turned, to make you stay exactly where you are. Your hands come up, clawing, unfocused now.
I strike again.
Short elbows. Precise. Deliberate.
I drive them into your ribs, your shoulder, wherever you open when you try to defend herself. I feel you recoil beneath me, feel your body folding inward, shrinking away from the pressure.
And then I look at your face.
Your eyes are wide now, glassy with effort and fear, darting for space that isn’t there. The confidence you walked in with is gone, stripped away by inches, by weight, by inevitability. This is the version of you I always knew was there underneath the anger and the speed.
This is why I love this.
Not because I’m stronger.
Because here, right here, nothing lies. I lean in closer, close enough to feel the heat of your skin, to hear the strained pull of her breath against my steady one. My arm tightens again, containing you, holding you exactly where you do not want to be.
I don’t shout. I don’t need to.
“This is what happens,” I say quietly, “when there’s nowhere left to run.”
You’re still conscious. Still hurting. Still fighting in the small ways you have left.
But the fight belongs to me now.
I feel it settle in my chest, the same calm I always do when effort turns into control, when resistance turns into inevitability. This is the part of myself I keep hidden from the rest of my life, the part that only wakes up in moments, in nights, like this.
I press my weight down harder and tighten my hold. If you want out of this, you’re going to have to give me something real…
I shift forward and rise just enough to slide my knees up, then settle squarely on you, my weight centered, now sitting and unavoidable on your belly and then sliding onto your chest and then your neck, my pussy now pressed firm against your chin. Looking down on you, my inner things alongside your head, squeezing tightly. Your breath catches under me, short and shallow now. I take your wrists and stretch your arms further above your head, pinning them flat to the floor. Every time you strain, I answer by dropping my weight harder, pressing you back down.
I lean in so you can’t look away.
Your eyes are wide, glassy with effort and fear, darting for an escape that isn’t there. The confidence you walked in with is gone, stripped away by inches, by weight, by inevitability.I am controlling every move you make…leaning down, I whisper, “this is the last moment you get to choose how this ends…tell me to stop….beg me to stop…”
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