The faint red marks on my skin have all but vanished, ghosts of Carol's dominance that haunt my dreams and fuel my training sessions at the dojo.
I've pushed myself harder, my body a temple of sweat and resolve, but tonight, as I linger in our flat instead of heading out, my mind wanders to him—my boyfriend, the silent spectator to my humiliations, his arousal a secret we've barely touched upon in words, yet it pulses between us like an unspoken promise.
I'm lounging on the couch in a simple crop top and shorts, the fabric soft against my skin, but my inner goddess is restless, her form more vivid than ever in my fantasies, a siren draped in shadows, her eyes gleaming with amplified hunger. Oh, Amy, she purrs, her voice a silken thread weaving through my thoughts, think of him, watching you stripped and slapped, his body betraying him with that hardening desire. Imagine confronting it, teasing it out—his guilt mingling with lust, your vulnerability his ultimate aphrodisiac.
Fantasize about his hands on you after, replaying the scenes, his arousal a fire we stoke together.
He's in the kitchen, pouring a glass of wine, his broad shoulders tense under his shirt, his movements deliberate as if he's avoiding my gaze. We've danced around the topic since that night, his apologies laced with shame, but I've seen the way his eyes darken when memories surface, the way his breath quickens at the mere mention of Carol.
My inner goddess amplifies the fantasy, painting it in lush detail: Picture him confessing, his voice rough as he describes the thrill of seeing you dominated, your perfect body writhing, exposed—imagine his cock stirring at the thought, hard and insistent, guilt warring with need as you encourage him, turning his arousal into our shared ecstasy. The thought sends a shiver through me, arousal pooling low, fear of vulnerability mixing with the intoxicating pull of exploration.
I set my book aside, my heart pounding as I call out softly, "Babe, come sit with me." He turns, his eyes meeting mine, a flicker of something raw passing over his face—guilt, perhaps, or that deeper heat I've glimpsed in the hallway shadows. He joins me on the couch, handing me a glass, his thigh brushing mine, the contact electric. My inner goddess moans, Feel his warmth, the tension—fantasize about straddling him now, whispering about the fights, describing how Carol stripped you, how you felt his eyes on your naked skin, his arousal growing with every word.
We sip in silence for a moment, the air thick with unspoken words, until I can't hold back. "I've been thinking about... that night, and the others," I say, my voice low, intimate, watching his reaction. His cheeks flush slightly, his fingers tightening around his glass, and I see it—the subtle shift in his posture, the way his eyes dart to my lips, then lower, tracing the curve of my breasts under the tank. My inner goddess is in rapture, her fantasy unfolding: He's remembering, his mind replaying the slaps, the stripping—imagine his cock twitching, hardening as guilt floods him, but the desire wins, his hands itching to touch you, to recreate the vulnerability.
"Yeah?" he replies, his voice hoarse, setting his glass down. "What about them?" There's a defensiveness there, but beneath it, curiosity, a hunger that mirrors my own. I lean closer, my hand resting on his knee, feeling the muscle tense under my touch. "About you," I whisper, my breath warm against his ear. "Watching me get... handled like that. Slapped, dragged by the hair, stripped naked in front of you. I saw it in your eyes—the way it affected you." My inner goddess amplifies the moment, Tease him, draw it out—fantasize about his confession spilling like wine, describing how your cries made him throb, how your exposed body, marked and helpless, ignited a primal need he can't deny.
He swallows hard, his hand covering mine, but he doesn't pull away. "Amy, I... I'm sorry. It was wrong. I hated seeing you hurt, but..." He trails off, his gaze dropping, and I feel the heat radiating from him, the telltale bulge forming in his pants. My inner goddess purrs triumphantly, There it is, the arousal stirring—imagine grinding against it, whispering how Carol's taunts about you being a slutty little doll made him harder, the humiliation fueling his lust like gasoline on fire. "But it turned you on," I finish for him, my voice gentle but probing, my fingers tracing higher on his thigh. "Admit it. Seeing me like that—bottomless, kicking, my dress hiked up, my breasts bouncing with every slap. It made you hard, didn't it?"
His breath catches, his eyes meeting mine, dark with conflict and desire. "God, yes," he admits, his voice rough, laced with shame. "It was twisted, but... yeah. You looked so fierce, even when she had you pinned, your body all exposed and fighting. The way your thighs parted in the struggle, your ass bare against the grass that first time—fuck, Amy, it drove me crazy. I felt guilty as hell, but I couldn't look away. My cock got so hard it hurt." My inner goddess is ecstatic, her fantasy amplified to vivid heights: Hear his words, feel their power—imagine him pulling you onto his lap now, his hardness pressing against your core as he recounts every detail, his hands roaming your body like Carol's did, but with love tangled in the dominance.
The confession hangs between us, electric, and I feel my own arousal spike, my nipples hardening against my tank, my shorts dampening. I shift closer, straddling his lap, feeling the evidence of his words pressing insistently against me. "Tell me more," I urge, my hands on his chest, feeling his heart race. "What part made you the hardest? When she yanked my skirt down, leaving me in just my panties? Or when she ripped my top off, my breasts fully out, nipples hard in the air?" My inner goddess moans deeply, Push him, amplify it—fantasize about him gripping your hips, grinding up into you as he describes the schoolgirl pin, Carol smothering you, your naked body squirming, his arousal peaking at your helplessness.
He groans, his hands settling on my waist, pulling me closer, his hips bucking slightly. "All of it," he breathes, his voice strained. "But... when she had you straddled, your legs kicking, bottomless and exposed—God, the way your pussy glistened, even in the dim light, like you were turned on too. And her taunts about me enjoying the show... it made me feel dirty, but yeah, it made me harder. Seeing you so vulnerable, my strong, beautiful Amy, reduced to that—slapped around, hair pulled, naked and at her mercy. I wanted to stop it, but part of me... didn't." His confession pours out, his arousal evident in the way he throbs beneath me, his fingers digging into my skin. My inner goddess is in a frenzy, her fantasy reaching a crescendo: Feel his hardness, his need—imagine riding him slowly as he admits the darkest parts, how your tears and cries made him pulse, the humiliation a shared kink that binds you tighter.
I rock against him, my own heat building, my inner goddess chanting, Yes, explore it fully—fantasize about recreating it, you play-fighting on the floor, him watching, then joining, his arousal exploding in a torrent of passion. "It turned me on too," I confess, my lips brushing his. "Knowing you were watching, getting hard from my humiliation. It made the fear... exciting." His eyes widen, desire overtaking guilt, and he kisses me fiercely, his hands sliding under my tank, cupping my breasts, thumbs teasing my nipples. We grind together, the conversation dissolving into moans, his arousal a tangible force that drives us.
Later, tangled in sheets, our bodies spent, he holds me close, his voice soft. "I love you, Amy. All of you—even the parts that scare me." My inner goddess sighs contentedly, her fantasies sated for now: This is just the beginning—his arousal, our shared secret, a flame we'll fan in the fights to come. As I drift off, the shadow of Carol looms, but now, with his desires laid bare, I'm ready for whatever comes next.
