You
Let Me Violate You
Barney's nervous
tonight. His eyes dart around the bar and he tears his napkin into
shreds as he talks to you. You tell him, firmly and clearly, that
your husband will make sure he dies a painful death if he doesn't do
exactly as you say. You tell him that Marshall's fists will pummel
his pretty face into the sidewalk while you watch.
Barney follows you to a hotel room, the same one you always use because it's a five minute walk from the bar. You like to watch him walk the day after you've had a heavy session.
(Marshall knows about this, of course. You tell your husband everything. He even watches the videos - the footage shot from a hidden camera in the closet)
You like to watch Barney's awkward, stumbling walk, you like to watch him wince in pain every time he forgets himself and tries to sit down.
At the hotel, you tell him to strip. You take your time peeling off your own sweater and you drag out the act of unzipping your skirt. You love the way that even the weight of your slight body on his stomach makes him whimper. You inspect the bruises from yesterday.
When you tie his ankles, remove the jar of sticky lube from your bag, and take out the ten-inch piece of rubber you've had made as an exact replica of your husband's cock... you expect some kind of protest. When you push the gargantuan, bulbous head of the dildo into his mouth, your expect some kind of protest. You expect the word "No" to slip out.
You see the fear in his eyes.
You expect him to shake his head. You expect him to stop you, to plead with you.
You've expected it for years now, since when you first started hitting him and punching him and using him to exorcise the frustration you felt when you returned from San Francisco.
You've expected him to resist, as your games become more and more extreme - as you begin to damage him just to get a reaction.
You don't ask what happened to this man to make him crave what you do to him. You don't probe the darkness that must lie in Barney's childhood, in his own misuse of women as an adult. You don't consider the probable cause because you don't want to know.
You tell him to pleasure you with the dildo, and when you don't come quickly enough, you straddle his face and order him to eat you out. When you've taken your fill of him, you ram the dildo right up his ass and fuck him with it.
He cries then, huge fat tears welling up in those big blue eyes and making twin tracks down his face.
It only makes you fuck him harder. When you pull out the dildo, it's bloody.
Barney's blue eyes are wide and he goes very still. He knows he's displeased you. All day your ears have been filled with shrill shrieks of 5-year-olds and it's given you a dull, throbbing headache in the base of your skull.
Barney's dick looks very inviting suddenly. You have these rules: You never let him come, you never let him touch you with his hands, you never let him inside you, except for his tongue.
But his dick is hard and strong and the head is weeping, tears of pre-come, echoing the tears in his eyes. You sink down on top of it, feel the pulse inside you. He's smaller than Marshall and it's easier to accommodate him. In fact, it's nice - it's less painful when you begin to move your hips, pushing him deeper. You don't look at him, don't want to see the expression on his face. He's moving inside you and the angle is just right and he's there, there, so near, yeah, there-
You come quickly...
You didn't think you needed to tell him the rules.
You didn't think to put on a condom.
You come...
And so does he.
