He eases himself into her, rock-hard and painful in the need to own her, possess her. He takes pride as he elicits each mewl, each moan, and adds it to the vault of his memories and the trophy cabinet of his ego.
But she's much more than a conquest, he muses, as he fucks her passionately on the spread of pooling bedsheets. She's his, and his alone, and his straining cock is a lesson to remind her each time she forges, each time she laughs in another man's company.
Of course, he never tells her that it's her re-education. She's too lost in the sensation of him being inside her to care, and actions always speak louder than words. Actions of her screaming form arched toward him, and her legs wrapped clingingly around his waist, and her nails raking down his back, and of how desperately she clenches around him, because he just feels "too good".
And he loves dominating her. Loves toying with her independence, and allows her to live in the illusion of her having it. But subconsciously, deep down, he knows she wants to be controlled by him. It's why she strings each poor boy up like a line of washing and parades them for him to see. It's a bait he can never resist, as he locks her wrists into place above her head and proceeds to have his wicked way with her.
He knows she loves it.
And he loves her.