It never gets old, greeting him at his door. He smiles, brings me into the foyer, and embraces me after closing the door. His kiss is warm; I bump my head on the brim of his baseball cap. He's trimmed what I can only call a cleaned-up Van Buren beard and is wearing a faded concert shirt and relaxed blue jeans, his pretty bare feet on rare display. It's his day off, and he's decided to stay in for once. He takes my bag in one hand, and my arm in another. "Hungry?" he asks as he leads me through the living room.

"No, I ate on the plane," I reply, slightly bewildered. He's in a bit of a rush.

"Thirsty?"

"No."

We're climbing the stairs now. Boy, does he seem determined. "Tired?"

"I slept on the plane." I stop on the landing. "Are we late for something?"

He turns and faces me, places his free palm on my cheek, pushes at his lip ring with his tongue. "I'm sorry. It's just that I have something special planned, and I want to get started."

My eyes move from his face to the door to the master suite behind him, and back to his face. "Oh," I say with raised eyebrows and a slow nod. I flew straight here from Jakarta for—

"You know what we talked about last time?"

It takes me a second for my hazy traveler's mind to process what he said, but when I do, I grin. "Yeah."

Damn those green eyes of his. He smirks, and his hand slides down my neck and shoulder. "You're gonna get what you asked for."

I'm trying to maintain, but inside I'm a kid who found the Golden Ticket. "Alrighty, then." I take the last bit of initiative and move his hand under my jacket and place it on my butt. "Let's play."

"We'll use the traffic light system for your safeword." His tone's didactic. "Explain it to me so I know you understand."

I definitely understand, but I get what he's doing. He's done his homework. Bravo! "'Red' means 'stop completely', 'yellow' means 'pause', and 'green' means 'continue'."

"Good." He hands my bag back to me, squeezes my cheek. "I put what you're going to wear in the guest bedroom. Come to my room when you're dressed." I think I took too long to process, because he adds, "What are you waiting for? Get going." He smacks my butt with his open palm as a bit of a prelude, and I head over to the guest bedroom.

I see the two boxes and small bag on the bed and smile. I love that he has planned this whole scenario, and I'm eager to see what he conjured up. I'm also hoping he got the sizes right, at least for the—boots? The box is long enough, so I take a look.

"Oh, wow." It's the pair I Tweeted about months ago, the pair I was saving to get. Thigh-high, black leather, stiletto heel, distinctive red sole, and the right size.

I put the boots aside and open the other box. A lovely black lace bra and panty set, and my size, too. Either he takes mental notes while he's taking off my clothes, or he's checking the tags when I'm in the bathroom checking out his medicine cabinet. Probably the latter.

On to the bag. I take a look inside, see the kelly green t-shirt, and roll my eyes. "Are you serious?"

I'm thinking this is a bit absurd as I'm trying not to sprain my ankles making the walk to the master bedroom. No, it's not the boots (although they really ain't made for walkin'). Not even the too-short cut-off jean shorts. What's bothering me is the shirt –the billowy green shirt I have to knot in the back and the matching terry wristbands. Thank God he didn't buy the hat. I've role-played a lot of things; this would have to be the weirdest. But this is what he thinks I think he wants to do for me, and he's had it in his mind this long, so I'm gonna go with it.

I take a deep breath when I reach the door. It's cracked, but I think I should knock anyway.

"Get your ass in here," I hear before I could put knuckles to wood.

I walk in, and I'm taken aback at the sight. Sitting crossed-legged on his bed in full ring regalia is not the attentive lover I get to call Phil, but an icon beheld by millions on a weekly basis. The taped-up hands marked with a red "X," the gaudy, heavy, diamond-encrusted gilt belt slung over his shoulder, the expression of displeasure on his face.

I find myself in the presence of CM Punk.

Gone is the slick-backed hair; in its place is a buzz cut which the Army veteran in me finds agreeable.

I suppress a grin and let out a low "Phwoar."

Those intense green eyes draw me in with his stare; he summons me with his index finger, and I comply with a careful, slow gait until I stand before him with a hand on my hip. I watched RAW last week; I have a good idea how I'm supposed to play my role, which now explains why I'm wearing a John Cena shirt. He gives me an once-over and points to the floor. I sit where he points, crossed-legged, so he's above me, looking down at me. "Y'know, I've busted my ass for years to prove to the company, to the locker room, to you that I'm the Best in the World, and you'd rather idolize that overgrown Boy Scout than give me my respect." He taps his championship title and continues his tirade. "I am the WWE Champion, and I'm not closing the show or even being respected in my own house. What is it about Cena, huh? Is it his clean-cut good looks, his chiseled physique, his brightly colored merch, his mic skills? Maybe it's how he loves the kids and granting wishes. 'Cause it ain't his promos, and it ain't his Five Moves of Doom." His eyes have a glint of mischief as he leans forward. "Or maybe-and this is what my money's on-maybe you wanna fuck him. That's it, isn't it?"

I make a valiant effort not to laugh. Even CM Punk can come off corny from time to time. "What?"

He raises his voice only slightly. "I said do you wanna fuck the face of the WWE?"

I just have to, now, because I'm incredulous. "What?"

"What, you think because he can bust some rhymes, Super Cena could beat it up?" And just when I was about to, he snarls, "Do not 'What' me."

I lower my head. "Sorry, it's just that what you're saying is so ridiculous, I just had to." I start blurting, "I like John Cena, what he stands for, and I'd be lying if I said he's unattractive—"

"So you do wanna fuck him."

"Hell, no. One of you rassler's more than enough. Look, I admire him, but I don't wanna fuck him. You could say…he's a wrestler I can respect."

"Bullshit!" Getting Punk's goat is too easy when he's in character. "He's not the WWE Champion, I am! He's a guy that's very good at kissing Vince McMahon's ass. He's a guy that's done the same boring routine for ten years, a guy that doesn't evolve, doesn't bring about change. Just sells T-shirts." He looks at the image of Cena saluting on my chest like it taunted him. "You respect him? Why don't you go home? Why are you in my house dressed like a ring rat?"

I look up at him and raise my eyebrow. "Because who wouldn't want to fuck the champ?" I shrug and prepare to stand up. "Of course, if you don't want this, I can always—"

"I didn't dismiss you." He narrows his eyes, sneers a bit. "You don't think I'm gonna let you leave without giving me what I want, do you?" He presses his tongue against his lip ring. "What about your hero's motto? Hustle…. Loyalty…. Where's my respect?"

I raise my head and make a tch sound. "In my experience, if you have to demand respect, you haven't earned it."

I'm rewarded with the CM Punk is Not Impressed™ look. "'Haven't earned it'? I've spent nine years earning it in this company. ECW Champion. World Heavyweight Champion. WWE Champion. I've beaten Cena every time and will beat him again at Night of Champions. Tell me, how is it in your brainwashed mind that I have not earned it? Don't answer that; it's a rhetorical question." He leans forward, lowers his voice. "Look at you—so ready for me to fuck you. I bet your panties are soaked through, aren't they?" He places two fingers under my chin, raises it. I could drown in those eyes. "Well, alls you have to do—" he punctuates the you by lightly touching my nose with his index finger— "is look up at me and say that I'm the Best in the World."

I have to pretend that this is not a good deal, but fuck logic right now. I cross my arms and turn my head to the side in pure petulance. "You want me to say it? Prove it." I look back at his surly face, and wave my hand in front of my face, the sign for You Can't See Me, sure to make him more indignant.

His mouth becomes a thin line as he slowly unwinds his legs, places his coveted title aside, and places his feet on the floor. Suddenly he takes a fist full of my hair, pulls me to my feet by it. "Do I have your attention now?" he asks.

I let out a low moan, eyes shut, but inside I'm yelling Yes!

The voice of the Voice of the Voiceless is low, turns me on like nobody's business. "Y'know what? I'm gonna make you go to sleep." He sees me wince, then adds, "Don't be silly. I'm not gonna wrestle you. I'm not gonna put you in the GTS, and I'm not gonna put you in the Anaconda Vise." He cocks his head slightly, gives me another once-over. "I am gonna make you submit to me—and I'm gonna enjoy every minute of it."

I can feel the heat of his breath as he stands behind me, his beard tickling my skin, his fingers sliding down my spine before forcing my shorts and panties aside, plunging them inside me and removing them just as quickly. He chuckles at my gasp. "I was right. Soaked through," he says. "Is that because you're thinking about what I'm gonna do to you, or are you thinking about Cena?"

How could anybody think about John Cena at a time like this? "I told you, I don't want—"

"Cena can't have you. You're mine," he says. "Mine to revere, to worship, to possess, to mark, and when you're asking for it like you are now, to punish." He bites me where my neck meets my shoulder, and I moan. It stops short of actually hurting, doesn't break the skin, but sure to linger. I can feel his lip ring brush my earlobe as he asks, "What's my name?"

I catch myself as I tuck my bottom lip under my front teeth to make a ph sound. No, not tonight. I make a slight turn of my head in his direction. "CM Punk," I reply.

"And what am I?"

"WWE Champion?" I breathe, my tone not as serious as it should be. "A Scorpio? A Cubs fan? Wait, I got it—not likely to be cast as Christian Grey."

"Oh, you wanna be a smartass? I'll make that literal. Your ass will be smarting when I'm done with you." He leads me back to the bed by my head, the hair he has in his grasp. "I don't hit women, but I do spank bad girls. And you're being a very bad girl." He's back in my ear again, his voice getting dangerously low. "If you learn your lesson, if you do what I say—I promise you I will fuck your goddamn brains out."

This. What he's doing to me. Harder than any alcohol I could drink, straighter than any line I could snort up my nose, and certainly giving me a faster, more intense high than any pill I put on my tongue. I'm addicted. I want more of his particular brand of poison.

Punk pulls my wristbands off, then grabs a fistful of the front of my shirt. "Take this crap off. I can't see you with it on."

He keeps his eyes on me as I pull the shirt over my head and he sits back down on the bed. Then I stand up before him and place my fingers on the zipper of my left boot.

He pulls my hand away with his. "Leave them on. The underwear, too."

I grin, then slowly unzip and pull down my shorts over my boots.

He gives me a slow once-over, cocks a half-smile, and pulls me to him by my hips so I'm straddling his lap. "Much better. Now take off my shirt."

I bring my hands down his crossed arms, fingers trembling. An amazing lover before this scenario, but a more magnificent bastard than a heelish, dominant CM Punk? Doesn't exist. I have to look down and away from his gaze before I lose my mind.

Punk's not having it. He takes a firm grasp of my jaw, forces me to meet his green eyes. "Uh-uh. Look at me. Lemme see those pretty brown eyes."

I silently tell myself to breathe. I've always hated my inability to win a staring contest with him. I usually consign myself with glancing down at his lip ring when his gaze gets too much. I give myself a break by pulling at the waist of his grey shirt, and allowing it to break the gaze while he raises his arms to facilitate me.

I can't help myself. That ink—I just have to trace it with my fingers, touch his smooth skin. I trace the snake as it enters the skull's mouth, and look back up at his face, his eyes. They're slightly lidded, but no less observant. My mouth waters—it would be on his skin by now, following the ink with my tongue. He's tracing my spine with the fingers of one hand, and there isn't a place on the planet I'd rather be than right here, right now.

"Mmm, that mouth of yours," he says, his tone low. He traces my bottom lip with his thumb, lets it slip in between my teeth. I slide my tongue up against it, suck it slowly. "The things I wanna do to it." He pulls his thumb out, replaces it with two fingers. "It's all about your mouth—it's either gonna get you what you want, or it's gonna get you in trouble."

I'm hoping for both. I lave his digits with my tongue while keeping my eyes on his. What it is to taste him, have his flesh in my mouth.

Punk pulls his fingers out with reluctance, caresses my cheek. "Your mouth works just fine, so what I want is simple. Give me my respect. I wanna hear you say I'm the Best in the World." I shake my head no, and his eyes get a little darker as he grabs my chin. "Say it," he commands through clenched teeth, "or I'm gonna put you over my knee."

Oh, no, Br'er Fox. Please don't throw me into the briar patch. I sit up straight, place one hand on his shoulder, and the other on my hip. I make it a point to enunciate. "No."

He scowls and mutters, "Fuckin' Cena mark." He pulls me down between his legs, has me bent over his left thigh. "You need this." He yanks my panties down to my knees exposing my ass while he holds both of my legs in a lock with his other leg. "I am the Best. In the World, and I wanna hear you say it." He raises his DRUG hand, places his FREE hand over my tailbone. There's no escape, not even room to wiggle. "Say it."

"No." This is the moment I've waited for, the central act in this (fore)play. I make damn sure I'm recalcitrant enough to earn it.

His hand comes down swiftly, his taped palm coming down flat on my right ass cheek, leaving me biting my lip to keep from crying out. I know it's gonna leave a print. He keeps his hand there, and it's a foreign feel to me, that rough fabric tape replacing the usual soft palm and tender caress.

It makes me a little sad he can't see my face, see me spin that intense spreading pain and heat into inexplicable pleasure that makes my lips, fingertips, and toes tingle. But I suspect he can feel it, and he's attentive to the little nod I give him to let him know I'm ready for another. And another. It's the ritual: he says "say it," I say no, and he rewards me with a series of well-spaced whacks on my "sweet spot," alternating cheeks. The ninth makes me throw my head back.

"Say it!"

My ego's talking, says I'm a fucking war hero, an adept submissive who's taken belts, paddles, floggers, even thin rattan canes that wrapped around my thighs; what's CM Punk's relatively bare hand? "Fuck you," I breathe. Topping from the bottom means I'm better than him.

Yeah, right.

"What did you say, smartass?" Another swat, cupped palm.

I look over my shoulder at him, panting. "I said… fuck you, Punk."

I did cry out at the last smack—palm flat, fingers splayed. Dear God he can pack a wallop! It was hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. Perfect! The process takes twice as long, but the spread was twice as sweet, wrapping around me, through me, leaving me breathless, trembling, and soaked. I'm thinking he only has to give me another smack like that for me to come.

Punk does not grant it, having something else in mind. He releases my legs, keeps me bent over. "No. Fuck you." He slides his fingers between my legs, feeling my wetness. He pushes them inside, leaves them there as he brings his mouth to my opposite ear. His breath gives me goosebumps, and my skin is now moist.

"Submit," he whispers.

I soften around him, around his fingers. I stop being a SAM—Smart Ass Masochist—because I know he gets it, he gets me, and it's pointless. CM Punk's relatively bare hand? Magic. I want to fuck his fingers, ride them to a climax, but I dare not move. I've shown him I can be a bad girl; now I need to demonstrate the opposite.

He takes his other hand, slides it up my back, and unhooks my bra. I let my arms fall forward and watch the lace fall to the floor. He catches my earlobe between his teeth, curls the tip of his tongue against the outline. I breathe between my teeth. His voice is low against my ear. It's ruthless. And divine. "Let's try this again. What's my name?"

I take in a deep breath; he's sliding his fingers in and out, and it's doing my head in. "CM Punk," I say as I exhale, creating a sultry effect.

"Do I have your respect?"

There's a bit of a stutter. "Y-Yes." I open my eyes and add, "Yes, Sir."

"Oh, I like the sound of that, you calling me 'Sir'," he replies with a bit of mirth in his voice. "But 'Sir' is for the unwashed masses, and I prefer you screaming my name when you come. You may call me Punk, but you say it with reverence and respect, do you understand?"

"Yes, Punk."

"Tell me you respect me."

"I respect you, Punk." My sincerity can't be doubted.

"Atta girl." He's gotta know what him saying that does to me. Fingers out, and back in, deeper still. "Now tell me who I am."

"You're the Best in the World," I say as I give his fingers a little squeeze with my Kegel muscles.

There's a pause, then a sotto voce "Fuck." I hide my fleeting moment of getting to him. It always gets to him. He exits me abruptly, pulls my panties clean off, gets a good grasp of my hair and tugs me upright, making me scramble a bit to balance myself on his massive left thigh. He smirks as I embrace him, brings his mouth close to mine. "Say it again."

I meet his gaze fully, directly. "CM Punk. You. Are the Best. In the World."

His smirk becomes a devilish smile. "Good girl." DRUG hand clamping my jaw, FREE hand wrapped around my hair, he covers my open mouth with his, delves with his tongue. Bubblegum. Metal. Fire. That mouth's like morphine, I imagine. Fuck breathing compared to this. He takes his time, exploring, conquering, coaxing, tasting; his tongue glides across my bottom lip before he bites it. He breaks contact, teases another bite. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

I take my bereft lips into my mouth for a brief moment. "No, Punk."

He makes a trail-sometimes kisses, sometimes nips, sometimes bites-down my neck and shoulders, and I fight hard not to dig my nails in his back. I do not, however, fight to take advantage of his naked thigh between my legs. Just a little rub, just a slight shift, makes all the difference against my clit. I'm also mindful that his black trunks just got a little bit...tighter.

I have to drop my arm to allow him access to my breasts. He takes one in his hand, squeezes, and looks at my face. "You have no idea how bad I want you."

I do. Really, I do. In fact, I aim to increase his desire by sliding my hand down slowly, and resting it lightly on the waistband of his trunks.

Punk never misses an opportunity to speak his mind. "That video you sent me of you playing with yourself in your hotel room? I got that before I had to go out. Do you know how hard it is to work with half a boner? That was torture. I'm gonna torture you in return." His mouth on my nipple takes me off-task, how he licks it lovingly with his tongue. It's already hard as a pebble.

And then he bears down with his teeth and I'm forced to seize up. He sucks hard as he bites. He's right; it's pure torture for me. I know and curse the sequence: intense pain at the onset of the bite (or clamp), an easing as the blood flow leaves the nerves, then an exquisite return upon release as the blood flow returns. But what makes it worth it is that sweet dull ache that lingers sometimes days after, that reminder that occurs upon the slightest brush against flesh, fabric, even air. Punk ensures that both nipples get an adequate amount of such attention.

Which is fine, because my response to the process is to make myself feel really good in another part of my body by tribbing for all it's worth. My hand's inside his trunks now, and I got a good grip around the base of his cock. I take the longest, slowest stroke, and he sighs, places his forehead between my neck and shoulder. My lips brush his short dark hair as a moan escapes me, and he winces before sitting back up. He pinches one of my still-stinging cheeks to stop my ministrations. I let out a sound of disappointment and protest. "You greedy slut," he says. Fuck if he's not hitting all of my subbie switches. "Humping my leg like a bitch in heat. Did I give you permission to touch my cock?"

I can only shake my head no from my throat tightening. I open my mouth in an attempt to add that I only wanted to show initiative, that I wanted to please him, but he places two fingers on my lips. "Shh. No excuses." He holds my wrists together, binds me with a wristband. "That'll keep your hands to yourself, for now."

Ah, restraint. Such a powerful concept. That moment when my pressed wrists gives me shivers because it's a physical reminder that he's in control, that I've given myself over to him completely, that I trust how, when, and where he takes me.

"Get on your knees."

I do as told, slumping into seiza, ass on heels. He stands up, ink-sleeved arms akimbo. I look up at his face, my mouth watering, a silent entreaty to service him.

Punk caresses my cheek, and there's that contrast again of his soft skin and the roughness of the tape. "I told you it's about your mouth. I know it can do more than offer up sharp wit. I want your pretty mouth doing dirty things."

I can hardly contain my glee, but I had the onerous task of removing the barrier between cock and mouth without my hands. I grab the side of his waistband by my teeth, and pull downward. After a few tries I get them to just about the middle of his kneepads. My prize stands there, growing formidably out of its brown thatch. I run my tongue up his left thigh, tasting myself from earlier, nipping where it meets his hip. I leave another on the inside of his thigh and then glide my tongue up the length of the sensitive underside. I kiss the tip, and continue to use just tongue and lips, not yet putting him in my mouth. Must be agony for him at this point—he's holding his breath.

He exhales audibly, grabs the back of my head, guides my mouth closer. "Stop teasing and suck my cock." I look up, keeping eye contact as I exhale and take him into my mouth until the head hits the back of my throat. I ignore the impending gag reflex and relax.

"Oh, fuck," he says.

I pull back and slowly apply suction, keeping it as I go back down. I rock back and forth on my leather-covered knees as I go to work on his cock hands-free. It's challenging not to be able to cup and stroke his balls, not to grab that lovely ass. I also won't be able to wrap my hand around his shaft and jerk him, so I could be bobbing away for a long time. My mouth's watering, the resultant slobbering's going to make a mess.

Punk's not bothered by that. "That feels so fucking good…. Love watching my cock go in and out of your beautiful mouth…. Fuckin' perfect."

I hum a bit before I find a suitable pace aided by his hand on the back on my head, adding suction by degrees, breathing through my nose. I'm encouraged by one of the sluttiest moans I've ever heard from a man. I'm far too busy to remark on it, and making sloppy noises myself. I curl my tongue to run the tip along that oh-so-sensitive underside and glans. I do that enough times, and I'm tasting pre-cum. His pipebomb's going to detonate soon. Ego takes over again, compelling me to make this happen because I never did it with no hands before, which would make me the best in the world at what I do, and I can't wait for those knees to buckle as he loses control, and, and—

Punk pulls my mouth off his cock by my hair, pulls me up so I'm standing. We're both panting, and he takes advantage of my open mouth by pressing his against it, filling it with his tongue. When he decides I have to breathe, he breaks the kiss, and it's always too soon. "Bend over the bed," he commands as he pulls his trunks back up. I take a moment too long to catch my breath, and he adds, "Now."

I do as told, reveling in the feel of the black fabric against my face. Punk skids his hand up my spine to guide my chest to the bed; spreads my legs wide with his foot. He puts a pillow under my head, trails his fingers over my buttocks. I know he's smirking and admiring his handiwork. "Ooh, that looks like it hurts." His palm ghosts the curve of my ass, a calming, reassuring touch. "You won't be able to sit down for a week without thinking about me." He puts his fingers inside me, spreads and closes them. I squeeze them as a prelude to pushing up against them, but he pinches my bruised ass cheek, which makes me suck in a breath. "Be still," he says firmly. I love that he can curry obedience without raising his voice, how it speaks to me from deep within. "You don't come unless I give you permission, understand?"

This one's always a toughie; it doesn't take much for him to get me close. It would take a Herculean effort to maintain control. He knows that. He's gotta know that.

He gives me a little smack on the ass. "Do you understand?"

I never want to lie to him, but I'm afraid I might with my assent. "Yes, Punk," I say softly, with resignation.

"I wanna hear you beg for mercy," he murmurs as he takes my bound wrists in his hand behind my back and bites my sore left cheek before he draws his tongue up my slit. "I know how to make that happen." He gets down low, bats my clit with the tip of his tongue before drawing it into his mouth. There's that constant contrast, the softness of his lips and tongue and that little bit of metal. See, his hardware's problematic—I know that never before and never since will anyone else eat me quite like this. I can't quit him. Especially when he makes those wet noises.

"That feels so good." Not a plea, just an honest observation.

And then his mouth travels, his tongue spending a moment darting in and out of me. When his bottom lip grazes my perineum, my eyes fly open. Oh, Punk, you nasty motherf—"Ohhhhh!" His beard brushing my ass cheeks as his tongue tickles my puckered hole before pushing in is almost too much. I can't seem to bring enough air to make audible the litany of ohfuckohfuckohfuck my mouth keeps forming. He sticks his fingers inside me and fucks me with them as he tongues my ass. Then his infernal mouth moves back to my snatch and he hums as he draws my clit into his mouth and sucks. Oh. My. Goodness, Punk. Don't—do it—like—that! I bite and moan into the pillow as my clit twitches, sends shocks through me. I'm about to lose language ability along with control. It's now or never—I'll be too far gone. "Mercy, Punk. Dear god, mercy."

Punk relents with a low laugh, pleased with himself. He releases my arms, and they fall forward. He kisses me, sharing my taste. "You want me to fuck you, don't you?" he asks as he pulls his trunks down and places the tip of his cock just at the entrance and leaves it there.

"Yes," I sob. I daren't move.

"Then say it. Say, 'Fuck me, Punk'."

I'm panting now because I can't stand being teased like this, can't stand not having him inside me. I do what I do to have him. "Fuck me, Punk," I exhale.

"Louder."

I swear I'm gonna cry if he doesn't enter me, so I relent. "Fuck me, Punk! Fuck me hard!" I want him to hit it like a fist of an angry god.

He chuckles, teases some more, and I'm aching so badly I'm throbbing. But it's not long before he pushes into me inch by inch. I squeeze him so tight as he pulls back out, and he lets out a low "Jesus Christ" before slamming back into me. "You drive me insane."

That goes through me, makes me shudder and moan. He puts his fingers in my mouth, and I suck them clean. He works up a consistent, rough pace, letting out moans in that amazing low voice, and he's grabbing my hips so hard I'm expecting fingertip bruises. I gasp as his hip bones jam into my still-heated ass cheeks. Occasionally I feel his hot breath, his teeth scraping my back, his lip ring and beard against my sweat-dampened shoulder blades. He presses the pads of his fingers against my clit, which makes me vociferate in the pillow.

"What's the matter?" he says. "You don't feel like running your mouth?" He doesn't break stride, makes a circular pattern with those delectably infernal fingers. "You're usually talking dirty…especially when you're on top." He pulls the pillow away. "Don't be shy now." As he thrusts he pulls me up off the bed by my hair, yanking my head back until my neck is exposed. He makes an especially deep push at juuust the right angle.

"Oh, fuck!" See, that's a heel tactic—here I am trying not to come, and…. I'm breathing through pursed lips, trying to stay where I am. Not over the cliff, and not back. Just at the edge.

Punk talks through a beautifully twisted tale while he beats it up like a government mule. "I should take you with me…make you my personal ring rat…. You'd be ringside…looking so fuckin' sexy… as you always do…and I'd have to carry you into the ring…and put on our own live sex show…. You'd like that, wouldn't you? In front of the thousands in attendance…and the millions watching at home…you…getting fucked by CM Punk." My resulting loud moan and little spasm throws him off slightly, then he continues. "Oh, that's it, my nasty slut…. You got much more wetter at the thought of that…you riding my cock in the center on the ring…those spotlights all on us…I bet we'd get a huge pop for that…. Vince would have a fuckin' stroke…. Maybe Cena can come in the ring to watch…just to show him you belong to me…body and soul…how you give yourself to me completely…. You'd come so hard you'd squirt in his face, wouldn't you?"

"Goddamnit, Punk!" Wow, that's a bit much. He's not pushing my buttons so much as bashing them with a ball peen hammer. "I don't think…I can hold out…."

He pauses and slips his hand around my throat. He doesn't squeeze, just leaves it there as he leans up and kisses me on my forehead. "Oh, you're getting ready to come. I can feel it. Maybe I'll let you." I can feel his fingers at my tailbone. "Do you still respect me?"

Such sweet torture. He doesn't have to tell me to beg. "Please," I mouth out. "Oh, please, please, just let me—"

"Do. You. Respect. Me?" he replies, cutting off my pleas.

"God, yes. Yes, Punk, I respect you. I'll do whatever you want…." My voice trails off before it breaks.

Slowly, he inserts his thumb in my ass, and I'm on fucking fire. "Ohmygod!" This fire burns.

He starts pounding me again, both holes filled. "You like that?"

"Fuck yeah…. I mean, yes, Punk."

"Then come for me."

I punctuate each thrust that would make Daniel Bryan (or Bryan Danielson, if one prefers) proud. "Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! YES! " My head goes back, and I just let go, dive headfirst over that cliff, hearing him gasp as I scream his name, feeling my bones rattle.

He turns me over, scoots me up, and he's on his knees on the bed, sitting seiza. "I wanna taste some more of this sweet fuckin' pussy." He brings my legs up and over his shoulders, and buries his face in my snatch.

I see those inked arms wrapped around my thighs, locking me in, hear those noises as he laps away, feel his beard and lip ring contrasting with his tongue worrying at my twitching clit, his eyes, my god his eyes! I raise my hips against him, moaning his name, letting the ebb and flow of sensations pass through me.

When he stops short of my climax, it's like air being released out of a balloon, and I let out a groan of protest. He reassures me with a long kiss. "Oh, I'm not done with you yet."

Punk pins my wrists above my head; he pushes himself in slow, stealing my breath. The boot leather gives perfectly as I wrap my legs around his torso. He makes that first thrust and gasps in my ear. This is what I love—that visual image, his tattooed, damp skin pressed and sliding against mine, how his hips fit so perfectly against mine, that look of concentration on his face. He locks his gaze with mine; I'm adrift in a sea of green. He's a demon, a trickster god and I a mere mortal who just happens to hold him in thrall in this moment, and it is every fucking thing. He takes my mouth with his, devouring me whole, breathing me in, exhaling fire. I arch my back to get closer to him, to his heat. It's never close enough. It's never enough.

"Mine," he whispers.

"Yours, Punk," I breathe in response. "All yours."

He closes his eyes, mulls my assent without missing a thrust, and lets out a moan. He opens them again as he releases my wrists just enough to sit up and watch what he does to me, watch how my tits bounce. I squeeze him, and his eyes go to the back of his head before he covers me with his body anew. "I can't get enough of you," he murmurs in my ear.

"Then don't stop, Punk. Please don't stop."

It's like this for an uncounted amount of time. Him rolling his hips, his boots finding purchase on the bed as he drives in and out of me; me undulating beneath him as my body and sanity holds on in an attempt to stay grounded, be here now, be with him. All of my senses are filled with him-Punk's colorful, moist flesh and green eyes fill my vision; Punk's paced, deep breathing in my ear; Punk's sweaty skin and his mouth on my tongue; Punk's scent comingled with mine in my nose, Punk's touch, Punk's thrusts...everywhere.

My head goes back when he hits that spot. He interlocks his fingers with mine. "You…should be…asking permission now."

He's right—I feel my climax, that burn build within with each well-timed thrust. "Oh, Punk," I implore, "please…let me come for you." My face compresses as I try to stay where I am and not go further.

His response is soft but earnest. "Yes, come for me."

It's all I needed. I pull him close with my thighs. I breathe in short bursts. My eyelids press against each other with all of their might. My thighs harden like steel around him and then melt as I melt, my core molten, me calling his name, my mouth left gaping wide and gasping. He releases my hands and I instinctively embrace him.

Punk kisses my trembling lips. "So sweet," he says. He lifts up so he can see my face, and I feel his biceps contract and release as I rest my hands on them. "I am yours, too," he confesses as he increases his pace. He's not long after me. "Yours alone…."

And there he goes, following me, thrusting hard, burying himself in me, losing himself. He moans deeply as he comes, and it's one of the loveliest sounds in the world.

My legs are still shaking, and there are little "aftershocks" where I seize up a bit around him.

He presses his forehead to mine. We stay like this for a long time before he breaks the silence. "Are you okay?"

"I think so." I start to laugh. "That was awe-some," I say, tapping his back in the rhythmic manner of the chant.

He kisses me to shut me up. He pulls out, which makes us both groan, and exaggerates a pained expression. "Fuck, woman. I think I may have literally busted a nut." He looks down my body; his fingers gingerly follow his eyes. "But you're fucking worth it. Was it everything you wanted?"

I raise both my eyebrows. "And then some. Nice high and tight, by the way," I say, complimenting his haircut. My thumb brushes over his lip ring. "You truly are the Best in the World."

He kisses me in appreciation. "So are you," he whispers. "I give as good as I get."

I watch as he removes his gear, adding, "Honestly, I wasn't sure you had it in you to be a dom. The Cena gear? You're a freak, Philip Brooks."

"You have been watching the show, haven't you? I think I'm gonna incorporate some of this in my promos. You'll love what Lawler and I are gonna do in Memphis."

"Kicking him in the head's not sadistic enough for you and Creative?" I scoff. "I'll make sure I tune in."

He laughs and waits until he has removed the tape from his hands before caressing my face. His palm is soft again, welcoming. "You want me to be more sadistic? Next time, you're wearing the cheesy green hat."

"Oh, hell no," I say with a disgusted look on my face. "Can I just safeword out now?"

"Hey, it's your storyline. Give me shoes to fill, and I'll fill them."

"I'll keep that in mind," I reply as he unzips and removes my boots. He draws me up in his arms again, and I relax and grin against his chest. "Gimme a minute and I'll make you a goddamn sandwich." I can't help but giggle at that.

"No," he replies as he strokes my hair, gently massages the part most affected by his earlier pulling. "This is my favorite part—where I take care of you." He kisses my forehead.

I'm spent and content to lie here with him, take what I can get now. Soon, we'll shower, he'll straighten the bed, and there will be a few hours sleep before we each have to go our separate ways again—me, back home to my dog and my world in Georgetown, and him off to any given arena to be the Best in the World.

But all of that's in the future. Right now, he's Phil, and we have each other all to ourselves.