"Harder, Sir." – Part II

Trained for use.

I thought that would be it.
One night, one bruise, one exhale.
But he texted me the next day. No emoji. No softness. Just:

“You’ll be available Thursday. Clean. Naked. Rope ready.”

He didn’t ask. He never asked. He gave instructions and I obeyed. That’s what I was for.

When he arrived, I was already on my knees in the center of the living room. Naked. Quiet. Face down. My ass resting on my heels, arms behind my back like a gift. The windows were cracked open. Summer breeze threading through the trees. Somewhere, a church bell rang.

He walked in without saying a word, dropped his bag of gear by the door, and circled me like a predator considering dinner.

Then he spoke.
"Did you touch yourself today?"
I shook my head.
He grabbed my jaw.
"Use your words."
"No, Sir."
"Why not?"
"Because you didn’t tell me I could."

A pause. Then a satisfied grunt.
"Good cunt."

He made me crawl to the couch, told me to kneel on the cushions with my face pressed into the backrest. I was already leaking, already trembling, but I didn’t dare move.

He tied me. Ankles parted wide and wrists pulled behind me in a brutal back-arch that made my spine ache. He yanked my hair to tilt my head back and whispered, “You’re not here to enjoy this. You’re here to prove you can take it.”

He spit on my hole. Not my pussy. The other one.
Rubbed it in with two fingers, slow and threatening. I whimpered. He slapped my ass.
“Don’t act surprised. I told you I’d use every part of you.”

And he did.
He fucked me open with his fingers first—ruthless, merciless.
Then the tip of something larger. Not him. Something colder. Wider. I didn’t look. I just breathed through the humiliation, through the sharp stretch of pain that made me squirm against the ropes.

"You squirm again, I’ll bind your thighs together and gag you with your own panties," he muttered.
I stayed still.

When he finally shoved his cock inside, I cried out. Not from the pain—but from the shock of being filled like that, taken from behind like a possession, a toy, an object. He leaned in close to my ear, breath hot.

"Say what you are."
"I’m your hole, Sir."
"Which one?"
"All of them."

The sound he made — half growl, half praise — was the only reward I got before he fucked me harder. The rope bit into my wrists. My face was flushed. I couldn’t tell if I was crying or drooling.

When he finished, he didn’t pull out right away. He stayed inside me, breathing heavy, fingers digging into my hips. Then slowly, deliberately, he let the cum leak out, down my thighs, onto the couch cushion below.

"Don’t clean up. Sit in it."

He untied me but didn’t let me move far. He pulled me onto the floor and made me straddle his thigh.
"Rub your cunt on me. Get yourself off like the filthy girl you are."

I obeyed, grinding myself into him with messy, desperate thrusts. The ache in my body blooming into pleasure. I was moaning. Loud. Ugly.

“You’re disgusting,” he whispered. “And I like it.”

When I came, I did it crying.
He didn’t hold me.
He just lit a cigarette and said,
“You’ll get better. If I let you.”