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Monday, May 8, 2017

Story Roleplay | La Petite Mort

I want to make them cum. My women, my girls, my fucktoys. The French call it ‘la petite mort’ – The Little Death. That is their term for climax, for hitting the peak of pleasure that lights the human brain aflame in ecstasy and shocks the body into ecstatic convulsion. Yes, for as long as I have been interested in sex, I have wanted to subject women to that alluring torment. I am a sadist for pleasure.

Nothing in my carnal lusts drives me more than wanting to subject my mate to that little death, to pound it stroke by stroke into her writhing body, to listen to those desperate gasps from her lips, and to silence them all just the same with my kiss.

Can I not yet feel the slick sweat glistening on her flanks? Can I not see the blush of her cheeks extending all the way down to her shivering tits? Can I not yet feel the vice grip of her spasming sex around my shaft? Can she not still hold herself up on shaking arms and still breathe enough to say my name? Then I am not done fucking her into abject submission.

No, it isn’t enough for me to simply fuck my bitch in heat. I must conquer her, all of her. Those pretty eyes so bright throughout the day will roll towards the ceiling till they are nothing but white. That lovely ass she’d waggled at me so confidently through the day will grow redder by the thrust. Her lovely mind so full of clever words will offer her nothing but animalistic whines and mewls devoid of thought. This beautiful flesh that she offered up as a feast for my eyes will bear the marks of my lust – my teeth across her neck, my palms upon her tits, my cum within her belly.

I won’t be finished with my cumslut till I have given her that little death. Over and over, making my wailing bitch cum again and again. Beg me, plead with me, implore me to stop lest she die of too much pleasure, and I will not be through. Till she wails and presses against me while her legs cinch about my waist, till her quivering lips mouth her protests as she arches hard against my chest, till her hips buck at mine in simultaneous flight and submission, till the air that fills her lungs is not for breath but for moans – till then, I am not done making her cum.

And I won’t let her forget this night. My personal whore won’t be able to crawl away from me without me dragging her back for the finishing touches. My soft flower, my lovely girl, will ripen with my seed. Wailing she’s not ready for a baby will only drive me onward – I will make her ready. I will plow her tight cunt despite every lunge and writhe of her hips till I pin my fertile bitch to the bed. My hands clasping her cheeks, her roving eyes able to focus only on mine as I drive one last time into that wanting, unwilling, begging, unprotected pussy and release every shot of virile spunk against her climatic cervix. How anguished her orgasmic cries will be, shaking along with the rest of her fearful body, when I impregnate her against her shattered will. That is what a man lives for – that is what it means to breed.

Yes, you will cum for me, my pretty slut. You will cum more times than you can count while your pussy overflows with our combined juices well before I am done with you. I will bring you that little death again and again until I leave you listless, limp, and lavish across my bed, your purpose as my mate and cumdump fulfilled. From that little death my seed will spring, fertilized by our carnal act deep within your sizzling belly. And from your ravaged flesh and conquered womb will rise a mark unmistakable in this world that comes so readily from dying just a little in my arms. A mark that will swell out your stomach and ripen your tits with the promise of new life.

A mark that means you are mine.

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