It All Comes Out In The Wash

The silence in the new BMW 7 Series was a luxurious thing, punctuated only by the soft thrum of the engine and the whisper of tires on the rain-slicked Chatham streets. Amelia had asked her date for the night, Mark, to drive. The aim was twofold: to impress him with the sheer, unadulterated power and expense of the machine and to observe him. She was pretty sure this builder, this man of raw muscle and simple needs, had never driven a car as nice as this one. He handled it with surprising ease, his large hands gripping the leather-wrapped steering wheel with a casual confidence that was intriguing.

She was getting bored with the silence. Time to get the ball rolling. She leaned across the center console, her movements fluid and deliberate. She rested her hand firmly on his huge bulge, the fabric of his trousers doing little to hide his formidable endowment. She gently squeezed, her fingers tracing the length of him, running up and down the growing ridge. She was getting wet just thinking of the scene to come, of how Jonathan's cheeks would bulge, his eyes wide with a cocktail of humiliation and raw, primal envy, when she ordered him to get this magnificent specimen ready for her.

When they arrived at her flat, a gleaming, minimalist fortress in a converted warehouse, the anticipation was palpable. The moment the door clicked shut behind them, the games began. "Strip," she commanded, her voice low and sharp. He didn't hesitate, peeling off his clothes with an economy of motion that was almost graceful. His body was a landscape of raw power, thick with muscle, scarred from a life of labor, his salt-and-pepper hair a stark contrast to his bronzed skin. And his cock… it was even more impressive than the pictures. It hung between his thighs like a heavy club, a slab of meat that promised a brutal satisfaction.

She couldn't keep her hands off him. She circled him, her palm grazing the hard planes of his chest, her nails scraping lightly over his buttocks. She reached down and cupped his balls, feeling their weight in her hand. From the corner of the room, a soft shuffle drew her attention. Jonathan was there, his naked body pale and weak in comparison to the brute before her. She walked over and, with a practiced click, removed his cock cage. His small penis, freed from its prison, immediately began to stiffen. She ignored it.

"Get him ready for me," she ordered Jonathan, her voice dripping with contempt. Jonathan shuffled forward, his head bowed, and took Mark's huge cock in his hands. He began to stroke it, his movements clumsy and pathetic. Mark simply watched, a faint, amused smirk on his face, as if this were the most normal thing in the world, as Jonathan's mouth opened and his tongue protruded slightly.

Then it was her turn. She led Mark to the master bedroom, a cavern of dark wood and shadows. She pushed him onto the bed and mounted him, sinking down onto his colossal shaft with a guttural groan. He fucked her with a brute force that was almost punishing, his powerful hips driving into her relentlessly. She was used to being in control, to orchestrating every moment of pleasure and pain, but this was different. This was a primal, overwhelming assault on her senses. She came, hard and fast, her body convulsing. But he didn't stop. He continued to piston into her, his stamina seemingly endless, his grunts the only sound in the room. The first wave of pleasure was replaced by a second, more intense one, and then a third, until she was overstimulated, her body a humming, sensitive nerve. She found herself begging him to stop, her voice a breathless, broken plea.

As they lay there panting, their bodies slick with sweat, she stroked his slab of a chest, her other hand gently cupping his massive balls. She kissed his neck, then whispered in his ear, "Do you want to get really kinky?"

He smiled, a slow, predatory grin, and nodded, still not saying much. She loved that about him.

She kissed him hard on the lips, her tongue claiming his, then jumped out of bed and held her hand out. He slid out of bed, his massive cock already hardening again. He took her hand, his massive hand swallowing hers, and she pulled him along. In any other situation, she would have thought it was ridiculous. He dwarfed her in both height and width; he could snap her like a twig. But here, in this space, she was the queen, and she was leading him to a room where he would become her helpless toy. She could hardly contain her excitement.

She opened the door to the main playroom. The room was deep red, the walls painted the color of dried blood, with spotlights fitted to shine on each piece of equipment—a whipping bench, a suspension frame, and the centerpiece, a large, wooden St. Andrew's Cross She turned and kissed him hard, a battle of lips and teeth. Then she led him to the cross.

She turned and looked up at him, her eyes locking with his. "I want to dominate you," she said, her voice a husky promise. "Will you be a good boy?"

He smiled down at her, and then, with a speed that belied his size, he moved. He didn't speak. He simply acted. He picked her up as if she weighed nothing and crushed her against the cross. Her left arm was strapped into the leather cuff before she even had time to process what was happening. The right followed. Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through her arousal. She started screaming and kicking out with her leg, her heel connecting uselessly with his solid thigh. He just stood up, an immovable object of muscle and bone, and put his huge hand around her neck. The grip wasn't tight enough to choke her, but the message was clear. "Stop." The look in his eyes and the sheer, unstoppable strength in his grip was enough to calm her down, to still the fight in her.

He continued strapping her onto the cross, his movements methodical. Ankles, waist, and finally, a thick leather band around her neck, pinning her head to the wood. He searched the room and found her collection of gags; he picked the biggest ball gag and shoved it in her mouth, strapping it tight behind her head. Then he turned and left the room, turning the lights off, plunging her into absolute, suffocating darkness.