I hate being on top, but he loves to watch me struggle. His hands rest on my hips as I attempt to find a rhythm, reaching up to tweak my nipple as I growl in frustration. He loves my embarrassment, my lack of coordination. He savors my sweaty face as I try, hands on his chest, to ride his dick.
He laughs at my anger, knowing I want him to fuck me. I don’t want to be in control. I want to be taken. My rocking and stumbling are not that, are not me getting fucked. This is humiliation and it turns me on as much as it embarrasses me.
His hands grip my hips harder. “Isn’t that what you’re doing?”
I push up, my face burning. I lean back, hands on his thighs, and try in vain to get that damn rhythm that always alludes me when I’m on top. His hands smooth up my sides to cup my breasts before he slides one down to tease my clit. All it does is mess up my nonexistent stride.
“I love to watch you struggle.”
It’s too much. My frustration and my desire boil over, and I’m climbing off. He’s on me before I can swing my legs off the bed. I’m beneath him, face pressed to the mattress before I can utter a word.
“Don’t go, baby.”
The way he whispers in my ear makes me shudder. My frustration melts away, leaving only my cunt filled with his cock. So full of his cock that I can’t hold back my cries.
I hate being on top, but he loves to watch me struggle. He loves my frustration, my humiliation, and my submission.