Architect's Return: I Dominate and Wreck My Girlfriend

You come through the apartment door just after nine, Josephine, twenty-eight and wrung hollow from a day that started before the coffee went cold, and the sight of you in that charcoal sheath does something mean and hot to me. I am Franklin, thirty-two, and I have been pacing our living room since the light went gray over the windows, feeding the pictures my jealousy keeps painting. Conrad. Fifty-four, silver at the temples, Renata’s colleague, the senior architect she sends when a client needs charm laid over the drawings. All day you sat across from him in some glass room downtown, nodding, mouth closed around every word that wasn’t about elevations and budgets. I hated him for having your hours. I hated the thought of his eyes on the line of your throat when you leaned over a blueprint. I hated that your body had to stay composed while mine was here, hard and ugly with waiting.

You drop the bag. Your shoulders drop with it. You smell like the day: paper, perfume gone thin, the ghost of someone else’s cologne that might only be my imagination working overtime. I don’t ask how the meeting went. I look at you the way I have been looking at the door.

“Come here.”

You do. That’s the first mercy of the night. You always do when my voice goes low like this, when the jealousy has cooked down into something you can feel in the air between us. Your eyes find mine and the professional mask cracks at the edges. I take your wrist. Not hard yet. Enough that you know the apartment has already decided what it wants from you, and so have I.

I tell you what the hours did to me. How I pictured him leaning too close over the table. How I pictured you crossing your legs under it and staying polite while your cunt remembered who it belongs to. How none of his sophistication gets a single inch of what is mine. Your breath catches. You are tired, and you are already listening with your whole body, the way you do when you want to be taken apart and don’t have the energy left to pretend otherwise.

I pull you inside and kick the door shut behind you. The lock clicks. The city stays on the other side of it, Conrad and Renata and every measured sentence you spent the day delivering. In here there is only the heat coming off you and the hunger I have been sitting in since noon.

“Shoes,” I say.

You toe the heels off. You get shorter, softer, more mine. I walk you backward until your calves hit the edge of the rug and then I turn you, slow, so I can look at the zipper running down your spine. I drag it down with one finger. The sound is small and filthy in the quiet. The dress loosens. I peel it off your shoulders and let it fall, and there you are in the black panties and the bra you put on this morning for a room full of blueprints and an older man who will never know what you look like when someone who actually owns you starts taking you apart.

“He talked at you all day,” I murmur against the back of your neck. “Polite. Careful. Hands to himself. And the whole time this body was sitting there aching for something that isn’t polite.” I unhook the bra and toss it. My palms come up under your breasts, rough, possessive, thumbs dragging over nipples that are already tight. “Tell me you didn’t think about me once. Lie to me.”

You don’t lie. A sound leaves you, small and wrecked, and you push back into my hands like the day finally has permission to end. I hook my fingers in the panties and drag them down your thighs. They stick a little. You’re wet already, Josephine, slick enough that when I slide two fingers between your legs I come away shining. I hold them up where you can see.

“Hours of restrained professionalism,” I say, “and you walk in dripping for me. Good girl. Filthy girl. Mine.”

I turn you to face me. Your mouth is open. Your eyes are dark. I kiss you hard enough to bruise the shape of the day out of you, one hand fisted in your hair, the other still between your thighs, working slow circles over your clit until your knees threaten to quit. You clutch my shirt. You make that sound I wait for, the one that means the politeness is gone.

“Say it,” I tell you. “Tell me what you need after sitting pretty for him all day.”

Your voice comes out breathless, cracked open. “I need you to wreck me. I’ve been thinking about it since lunch. I don’t want gentle. I want you to use me. Please, Franklin. Please.”

That’s the edge. I hear it and I go over it with you.

I don’t carry you to the bedroom. The dining table is closer, the one we eat at when we are civilized, and I bend you over it with a hand between your shoulder blades until your cheek meets the wood and your ass is up, offered, shaking a little from how fast this got real. I kick your feet wider. I free my cock and drag the head through the mess you’ve made, once, twice, teasing the entrance until you swear at me and push back.

“You want it,” I say.

“Yes. God, yes. Fuck me.”

I drive into you in one deep, punishing thrust and the table jumps. You cry out, loud, the sound of a woman who has been holding herself together since morning and has finally been allowed to break. You’re tight and soaking and perfect, gripping me like your body has been waiting on this exact stretch all day. I don’t give you time to adjust. I set a pace that is mean and steady, hips snapping, balls slapping your clit on every stroke, one hand clamped on your hip hard enough to leave marks you’ll see tomorrow in the bathroom mirror.

“Listen to that,” I growl. “Listen to how wet you are. Conrad spent the whole day talking structure and load and finish, and you were sitting there getting this cunt ready for real cock. My cock. Not his drawings. Not his voice. This.”

You moan into the table, fingers scrabbling for an edge. I lean over you, chest to your back, and wrap my hand around your throat. Light. Careful where it counts, the pressure we both know, the kind you asked for months ago and still tilt your chin up to find. You can breathe. You can talk. You just can’t pretend you aren’t being held.

“Color,” I say against your ear, the check we use.

“Green,” you gasp. “Green, don’t stop, harder.”

I tighten just enough to make your pulse jump under my palm and I fuck you harder. Deep. The kind of thrusts that shove you forward and drag you back onto me, over and over, until the table creaks and your tits sway and slap and your voice goes high and broken. I tell you what you are. My hole. My good desperate slut who smiles at architects and then comes home to get ruined. I tell you Conrad could have looked at you for twelve hours and never once have known how you sound when you’re stuffed full and drooling on the wood. I tell you Renata can keep her colleague. I keep this.

You come the first time with a scream that bounces off the walls, cunt clamping down so hard I have to grit my teeth to keep from finishing in you right then. I don’t stop. I fuck you through it, filthy praise in your ear, hand still at your throat, thumb stroking the hinge of your jaw while the rest of me stays brutal. You shake. You sob my name. You push back for more like the orgasm only made you hungrier.

I pull out. You whine at the loss, empty and twitching. I flip you before you can catch your breath, haul you up onto the table on your back, plates and nothing in the way because I cleared it hours ago knowing exactly where I wanted you. Your hair fans out. Your chest heaves. Your thighs fall open and I can see how swollen and used you already are, shining, clenching on nothing.

I pin your wrists above your head with one hand. You test the grip and go soft under it, eyes blown, mouth wet. I line up and sink back into you, missionary and savage, the angle deep enough that you arch off the wood and swear. I watch your face while I take you. I want every expression. The shock when I bottom out. The helpless flutter of your lashes when I grind my pelvis into your clit. The way your mouth falls open and stays open, like you have forgotten every professional word you used today.

“Look at me,” I say. “Not at some ceiling in a conference room. At me. The man who actually fucks you.”

You look. You don’t look away. I pound into you, wrists trapped, breasts bouncing, the wet sound of us obscene in the apartment. I spit on your tits and smear it with my free hand, pinching a nipple until you yelp and clamp down around me again. Second orgasm hits you harder than the first. You scream, really scream, thighs shaking against my ribs, cunt milking me in pulses I feel in my spine. I ride it. I don’t let your wrists go. I talk you through it, degrading and proud, telling you what a perfect wreck you are, telling you this is what you needed after all that restraint, telling you to give me another one because I’m not done painting the day off you.

You try to say you can’t. Your body disagrees. I shift the angle, hook one of your legs over my shoulder, and drive into the spot that makes your eyes roll. My hand leaves your tits and finds your throat again, lighter now, just enough pressure to keep you floating while I fuck you like I mean to leave you unable to sit through another meeting without remembering this table. You come a third time screaming my name, not his, not anyone’s, mine, voice cracking, tears at the corners of your eyes from how good it is, and you nod frantically so I know the tears aren’t a stop.

I’m close. The sight of you ruined under me, wrists pinned, mouth open, cunt fluttering, is too much. I pull out at the last second with a snarl, fist my cock, and stroke hard and fast over your chest. The first rope stripes your breasts. The second lands higher, across your collarbone and the underside of your chin. I aim the rest at your face because I want you marked where he might have looked and never touched. Hot streaks paint your cheek, your lips, the bridge of your nose. You keep your eyes on me and your tongue out, filthy and willing, and I groan your name like a curse while the last of it drips onto your tongue and your heaving tits.

You look destroyed. Used. Mine. Cum shining on your skin, thighs still spread, wrists reddened where I held them. I let them go. You don’t move to wipe anything away. You just breathe, trembling, a wrecked smile tugging at your messy mouth.

I gather you up. Your arms loop my neck on instinct, spent and shaking, legs barely working when I set you on your feet. I walk you to the shower because I want you clean enough to ruin again and because I am not finished owning the night. The water comes on hot. I put you under it and follow, still hard enough that it aches, and I wash you with my hands, not gently in the way that forgives anything. Possessive. Thorough. I soap your breasts and rub my cum into the lather until it runs down the drain in milky trails. I wash your face, your throat, the insides of your thighs, and then I push two fingers back into your swollen cunt under the spray just to feel you clench and hear you whimper my name like you already miss being full.

“Every meeting,” I tell you, mouth at your wet ear, fingers working slow and deep while the water beats down. “Every hour you spend being professional for Conrad or anyone else Renata sends. You come home to this. You come home to me bending you over, choking you the way you like, fucking the politeness out of you until you scream. You come home to get seduced, dominated, and passionately wrecked by me alone. Say it.”

“I come home to you,” you whisper, voice raw, hips rocking onto my hand. “Only you. Wreck me again whenever you want.”

I curl my fingers, thumb on your clit, and make you come one more time against the tile, shaking, sobbing, clinging to my shoulders while the water runs over both of us. When you can stand I turn you, press your chest to the wall, and slide my cock back into that soaked, greedy heat because washing you was never going to be the end. I fuck you slow and mean under the spray, one hand on your throat, the other spreading you open, and I growl against your neck exactly where I’m going to finish this time.

“Next time you sit across from him all day, you’re going to feel this,” I say, thrusting deep, “and you’re going to know whose cum you’re going to beg to wear on these tits and this filthy mouth the second you walk back through my door.”