Heart In A Cage

33

Andreas

She looks spectacular in our bed.

"You look hideous in our bed."

Bella lifts her head up from the mattress, takes her eyes off her phone, and finally blesses me with a direct view of those sparkling eyes. Then there's the rest of her I get to admire―a long body stretched across our bed, stripped of clothing from head to toe, an invitation to go over and take her that I'd gladly accept if not for admiration anchoring me in my seat. And all I can think of is replacing the pillow that was just stuffed between her thighs with my cock, fucking her like I did yesterday.

All that must be done is―

"Are you going to jerk off?" Her attention curiously wanders down to my lap, and my own follows after it until I find that one of my hands is positioned upon my groin. The other is encompassing the arm of our office chair, using a tight grip to hold back the desire to climb over her and repeat what had transpired yesterday.

Oh, wow. An image of bounding her again...fucking her from behind...I tug at the center of my shorts.

"Never accuse me of preposterousness. Impurity like that doesn't fit me."

The response I receive is a cute flutter of her lashes and reddening cheeks, but she decides that she'd rather conceal her blush than expose it to me and buries her face into a cushion.

I straighten in my seat and grip both armrests. "Oh, no, no, no. Absolutely not. I don't want you hiding yourself from me after I'd ruined that sore pussy just yesterday. Now stop being ridiculous. Look at me." Her refusal lets me stare at her bare body, and I instantly grasp the chance and use it to swoon over the ass that's been uplifted by her stomach-down position and bent knee. She seems quite silly from over here. All naked and still attempting to cover herself. "Baby, I can assure you hiding your face isn't proving beneficial when it's all I want to look at. When will you stop being like this, huh? You're all unwrapped for me, yet you refuse to show off those eyes. Go on, let me see that pretty face."

I settle back down in my chair, but like the defiant woman she is, she casts the blanket over herself entirely.

"Stop talking like that," she orders, voice muffled.

"What are you doing? Get out of there."

"No. Stop talking like that."

It's adorable how effortless it is to get her flustered. Just a pinch of sweet words then her cheeks bloom redder than a fresh rose growing in a garden just as vibrant as my own. "Interesting. And what exactly is your preference on how I speak?"

From the blow sounded underneath the blanket, I know she's struggling to inhale a plentiful amount of air—and is still hiding herself like I'm some kind of eerie man conspiring to kidnap her.

Again, she refuses to take on basic standards of upholding a conversation and ignores me, so I ask, "If it's my speech that sounds unpleasant to you, then I'm afraid I cannot change that. However, if it's the harmless forms of address that you're finding unpleasant, then I must ask: would you rather I call you a slut every so often instead?"

I tap at the armrest and await an answer that I never receive. For a short moment, as I accept her refusal and slowly prowl over to the bed, my mind searches into other possibilities. The cuffs by the bedside, with the shackles beside them and chains folded onto each other, remind me that she had clenched around my cock getting fucked with restrained wrists; that she had orgasmed with the thrill of having little input on what was conducted on her body and her control being restricted by my ruling. It's what coaxes me to muse, "I think you'd like it more if I were to call you a slutty whore. Putting em' together. You like the sound of that, Bella?"