The Temptation of Robin

God, he’s relentless lately. Insatiable. I’m not used to him like this. Often it’s a year or more between our excruciating, orgasmic little bouts, but this is the third time he’s come to me in as many months.




He’s eyeing me now, flirting, tempting… Come play with me again, my slut. You know you want it.




I do want it, but I hesitate. If I succumb to temptation and offer myself up yet again for his cruel pleasure, he’s just as likely to change his mind, suddenly have something else to do. He loves seeing my shoulders slump and the light in my eyes go dim at his withdrawal, loves seeing me tied up in knots. He gets off on knowing he can do that to me.




The sick fuck. Why do I love him so much when he toys with me like this? We’ve played together off and on for so many years, but he never stays long and when he leaves, I’m always afraid this will be the time he doesn’t return.



He knows it, too, the bastard.




He crooks a finger and gives me that sexy, innocent smile I know is a lie. Come on, my slut, let’s play. Trust me.




Yeah, right. I must look like a fool to him.




But I can’t help myself.




My heart racing, I give him a grudging nod and brace myself. I know I’ll probably regret it, but I have to take the chance once more. When he finally gives it to me the way I want it, the way I need it, I can fly higher than I ever thought possible. There’s no other feeling like it.




I want him to grab me by the throat and just do it, take me fast and hard, like the flood from a breaking dam that sweeps away everything in its path. Destroys it. Obliterates it. He’s done that to me a few times and it was exhausting and traumatic but breathtakingly good.




Instead, he toys with me. Are you sure you want to play, Robin? Maybe you’d rather read a book.




The bastard. Suddenly I have to have it. I can’t wait. I need it. Now.




Please, I whisper. I’m desperate. I’ll do anything you want.




He looks bored. Fine, but you’re taking it up the ass this time, slut. Without lube. Without prep of any kind. Strip and bend over. Now.




I shudder, knowing he’s going to make work for it, make it hurt as badly as he can for as long as he can before giving me some relief—if he gives me any at all, which he may not. He promises nothing. He’s a sadist as well as a Dom. He could pull out with a cruel little grin just when it’s starting to feel good, when I’m only beginning to fly, and walk away.



He’s done it before, left me dangling on a precipice and not come back to finish me for weeks, or even months. That’s when I hate him as much as I love him. How can he leave us both unsatisfied for so long? There must be more than a little bit of the masochist in him too—he must derive at least some satisfaction from denying his own release. I can’t allow myself to believe he takes his pleasure elsewhere.




Or he might come in me, loudly, violently, giving me everything he’s got, and still leave me unsatisfied. It hasn’t happened yet but there’s a first time for everything. Our twisted little games can’t be mutually satisfying every single time, can they?




I’m bound to find out.




Swallowing hard, I bare myself to his impenetrable gaze and bend over, wondering what new and awful torture he’s going to throw at me this time. Whatever it is, I hope it’s worth it. It has to be worth it. It would be madness to let myself believe otherwise.




But I’m already beginning to fly just knowing he’s close. He’s waiting, watching.




Oh God, I hope it’s not as bad as last time. That was pure hell. I didn’t think I’d survive, though in the end it was worth the grinding, protracted agony. Please, don’t let it hurt as bad as it did last time.




My muse chuckles darkly and I shake as my hands hover over the keyboard.




You think that book was bad? he murmurs, tickling the sphincter of my imagination with his beautiful, terrible tool. Just wait…