Hostile Takeover


It makes me see red. I don’t know where it’s coming from, what underground source of anger that’s been simmering away inside me for god knows how long has suddenly boiled over, erupting like Krakatoa, making my whole body vibrate.

I am spoiling for a fight. For a feud. For a fuck. An angry, aggressive hostility-fuck, full of teeth and nails and fists and pulling of hair. I am filled with primal hunger, my animal need clawing at my insides.

If he senses my heightened state, he doesn’t say. He simply potters around the kitchen, making tea, pinching chocolate digestive biscuits out of the tin, and spying on the neighbours from the window. I watch him standing there, slack-jawed and in mustard-stained grey sweatpants that haven’t been washed in weeks, scratching his balls and dropping biscuit crumbs all over my clean kitchen counter.

“Must you do that?” I fume, feeling my pulse quicken.

He turns around and looks at me in surprise, his mouth hanging half-open and chocolate smeared around his lips. I can see the dark toffee- coloured sludge of semi-masticated biscuit in his gaping mouth. How attractive. Nice to know you’re still making an effort, you arse, I think to myself. I scrunch up a damp tea-towel in my tensed hands and throw it at him. It leaves a mark on his sweats. Great, another fucking stain to add to the bunch.


“Stand there like a doofus with your hand down the front of your trousers, eating all the fucking biscuits! I just cleaned this kitchen and you saunter in and mess it all up again!”

“Woah.” He lifts his hands, holding them open in front of his chest in a gesture of submission. “Alright, sorry ma’am.”

He smirks and gives a mock- curtsy.

“Fuck you,” I mutter as I take a sponge and wipe up what is, in fact, only one or two crumbs, and is probably not worth the amount of invective I am now spewing at him. But screw it, it’s the principle of the thing.

As I scurry around him, cleaning up all the non-existent mess I’ve accused him of making, I can feel him watching me, that bemused smirk on his face. I fight the urge to lash out like an angry cat and claw at his smug face.

“What’s getting into you lately?” he asks, sipping his tea nonchalantly.

What’s getting into me?!” I repeat, angrily. I wring my hands and clench my fists. The need to rip him apart consumes me. I watched him put his hot mug down on the countertop, and a splash of milky tea spills over the side and onto the surface.

Right. That’s it.

I grab a handful of material from his t-shirt, and march him out of the kitchen and down the corridor.

“I’ll tell you exactly what’s getting into me,” I growl, leading him behind me like a naughty puppy. “Right now.”

In the bedroom, I pull my clothes off, throwing them haphazardly onto the floor.

“Get naked,” I demand, and when he silently obeys my command, his eyes wide, I start to feel the damp drizzle of arousal between my thighs. As he flings the last of his clothing, his boxers, across the room, I see him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, and I can’t quite decide if he’s drooling with lust for me or simply wiping biscuit residue off his face. Either way, he looks slightly dumbstruck, surprised and hypnotised. It’s not like me to take charge like this; it is usually the other way in the bedroom, with him in control and me submitting to his will. But I can tell from the look in his eyes and the jutting of his erect cock that he is turned on by this sudden role reversal. He stands before me, in all his naked, infuriating, gorgeous glory, awaiting further instruction.

I raise my foot, place it flat on the mattress, and hold my knee open at a 90 degree angle to my hip, revealing my bare cunt. With a downward gesture of my finger, I order him to his knees and say firmly, “Get down there and eat my pussy.”

There is no question of his compliance. He sinks to his knees, reaches his hands between my open legs to cup my bottom and hold me in place, and obediently buries his face in my cunt. He devours my whole pussy with his open mouth while prising my buttocks apart and parting my wet slit, allowing his tongue room to penetrate deep between my labia.

He alternates his oral endeavours between curling his tongue into my cunt and sucking rapaciously on my clit, now pulsing and throbbing almost painfully. I grab a handful of his hair, hold him hard against my sex, and yank his hair roughly. He moans against my twitching pussy.

“Yes, fucking lick me! That’s right, eat it, you bitch.”

He moans again, even louder, at my use of his own dirty moniker, the naughty name he calls me when he takes control of me and uses my holes for his pleasure. He appears to be as turned on by the name-calling as I always am.

I rock my hips back and forth, as though I’m fucking his mouth the way he would normally do to me, gripping his hair, pulling it, guiding his head while he drowns in my juices. With his alternating motions, he takes me right to the brink, then concentrates his attentions elsewhere. It’s like a delicious edging, the rising orgasm building, then ebbing slightly as he stimulates a different set of nerves, setting fires all over my cunt and stoking them again and again until I can feel my whole body shaking.

“Not yet!” I shout, and yank his head away roughly. I hear him gasp as his hair follicles are pulled and his scalp stings. “Get on the bed. On your back.”

He scurries, obediently, onto the bed. Once he’s in place, I straddle his chest and slide up and down, rubbing my pussy against his torso and leaving a silvery trail on his skin. He groans and places his hands on my hips, guiding my sensual undulations, looking up at me with desire heavy in his eyes. Each time I slide myself down his body I feel his cock bobbing against my arse.

“That’s it, baby,” he urges. “Ride me.”

I slap his cheek. Not so hard as to hurt him or leave a mark, just enough to sting and surprise him. Indeed, he looks shocked, just as I intended.

“In my own time. I’m the fucking boss here, bitch.”

I slap him again, and his eyes sparkle. Another slap, and he begs, “Again.”


“Again. Hit me. Really fucking give it to me. C’mon.”

I fix him with an angry look, ready to remind him again that this is my show, and he immediately adds, “Please ma’am?”


“You like that, you little fucking manchild?”


“Yes, what?”

“Yes, ma’am.”


“Don’t you fucking forget it. I’m going to tear you apart”- slap,- “I’m going to make you beg for mercy.” Slap.

“Oh fuck, yes ma’am.”

I put my hands around his throat, but I don’t close my grip. Even in my current state of arousal, I am conscious of the fact that we haven’t discussed breath play, and he hasn’t consented. But he blinks up at me, and whispers, “Go on. Uh, go on please, ma’am.”

I squeeze my hands gently around his throat and watch the look of bliss that passes over his face as my grip closes. I only go so far before stopping; I can’t decide if it’s my fear of hurting him, or my fear that the rage will take me over, possessing me like a demon and making me choke the life out of him that makes me do so. Instead, I open my interlaced hands and trail my fingers down his shoulders, his clavicle, his breastbone, all the way down to his prick. With one hand around his shaft and the other on his trembling belly, I guide him inside my cleft and sink down slowly.

“Oh god,” we groan in perfect unison, as his prick fills the entire length of my slippery tunnel, his head pulsing deep inside me. I run my fingers over his chest as I grind and roll my hips, letting my clit rub against his pubic bone, loving the sensation of his pubic thatch against my hard pebble. As my fingers slide down his torso, I gradually begin to scratch him, clawing at his chest until I leave red welts all over his skin.

“Yes. Fuck yes,” he shouts, his body bucking beneath me.

I slap him harder on the cheek this time.

“Fuck yes, who?” I demand, panting hard, my head thrown back as I start to bounce up and down on his cock.

“Fuck yes ma’am! Oh god, oh god, oh god. Scratch me up again, please! Fucking slap me! Please ma’am. Please, baby. Please.

His head is thrashing up and down on the pillow as I carve more trails into his chest with my long fingernails.

“Goddamn it, I love you,” I cry out, my tits bouncing and swinging as I ride him like a bucking bronco in a rodeo. “You make me crazy sometimes, but I fucking love you.”

“I love you, too, baby….ma’am. I fucking love you so much…. I… I need to..I’m gonna…”

“Ask me nicely,” I pant. “Ask for permission.”

He looks at me with such urgent desperation in his eyes that I feel my own orgasm surge, ready to crest like a foaming wave on the ocean.

“Please, ma’am, I need to cum. May I cum? Oh god, oh god please let me…..”

“Yes. Cum now,” I shout, as my own climax begins to wash over me, making my nipples pucker and my cunt clench around him. “Cum in me.”

I feel the swell of his cock, and savour the sound of his strangled cry as his thick cum spurts and froths inside me. We surf the wave together, moaning, grinding against each other, and I slap, pound, and claw at his chest, and pinch his nipples hard between my fingers. As our simultaneous orgasms ebb, I lower my head to his shoulder and bite him hard enough to leave the imprint of my teeth in his flesh. Like I’m branding him. He may annoy the hell out of me, and I want to tear him to shreds sometimes, but he’s mine; my beautiful, sexy, perfect pain in the arse.

When our bodies eventually still and I climb off of him, he looks up at me with a beatific, satisfied smile. I can see tiny beads of perspiration kissing his eyelashes; they frame his blue eyes like early morning dew drops on a spider web.

“God, that was incredible,” he purrs, taking a strand of my hair and winding between his thumb and forefinger.

“Hmmm, it really was,” I agree, running my hand over his welt-ravaged chest. “You okay? I’m sorry if I was too much.”

He chuckles.

“You weren’t. You were perfect. Amazing. Do you feel better now?”

I grin, and laugh.

“I do, actually. It turns out that hate-fucking you is incredibly therapeutic.”

“Well then,” he murmurs, reaching up to cradle my head, then drawing me down towards his warm kiss, “I’m very happy to be of service to you in that regard. Anytime you need me ….ma’am…”

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Artworks: Fine Art of Bondage. Click images to visit website.

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28 thoughts on “Hostile Takeover

  1. As a switch, I can enjoy both perspectives of your story. It is refreshing to see a woman cast in the dominant role. Your ability to articulate carnal and animalistic desires is exceptional. This was a great read!

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Thank you so much, Brad. I’m so glad you enjoyed it. I’m switchy myself, so I appreciate that dual perspective too, and I’m really pleased that you felt that came across in this story. I don’t normally write a lot of Female Dominant fiction, but between giving stigma the finger and now this Fem-dommy story, I guess I must be channelling a lot of pent up aggression this weekend, lol 😁 💋

      Liked by 1 person

  2. This is awesomely hot! By the title, I would never have guess how much this post turned me on, and I’m a sub and wanted to be letting off some steam. Hate-fuck may generally not be a good idea, but when the time is right, it must be amazing!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you so much, Eve. I’m so pleased that you enjoyed it 💋
      Heehee, I think men must do the ball-scratch unconsciously and absent-mindedly. In the public domain of the office, too!!? Yikes, awkward 😂


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