Her grip tightens around his throat. Thumbs are crisscrossed as fingers curl into the flesh under his angled jaw. Squeezing. 

His eyes gaze up at her blankly, still folded with life but somewhat empty and faded.

She can tell that his seedy mind is conjuring lewd thoughts, sucking them in through the stare to release an explosion of endorphins. Coursing them through the bloodstream for his balls to suckle up like two starving little larvae; food for his raging hardon.

She doesn't know exactly what fantasy is lighting up his mind; maybe a girl fingered by some stranger while riding in a crowded subway. Perhaps a clown, stoned on LSD, being masturbated by her loving husband while navigating her acid trip through a maze of delusional sexuality.

It doesn’t fucking matter, his cock is like a steeled sponge soaking up the depravity. He’s a sick fuck, but who is she to judge the perverted follies of the shameless?

So, she assumes her role, plays along, gives him what he clearly wants.

The whole act has been a bit of a learning process, she had never been asked to do anything like this for a partner before. When they’d done it the first time, she’d caved to her moralities and released her grip too soon. His hands had to move up, grasping her wrists, guiding and directing her to the ideal tension. Now, she can time her release perfectly by reading that pathetic look in his eyes. 

He hasn’t quite reached that precipice yet—the lowest of highs. She leans more of her weight to press deeper into the hold.

He’s flat on his back laying on the carpeted floor, naked, hands limply by his side. His pasty-white body is devoid of any real muscle tone. Legs stretch out straight with his toes flared and moving side to side, not violently, just vigorously. Like the anxious jitters of youthful anticipation, eager to tear into birthday prizes. Shaking, like he loves it.

Of course, he fucking loves it.

She is fully clothed as she straddles him, save for her pantiless crotch beneath a loose-fitting skirt. Her knees corral his relaxed hands to his side. No need for them to rip at her wrists anymore, she's a seasoned pro by now. His cock is inside her, but she doesn’t fuck him, she is merely a sheath of warmth for his added pleasure.

As best she can tell, she doesn’t play a part in his mental narrative. She is most likely just a  means to the end, a tool effectively providing the thrill. His thrill. And it has to be a female, he once told her. That adds to the excitement.

A fucking female.

To have the (presumably) weaker of the sexes administer such force, such dominance, such control; that is next-level shit right there. She didn't quite understand it at first, but over time it became more clear. The juxtaposition of her graceful elegance to an act of such physical power and perverse debauchery was hyper-erotic...for him.

She doesn't really give a fuck one way or the other.

For her, it has become somewhat cathartic. Frustrations, annoyances, and stresses that bedevil her life are released as she fulfills this fantasy of his.

She grits her teeth with a slight clench of her jaw and squeezes harder. This grabs his attention, shock at first, wide-eyed and glossy, but then elation. A slight shit-eating grin bending into the corners of his lips. She feels the ensuing twitch of his cock inside her.

His eyes flutter, pupils try to disappear behind their lids. A squiggly little worm of a vein begins to bulge just over his right eyebrow. Too soon. She pulls back on the tension and a thump surges past her fingertips, like that first knock under a blood-pressure cuff. His breathing regulates and he once again connects his stare with hers.

He voices his approval of her technique with a pig-like grunt.

They’ve been at it almost fifteen minutes, more if you account for the set-up. The muscles in her arms start to burn and she decides it’s time. She lifts her waist letting his meat slide out and land with a slight slap to his waist. His right hand slides under, takes hold, and starts to glide up and down his own shaft. Every once in a while, she can feel the spongy head press against the underside of her thigh. It disgusts her. Almost done.

He picks up his pace so she bears down, once again pinching off the supply to his feeble brain. Maybe the lack of oxygen distorts the reverie for him in an odd and perverse way, like some sex-drug. He doesn't fight it. Any normal human would. His only aggression is being taken out on his own cock.

Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.

She watches him closely, no admiration, just for the timing to masterfully relinquish her hold and intensify his orgasm. But as she watches and sees that squiggly worm of a vein reappear in his brow, she feels her own stir. Her heartbeat races.

The beating of his cock becomes twitchy and more of the white shows in his eyes. 

This is the part she’s come to love.

His body stiffens like a board and she feels the heat of his cum splash onto her ass cheek. 

Releasing her hold, she rolls next to him and quickly pushes two fingers inside herself.

No masturbatory movement other than to squeeze, pressing the butt of her palm into her clit and pinching her g-spot with her middle and forefingers. She closes her eyes to recapture the look in his once they rolled. Her sense of empowerment overwhelms and she writhes in climax as his ejaculate smears into the carpet beneath her.

Finished with him, she raises up, pushes her skirt down, and flattens it with her palms. Dignified.

She swipes five hundreds off of the bureau and turns to make sure he’s moving.

Sick fuck.

But who is she to judge?