A Lesson in Power

He enters the room with long strides of his legs. His fists are clenched at his sides. His eyes are dark. 
I look up, and immediately react: my mind empties of all thoughts, save instinct. My purpose now is only to please him. The brain-switch has been flipped: Whereas a second ago I busy being a writer, a friend, maybe even trying to be a bit of a comedian, now I am nothing but his sub. His. 
"On the floor," he says. "Kneel."
Quickly, I go to the floor, meeting it like a trusted confidant. I kneel on my knees, my thighs kissing my heels, and look up at him for further instructions.
With one hand, he lowers his pants. With the other, he grabs the back of my head, squeezing a fistful of my hair.
"Open," he says. He pulls my face toward his aiming cock. My lips graze the smooth skin of his helmeted tip.
I move my tongue around my mouth, trying to coat it with spit and make the oncoming barrage more smooth. The second it takes to do this makes him angry: I did not obey immediately. He is impatient.
He grabs hold of my chin and pulls it down, gaping my mouth. In one swift lunge of his hips, he is deep down my throat.
"Ah," he breaths. 
I struggle around his cock. My jaw has found itself at a strange angle, and quickly begins to ache in protest. My hand rises to grab his prick, re-aim it to a point my muscles and sinews can tolerate better.
He allows me this one interference, but then continues to ram my face. Each thrust hits the back of my throat, cutting off my breath. I snuffle and whine.
"Too hard? Too bad."
He does not stop, but looks down at me in pleasure. He knows I can take this, I can accept his show of strength and give him pleasure, besides. I circle his cock in my mouth, hollow out my cheeks and pull until he cries out in ecstasy. I am a good cocksucker. My snuffles subside. 
Soon, I think that I am the one in control, dictating his movements with my lips and tongue and cheeks, and yes, the occasional caress of my hands. His head is tilted up, his eyes closed. He is lost in his world of pleasure. I hum around his cock, a sound of certain pride.
He looks down, sees the assurance on my face, the pride in my eyes, laced with arrogance. He scowls.
"Move," he says, pushing me back. "Up against the bed."
He forces me back until my shoulders hit the bed. I am sitting on the floor now, my legs splayed out, and he comes to stand between them. Then, in one swift movement, he pumps into my mouth again.
My face tilts up by the force of it. The back of my head hits the bed. My nostrils are blocked, closed by the skin of his stomach. He does not move. I cannot breath. I struggle to move myself back. My legs kick.
He pulls away, just an inch, just enough for me to catch my breath. I put my hands on his hips and try to push him back farther.
"Oh, no," he says. "No hands."
He grabs my hands and holds them above my head. I whimper, looking up at him with pleading eyes as he resumes his deep throat thrusts. 
"You don't get to control how I do this," he says. "Not this time. You're just a mouth--my mouth. And I'll use it how I see fit."
His pumps grow stronger, harder, faster, giving me almost no time to breath between thrusts. His cock is a battering ram down my throat, stretching it wide and rubbing it raw. My jaws are screaming in agony. 
He leans further into my face, holding himself steady on the bed. My cries are muffled around his cock, but plaintive. Tears run down my cheeks.
He widens his stance, and in so doing, forces my legs wider apart. He releases one of my hands. Immediately, I bring it to his hip to try to push him away.
"No," he says. "Use it to rub your pussy."
I groan in shame.
"Do it," he says.
Slowly, I trail my hand down under my pants, and bury it in my wet, sticky pussy lips. I begin to rub.
"That's it," he says. "Keep going." His eyes are hooded and glassy: He is deep in his own bliss. Yet he keeps his eyes focused on my playful hand, moving with increasing speed in the crotch of my pants. 
"That's enough," he says. "Bring it back."
Slowly, I raise my hand back up. He grabs it as soon as it is in reach, holding it prisoner like my other. He pulls both high in the air, making me stretch. I struggle to keep my mouth steady around his cock. 
He continues to pump into my face, fucking it like a gaping cunt. 
I struggle against his hold, sliding my heels against the floor, trying to gain some traction to pull back. There is no use. I am stuck, trapped between the bed and his demanding cock. 
I can do nothing to direct him. I can do nothing to control what is being done to me. I am a vessel to be used, a hole to be fucked.
And I am incredibly horny. My pussy feels slick and wet, sticking to my damp panties. There is nothing I can do about it. My hands are as trapped as my face.
I can only moan, and suck, and lick, and look up at him with pleading eyes.
He sees my imploring expression and smiles in approval.
Soon, he is grunting with excursion, focusing on nothing but breaking open the dams of his pleasure. I close my eyes...and suck.
A second later, he is holding still against my lips as his cum shoots down my throat. I have no choice but to swallow the steady spray. My head jerks this way and that as I try to take it all in without gagging. He holds my head still, squeezing my cheeks between his steady palms. I swallow it all.
He pulls his rapidly depleting cock out of my mouth. Finally, he releases my hands. They slump down to the floor, weak and boneless. I turn my head to the side, breathing hard.
He kneels down next to me and looks into my eyes. Mine are full of craving submission. His are full of dominant pride.
He kisses me on the mouth.
"Don't try to take control without permission," he says.
"Yes, Sir," I answer weakly. 
"Good girl." 
He leaves the room.


This all happened yesterday, after I made an innocent (yet stupid) remark to Husband about how I sometimes feel like when I am sucking his cock, I am the one in control. He decided I needed a reminder who is really in charge, all of the time.
I have only the control he grants me. Any mistaken notions of power I presume to take are mere delusions of grandeur, childish beliefs that he can expel whenever the mood strikes him.
The power is his. The pleasure is his. He is often benevolent enough to share it. That is all.