He tightened the collar, and kissed her forehead, before his hands moved to the buttons of her blouse. She stood still, obedient, as the methodical stripping began.
Slowly, gently, a soft kiss on her neck, on her freshly-bared breasts. A hand inside her knickers, before they were peeled down.
His hand running through her hair.
And then, at the moment she braced herself to be grabbed, thrown, overwhelmed by his strength: a gentle whisper in her ear.
“I know what you want.”
“Yes, sir..”
“Tell me..”
“Please, sir, no.”
“..or remove your collar. That is always your right.”
“I.. I want you to fuck me, sir.”
No force. A hand leading her to the bed, sitting her down. Kissing her again. He stood, undressed quickly, pulled her onto her back. His hand parted her legs.
“Sometimes,” he told her, “a girl needs to be made to do things.” He moved on top of her. “But at times it’s rather lovely when she admits what she needs.”
He entered her deeply, kissing and caressing. This was.. different than before. Violent intimacy ceding to a deeper connection.
It didn’t take long: he’d craved her as much as she’d wanted him. Needed him. Needed his arms around her, afterwards.
And needed what followed. To be turned over. To have her wrists pinned tightly down. To have her arse taken, this time with no consideration for her pleasure. (This time, with every consideration for their more usual, joyful, forceful pleasure..)