he made me his bitch

I’m 18, 6’1”, fit, and bi. I had never had any experience with men before—plenty with girls, though. I had always fantasized about giving oral sex. Never about anal, but being on my knees and giving sloppy head to a nice cock had been on my mind for a long time, and two days ago, I decided to act on it.

I needed discretion, so I sought someone older, outside my circle, finding him on a dating app. He was 25, 6’3”, muscular, and seemed accommodating. The picture he sent showed a smooth, 17 cm cock—perfect for a first time. He accepted that I was only interested in oral and was eager for my inexperience. We texted, setting up the meeting. The excitement was overwhelming; I even agreed to try face-fucking later, a bold submission I hadn't fully processed.

The next day, around 7 PM, he sent the meeting location for 9 PM. I prepared meticulously, eager to please. When I arrived, he was punctual in his new, large Range Rover. I got in, and as he drove toward a secluded spot—an empty lot by an abandoned warehouse—the atmosphere in the car tightened. The darkness was perfect.

He turned on music, and we moved to the back seats. When he asked if I was nervous, I admitted it, but the nervousness was overshadowed by a rising heat. I began massaging his bulge through his pants, asking what he liked. His response was a low demand: "Sloppy. And it’ll be long; I can last thirty minutes. I like it rough too—face-fucking and choking." My simple reply, "Okay," felt both compliant and terrified. His bulge hardened under my touch, and I felt his pulse quicken.

He stood, shifting the front seat forward with a click from the center console, clearing space for me to kneel. As I returned to massaging him, he leaned back and issued his first command: "You’re going to be my bitch and serve my dick exactly how I like it." Before I could respond, he said, "Get down." He sat sideways, and his hand clamped onto the back of my hair, pulling my head toward his growing hardness. I kissed and slicked his bulge with my mouth, then helped pull down his pants and underwear. His cock sprang free, thicker and more veiny than in the photos, smelling richly masculine.

I started licking the sides to wet it, then cupped it with my hand. He reacted instantly, slapping my face. "No hands." Though I hadn't agreed to the term, my horniness drowned out any objection. He grabbed my hair again, slapped my face lightly with his dick a couple of times, and ordered me to suck. I took the tip, played with it briefly, and began the rhythm, bobbing up and down. His groans confirmed I was doing well. After about ten minutes of steady work, licking his balls and taking him deep, I pulled back, needing air. He opened his eyes. "I told you no hands, but okay, rest a little."

That was the chill part. He then leaned back, retrieved a small bag from the trunk, and told me to kneel on the seat. I placed my hands on his thighs and resumed sucking. Suddenly, he seized my hands, pinning them behind my back and smoothly snapping on a pair of cuffs. Confused, I looked up. He simply gripped my hair, stated, "I’m going to have fun with my bitch," and shoved his cock back into my mouth.

He began to brutally face-fuck me, driving fast, deep strokes. When the strain in my jaw became too much and I instinctively jerked my head away, he yanked me up by my hair and choked me. "Don't resist. Do as I say." He released me, and I started coughing, grabbing for air. He spat directly in my face and immediately returned to fucking my throat, harder this time, driving in until he was balls-deep, holding me pinned against the resistance for agonizing seconds. My mouth and throat burned, but with his cock filling my throat and my hands cuffed, I couldn’t fight the strength of him.

This brutal pace continued for what felt endless, perhaps ten minutes. My jaw loosened until I could accommodate his full length. When he finished, he ordered me to swallow or face another choking fit, so I complied. Afterward, he drove me back, confirming I had done a "good job" and that we would certainly repeat this.

When I returned home, the residual pain was intense, yet the memory of the cuffs and his dominance left me strangely aroused. I jerked off to the memories and fell asleep. At 6 PM the next day, a simple text arrived: "Hi." I replied, "Hi."

“You ready for another round?”

“You went a little rough on me the last time.”

He smoothly talked me into agreeing again. I felt a powerful pull toward that boundary. He instructed me to meet him in the exact same spot.

He arrived promptly. Seeing him in just a tank top, displaying his muscular physique, stoked my immediate need. I asked if we were returning to the dark lot. He offered, "We could, or we can go to my place if you prefer." I agreed, insisting he drive me back afterward. As he drove, he gave a directive: "Suck my dick while I drive." I immediately complied, kneeling between the seats, driven to please him in hopes of softening his approach inside his apartment. He called me his "good bitch" and slapped my ass a few times while his erection swelled beneath my mouth.

We arrived swiftly at an apartment building. Parking in the underground garage, we took the elevator up. He offered a drink, which I accepted. His apartment was cozy, and he handed me a strong 8% beer. I tried to keep the conversation light, but the alcohol, combined with my intense arousal, made me steer the talk toward what we would do next. He corrected me sharply: “You’re too fresh. I need you to learn how to be my slut.”

After my fifth beer, I was drunk and desperate. I moved toward him and reached for his erection. He slowly set his beer down and confronted me, his expression hardening.

“Did you ask permission?”

“Should I?”

“You see, that’s the first lesson.”

He aggressively grabbed my neck, his face inches from mine. “Always ask permission.” That small act of control only amplified my desire.

“Can I suck your dick, Daddy?”

“Now you’re starting to learn.”

He slapped my face and quickly stripped off his sweats and boxers. I dropped down and began sucking without using my hands. I tried my best, but after five minutes, he commanded, "Stop," and I immediately obeyed.

“Is everything okay, Daddy?”

“On the ground.”

I knelt before him. He grabbed my wrists and cuffed them behind my back, then stood up. “Now show me how deep you can take it.”

I pushed myself, but I only managed about three-quarters. He grabbed my hair and forced me downward, getting it all the way down and gagging me. He held me there for perhaps thirty seconds. When he pulled back, I gasped for air, but after five seconds, he started to fuck my face brutally. He pulled me by my hair, maintaining long, suffocating stretches without allowing me to breathe. I felt his dick deep in my throat as he raped my face. After ten minutes of this, he paused and stated,

“You are not doing a great job fucking, slut. You need to be punished.”

“Sorry, Dad—”

“Shut up, bitch.”

He yanked me up by my hair and dragged me to the bedroom, throwing me onto the bed. I landed belly down. He grabbed my legs, cuffed my ankles together, ripped my pants down, and began slapping my ass hard. After about five stinging slaps, he forcefully flipped me over.

“Daddy?”

“Shut up.”

He turned me around, my face pressed against the cool sheets, the sting on my backside a dull, insistent throb against the thrumming excitement in my chest. My wrists were still tightly bound behind me, and my ankles were secured together, leaving me spread-eagled and utterly helpless on the mattress.

“You still haven’t learned how to take what’s offered, have you?” His voice was a low, resonant rumble, close behind me. I could smell the beer and his musk mingling in the warm air of the room.

I didn't dare speak, just gave a slight, involuntary shudder as I felt the heat of his body drawing near. The rough fabric of the sheets scraped against my exposed skin.

He shifted, and I felt the weight of his large hand press down hard on my lower back, forcing my hips up slightly. The pressure was a deliberate announcement.

“I told you before, you’re my bitch tonight. And bitches don’t get to pick and choose what they serve.”

I felt his fingers—large, calloused, and entirely unapologetic—touching the damp heat between my cheeks. The initial contact sent a jolt of pure, electric panic mixed with a strange, dizzying surrender through me. I’d never entertained this idea, but pinned down, dominated, and already raw from the violent oral session, my body seemed to betray my mind’s hesitation.

“It’s time we try the other lesson,” he murmured.

Before I could process the thought, he pushed his thumb deep into my tight, unused passage. A sharp, involuntary cry was trapped in my throat as the sudden stretch sent a blinding flash of pain through me. I tried to clench, to pull away, but the cuffs held me rigidly in place, and his hand was immovable.

“Easy, baby,” he growled, though there was nothing easy about the tension radiating from him. He withdrew the thumb, letting the slickness pool for a moment before pressing it again, deeper this time, rocking gently.

“Don’t fight me,” he commanded, his voice losing its deceptive gentleness, hardening into pure authority.

He brought his other hand up to grip my hips, anchoring me firmly. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself. Then, with a single, smooth, unstoppable thrust, he pushed his entire length home.

The pain was immediate and absolute—a ripping, burning sensation that stole my breath entirely. The shock of fullness was overwhelming; it was far more intrusive than the soft give of my mouth. I arched against the restraints, a strangled, high-pitched sound escaping as the force of his entry drove the air from my lungs.

He paused for a beat, letting me absorb the invasion, his breath hot against my ear. “Good. You feel that? That’s submission.”

Then, he began to move. It wasn't the rhythmic, controlled pace of the earlier session. This was punishing, deep, and relentless. Each backward withdrawal scraped painfully, followed by a forceful reentry that hammered against some interior point that made my vision swim. He was utilizing his sheer size and strength, pulling my hips back against him with his free hand when I tried to instinctively retreat.

“Look at me,” he snapped.

He leveraged my cuffed wrists, pulling my torso up so I was forced onto my elbows, my head lifted just enough so I could see my own strained, shocked reflection in the dark surface of the bedside table. My eyes were wide, reflecting the dim light. I could see the dark shape of him burying himself inside me with every brutal stroke.

He didn't slow. He matched the intensity of my shock with his force, using my inability to move as leverage for deeper penetration. I choked on another silent scream, my body locked into a purely reactive state—pain, pressure, and the terrible, undeniable realization that I was completely his.

After what felt like an eternity of this tearing friction, he braced one hand against the bed and pulled my hips violently toward him, burying himself to the hilt one last time. He held himself there, shuddering, before letting out a deep, guttural roar and flooding me completely.

He stayed buried for a long moment, his weight heavy and suffocating, before finally pulling out with a wet, sucking sound that echoed loudly in the quiet room.

He let my body drop back onto the mattress. The sudden absence of pressure left me trembling and slick with sweat and release, the raw ache between my legs the only tangible proof of what had just happened.

He released the cuffs on my wrists, then quickly undid the ones binding my ankles. He stood, stepping away to retrieve some tissues.

“Get up,” he commanded, his voice already returning to a casual tone, the storm passed.

I struggled to obey, my legs unsteady and protesting every movement. I managed to sit up, pulling myself together weakly.

He tossed the tissues to me. “Clean yourself up. You did well enough for the first time, I suppose.” He paused, looking down at me with a predatory satisfaction that made my skin prickle. “See you next week, slut. You know where to find me when you want to learn some more.”

He didn't offer comfort, explanation, or even a goodbye kiss. He simply turned and began tidying his clothes, leaving me there, sore, violated, and inexplicably already anticipating the next lesson.