My Boyfriend’s Bully Made Me His Plaything During the Game

I’m sitting here, my pink dress clinging to my skin, the cool fabric a stark contrast to the heat rising in my cheeks. The television blares in the background, some football game my bully insisted on watching. He’s standing there, his presence commanding, his eyes never leaving me. The room is filled with an unspoken tension, a silent agreement that I’m here for his pleasure, not the game.

Her Body, His Plaything

And as I sit, I can feel his gaze, a physical touch that makes my skin tingle. He’s got this way of looking at me, like I’m a prize he’s won, a trophy to be displayed. My arms rest lightly on my lap, a feigned calm that belies the storm inside. I’m his slave, his plaything, and he knows it. The room is a stage, and I’m the star of his twisted show.

The Game of Control

But it’s not just about the game on the screen. It’s about the game we play, the one where he’s the master and I’m the pawn. He moves me, positions me, all with a glance or a gesture. The wooden table behind me is a silent witness to our power play. I’m here because he invited me, because he wants to show off his control. And I let him, because in this dance, I’m the one who’s truly in charge. I’m the hotwife, the one who gets off on his dominance, on the thrill of being his slave. The door is open, a reminder of the world outside, but in here, it’s just us. The natural light filters in, casting shadows that dance with our movements. He’s the bully, the one who invited me over, and I’m the girlfriend, the one who came willingly. It’s a game of control, a game of submission, and I’m playing it to win.