Rough Sex: The Night a Paypig Flipped the Script on Me

I don’t lose. I don’t get thrown. I don’t get taken. I am the one who decides how hard you get used, how much you suffer, and when you’re allowed to finish. That is the rule. Last night during a session built around rough sex, some cocky little paypig decided the rule was optional. I should have hung up. I didn’t. And that pisses me off almost as much as it still makes me wet.

It started the way it always does. I had him on his knees in his own house, stroking on command, thanking me for every insult. I was topping him through the phone like I own the air he breathes. I told him exactly how I’d pin him down, slap his face, wrap my hand around his throat, and fuck him like he was furniture. Classic Shannon. Mean. Precise. In control. Then he laughed. Not a nervous little laugh. A low one. And he said, “Keep talking, redhead. I’m coming for that attitude.”

When the Top Gets Taken

I mocked him, of course. Called him a delusional worm. Told him to squeeze his balls and remember his place. He did. Then he started talking over me. Describing how he’d grab my hair, shove me onto my back, and give me the kind of rough sex I usually only dish out. He didn’t ask. He narrated. Every filthy detail. How he’d hold my wrists above my head. How he’d bite my shoulder. How he’d slam into me until that smug little smirk of mine cracked. I told him to stop. My voice didn’t sound as sharp as I wanted it to.

That was the problem. I was still topping… and I was also dripping. I hate admitting that. I hate that I let him keep going. I hate that I started touching myself while he described pinning me down and using me like I’d been using him for months. He made me say it. “Tell me you want it rough.” I almost hung up out of spite. Instead I hissed it through my teeth like it was a threat. He groaned like he’d just won something, and I swore I was going to drain his wallet for the privilege.

The rest of the call was a fight I refused to lose and still somehow lost. I kept barking orders. He kept flipping them. I’d tell him to stroke slower. He’d tell me to rub harder. I’d call him pathetic. He’d tell me to moan louder. Every time I tried to snatch the power back, he met me with that same filthy confidence and another round of rough sex talk that made my thighs shake. I came first. I hate that even more. I came while he described holding me down and fucking me through it, and I still made him thank me after like I hadn’t just been wrecked by my own damn session.

Don’t get comfortable. This does not happen often. I am still the Top. I still own the call. I still own the wallet. But if you’re one of those rare, dangerous little idiots who can actually turn the tables on me during rough sex without forgetting who you belong to… I might let you try. Once. Then I will take the power back and make you pay for every second I lost it.

If you think you can handle a redhead who does not like being flipped, come find me on my profile and let’s see how long you last.