Secret Confessions of a Smart Girl

I have a dirty little secret.

I like it when men look at me.

I came late to this sense that I can attract with my body, with my glance, with my walk, and, as a former ugly duckling, on the days I feel beautiful I enjoy being a swan.

It’s a novelty to me, having a figure they want to lok at, skin they want to touch, a body they want to be in, and it’s not all that often I believe they do.  Still, there are days like today, days when I feel strong, sexy, and sensual and I want to draw their eyes to me like a magnet.

I stride down the street, and I smile when their eyes slide down soft curves, linger inapprorpiateely on secret places, and then return to meet my own.

I imagine their hands, their mouths, taking a similar journey. When a beautiful boy with curly hair and golden eyes matches my grin with one of his own, I think “what if?”

What if I wait for him outside the building? What if I pull him into the alley that waits on the edge of the teeming crowd and press against him, skin to skin, tongue to tongue?  What if I take him in my hand, my mouth, my cunt? What if I swallow his cries, his lust, his body, to fill the chasm of desire that is my mind?

It’s over in an instant, but my eyes follow him as he walks away. I wonder if he’s also thinking, “what if?”

A few weeks ago, I was playing with someone who has negotiated that his primary partner needs to ask him before she’s allowed to have an orgasm. If she doesn’t… punishment.

I’d never played like that, and if you had asked me in advance it would not have been something I would have thought I would be particularly into.  I often have, after all, enough trouble having orgasms that I don’t really want to risk not having them when they seem to want to show up.

That night however, when he told me I had to ask for his permission to come, I discovered something fascinating. Asking helps.

Being told I had to ask for permission made orgasming substantially easier. It was like the responsibility for my pleasure had been taken completely off my shoulders. I didn’t have to worry about it anymore. Plus, having that intimate a decision under someone else’s control was incredibly hot.

Playing with one of my regular partners, more recently, in happily submissive headspace I found myself asking to orgasm - even though it was not something we’d negotiated or actually done before. He gave me permission, and *boom* I was  falling over the edge.

In my mind, t’s all about the control.

Sexual control, being told what to do, how to move, what is and is not allowed is incredibly hot for me. This is especially true since a lot of times I find sexual touch to be somewhat physically and emotionally overwhelming, and being told to take it makes that fact tolerable or even exciting. It makes it not about me.

I like it when it’s not about me.

I like it a lot.

–

There’s also something insanely hot about someone whispering forcefully  in your ear, “I want you to come for me. Now.” It may only work, for me, if I’m already close, but god… the thought of being punished for not being able to, if it’s framed in a way that doesn’t make me feel defective or like a failure, is kind of hot in itself.

It also helps, a lot, when it’s set up as “you’re not allowed to orgasm” without permission. That takes the pressure off and makes failure, if you can’t avoid it, kind of a win win. Well, at least if you’re me.

It all started with the butt bow.

My girlfriend had kept it when she’d cut my dress off of me six months earlier, and all of a sudden she was holding the hideous thing over my head… or more accurately over my ass.

“I’m going to pierce you and stick this to your butt,” she said jokingly.

Horrified at the thought of a blood borne fashion faux pas, I tried to forestall her, “If  you wait, I’ll get you some matching red ribbon and you can do a corset piercing with the bow placed neatly at the bottom.”

“Oooh,” she said, “that’s actually a pretty cool idea.”

Thinking it through a little more, I agreed, and we made plans to make art at a party we were planning on attending the next time we saw each other. After all, we reasoned, if we were going to do something that nifty we wanted an audience for it… and photographs.

It worked out great.

Want to see? Click on the more tag below. I didn’t want to freak anyone out who is bothered by piercing or who is used to this being a text based blog and thus marginally safe for work.

(more…)

“The advantage,” he said, “of running a kinky porn site is that no one cares whether or not you have sex at work.”

I raised my eyebrow at him, “and I suppose it’s your duty to make sure that all of the equipment stays in working order?”

“Exactly. I’m glad you understand.” He started walking towards me with a look on his face that was either going to get him jumped or send me running towards the hills.

I stood my ground.

“You,” he continued, reaching towards me and beginning to undo the buttons on my dress, “are wearing far too much clothing to help me in my maintenance tasks.”

“I’m so sorry,” I replied, “I didn’t realize I had been recruited for janitorial duty.”

“Not so much janitorial,” he said, ripping the dress the rest of the way off and making me gasp, ” as high maintenance.”

I started to protest and had the air knocked out of me as he flung me over his shoulder and carried me naked down the stairs.

“I think you can manage it.” he said and I cursed to myself as ribald catcalls from the few employees who still remained at work followed us from his office down to the basement.

“I am not high maintenance,” I said as he dumped me onto the cold concrete floor and went to rummage around in a supply closet.

“Of course you’re not, darling,” he responded without bothering to look at me where I sat pouting on the ground. “Be a dear and make yourself comfortable on that spanking bench while I find the equipment I’m looking for.”

I stood up, walked over to where he was rummaging in the closet, and bit him on the ass.

“OW!” he cried, turning around to look at me in surprise and consternation.

“I am not high maintenance.” I repeated, smiling at him in a way that I knew would simply egg him on.

“You are also not obedient,” he responded mimicking my tone. “Would you like it better if I grabbed you by the hair, dragged you over to that bench, forced you down on it, and tied you so tightly you won’t be able to move?”

“Why do you think I bit you on the ass?” I answered in my best innocent tone, and squeaked and protested in amused and feigned outrage as he proceeded to do just that.

Tied to the bench, legs spread, ass in the air, with a lovely view of nothing even remotely interesting, I listened as he went back to rummaging through the closet.

“You’re the boss,” I commented, “You’d think you’d know where things were.”

“I do,” was the mumbled reply, “when other people put them back where they belong.” I heard a crash and a curse and then the sound of someone digging himself out from under a pile of what I could only imagine were either chains or a nest of pissed off metal snakes. “Oh! There they are.”

My view changed to one of his leather clad feet and denim covered legs. In his left hand was a group of what looked like rubber covered C clamps of various sizes.

“What,” I said, “You’re worried the furniture is coming apart and have to hold it together with those before you play with me?”

“Oh no, my sarcastic little moppet,” he replied, “I have something much better in mind for these.”

Dumping all but one of the clamps on the floor he continued to talk while unscrewing the device he still held to open it wider. “I remembered that you really like pressure point play, and I thought to myself ‘How can I hurt her horribly without having to tire out my hands the way I did last time.’ Then it occurred to me that we had these. I don’t think anyone’s had the chance to test them out yet. You’ll have to let me know how they work.”

At that point he stepped up to me and began prodding the muscles of my arm looking for the place that, when he pushed on it, would make me gasp. Finding it, he took the clamp he had just opened and screwed it down tight enough to produce amazing waves of pain.

“How’s that?” he asked.

I moaned.

“I rather thought you’d enjoy it,” he continued, “weird little masochist that you are,” and then he continued to place various other clamps on my other arm, my legs, and my ears until I was overwhelmed with the constant, unrelenting pain.

It was incredibly intense, but blissfully so. With no impact to shy away from, I could just let the waves of agony wash over me and take me out of my head.

I zoned out for a while, simply enjoying the sensations, and then started back to myself when he knelt down before me, grabbed me by the hair, and raised my head to look in my eyes.

“Are you enjoying yourself, little girl?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Would you like more?”

I nodded again.

“Would you like me to fuck you?”

I nodded vigorously.

“Good,” he said, unzipping his pants and pulling on a condom, “then suck my cock.”

I moaned around his cock as he held my head and pushed it deep in my throat. It was an awkward angle, but the combined motivation of the pain and the thought of him fucking me the way I so desperately wanted drove me on. I choked and gagged, but kept working on his gorgeous cock, hoping that my efforts would be rewarded, and they were.

“Gods,” he said, “I think I’m going to have to fuck you now,” and he walked around behind me to stand between my spread legs.

Reaching his hand out, he found me already wet and ready, and when he asked, “Do you want me to remove the clamps before I fuck you?” I shook my head.

“Do you want me to make them tighter?”

I hesitated, and then nodded.

“Good girl,” he said, and, after tightening the clamps on my arms to the point of agony, pushed himself inside.

I moaned, as I always do, at the feeling of his cock inside me, rubbing against me, bringing me wave after wave of pleasure. The combination with the pain was incredible.

“You like it, don’t you,” he said, “when I fuck you like this? When I bend you over, hurt you, make you beg for it, and then use you like the series of holes you are?”

“Yes,” I moaned and pushed back against him as far at the rope would allow.

He continued talking while he fucked me, his words and the sensations pushing me closer and closer to orgasm, “You’re just a little slut, aren’t you? You’d probably love it if I turned the cameras on, and invited my employees down to give me a little show.”

I whimpered a little at the thought.

“Just think about it. All of them looking at you, seeing you like this. Using you, two or three at a time. You couldn’t do anything about it, tied down the way you are, and you’re such a little whore, I bet you’d like it. One guy in your mouth,” he reached around to start playing with my clit, “another using this soaking wet cunt, and maybe a big fat dildo up your ass”

I orgasmed at the thought of it, jerking the ropes tight around me, and then collapsing back onto the bench as he continued to fuck me, saying, “I could sell the tapes all over the Internet, and invite strangers to come use you anyway they liked.” He increased his pace, “Or I could just hurt you more,” he finished, and, grasping the front of my pubis so hard I knew I would have bruises for a week, fucked me to completion.

After we both got our breath back, he released the clamps, untied me, and carried me over to the black leather couch that sat in the corner of the dungeon, sitting down on it and then pulling me into a little ball in his lap.

With his hand stroking my hair, we sat in contented silence for what could have been minutes, or could have been hours, until I finally got my voice back.

“Just so you know,” I muttered sleepily, nuzzling my head into his chest, “I think they work.”

“I noticed,” he responded, cuddling me closer. “I was just wondering what we should test next.”
–
_{Note: I have no idea if this would work in real life, but it was inspired by a torture scene in a science fiction book I just read where the bad guy screwed clamps onto a series of pressure points to give intense pain without causing any damage. I really like pressure point play and the scene made me want to experiment… or get violently beaten and fucked… or something.}

In celebration of reaching my 100,000th page view, I decided to write some porn.  Then, when I got halfway through writing it I got distracted and had to write a different story instead.  It only makes sense, I suppose. One story for 50,000 views, two for 100,000. I’m not sure where all of you came from, but thanks for reading.  My second thank you will probably be up sometime later this week.

–

He enjoys the fact that I can’t get enough of his body.

Whenever we’re alone together, it’s all I can do to keep my hands off of him. I am constantly restraining the desire to ask him to fuck me or beg to suck his cock.

It’s hard to be near him without thinking of sex, without thinking of his hands hurting me, his teeth on my throat, his cock inside me.

It makes it difficult to go on more traditional “dates.”

Still, I can control myself. I can be calm, relaxed. I can sit across from him with my back straight and my eyes open and have a conversation about the weather or about the current economic crisis. I can talk to him without staring improperly at his hands or his lips and imagining them on me.

I can be good.

Except when I can’t.

He asked me to dinner. Just the two of us. Someplace where we’d both have to dress like adults. Someplace where I’d have to behave – quiet voice, still hands, innocent gaze.

I thought it sounded nice. We could act like grownups. We could, possibly, even have a conversation that didn’t include any discussion about how much I wanted his cock shoved down my throat or how I was imagining what it would feel like for him to beat me until I cry. It would be interesting. An experiment. I agreed.

That night, when he picked me up at my apartment, he looked at the knee length dress I was wearing and said “Are you wearing underwear with that? You really don’t have to. In fact. I don’t think you should.” Then he sent me off to change.

That’s when I knew I was in trouble.

Just taking off my underwear made me hot. The thought of going out, naked under my dress, made me want to get down on my knees and beg to take his cock in my mouth. It made me want to beg him to fuck me just to take the edge off. I was soaking wet by the time I made it back to the living room.

“I’m not sure,” I said, “that this is a good idea.”

“What, going to dinner?” he responded.

“Going to dinner, without underwear, when all I can think of is your cock. I don’t suppose there’s time for you to fuck me first? Otherwise I’m going to spend the entire night running to the bathroom and worrying about dripping on the seat.”

“You want me to fuck you?” he asked. “You want me to bend you over the couch right now and take you like the slut you are before whisking you off to dinner? You want me pull your dress up over your head, smack your ass until it’s bright red and then shove myself inside you until you scream?”

“Yes, please sir, yes,” I begged, my hands going to the front of his pants and my lips to the base of his throat.

“No” he said pleasantly, taking my hands from his zipper, and wrapping them around his neck. He kissed me and finished, “you’re just going to have to wait.”

“You, sir, are an evil son of a bitch.” I responded.

“I know,” he replied. “That’s why you like me.”

I went to put on my coat when he called me back.

“Oh wait,” he said, “I forgot something,” and he pulled a remote control vibrating egg out of his pocket, bent me over the edge of the sofa, and unceremoniously shoved it deep inside my cunt. “Don’t lose that during dinner,” he continued, and then wiped his fingers on a tissue he pulled from his pocket and turned and walked out the door.

I was cursing when I caught up to him, and muttered nasty things under my breath all the way to the car.

As we reached its doors, he grabbed me by the hair and shoved me up against the side of the vehicle making my eyes go glassy and my head go light. “You should be quiet now,” he said firmly. “We’re going to have a nice dinner, and no one is going to know that anything whatsoever is going on.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied meekly, and that’s what we did.

We had a lovely dinner.

The food was amazing. The conversation was not, since every time I’d get distracted enough from the awkwardness of my situation to try and talk about something other than the weather he’d turn the egg on and force me to spend all my attention on trying not to squirm.

Then there were the innuendos.

I won’t repeat them.

I will simply say that, to an outsider, nothing about our conversation would have been in the least remarkable, but to me every other word was complete torture.

I must have excused myself to run to the ladies room at least 15 times.

The waiter probably thought I was on drugs.

At last, it was the end of the meal. When the waiter asked if we wanted dessert, I don’t think I’ve ever said “no” quickly in my life.

He flicked the vibrator to on and asked for a dessert menu.

I crossed my legs tighter to keep from squirming, bit my tongue to keep from cursing, and simply said, “Please.”

He asked for the check.

I pulled on the coat I’d been sitting on all night (I get quite chilly, I’d said) and followed him to the car.

“How are you doing?” he asked, as we pulled out of the parking lot and started to head back home.

“With all due respect, sir, if you do not find a secluded spot, pull over this car, and fuck me mercilessly, I may never speak to you again.”

“Is that any way for a proper young lady to act? I just took you out for a nice dinner,” he said. “You should thank me, or at least ask nicely”

“You want me to ask nicely?!?!” I raised my eyebrow at him.

“Well that is how good girls get what they want.” Stopping the car at a light, he turned to look at me and said in the voice that always  sends shivers down my spine, “Besides, you know I like it when you say please.”

“Please, sir, will you please pull this car over and let me have your cock?” I begged, “Will you please use me, sir? I don’t care how, I just want your cock inside me, and I don’t want to wait any longer.” He flipped the vibrator on and turned his head to the front as the light changed to green. “Please, sir. Please fuck me. I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Just use me. Please, sir. Whatever you want. Anything you want. Just please give me what I need.”

“As soon as we get home,” he said, not even turning to look at me,  “I’m going to shove my cock down your throat and then take you so hard you beg me to stop. Until then, however, you’re just going to have to wait.”

So I did.

And he did.

It was a very nice dinner.

I don’t know how the scene started.

I knew he was a nice man, but had only discovered a real interest in playing with him 12 hours before when, entirely out of the blue, he gave me an excellent spanking and then cuddled me and scritched my head.

I like head scritches.

That night,  he and I ended up cuddling while my girlfriend and his wife were having some very hot sex**, and somehow things converted.

It may have been because I was so tired and happy with the snuggling that I  stopped watching the incredibly hot lesbian sex. I’m not sure. All I know is that suddenly my hands were pinned over my head and somehow he was hanging out inside it.

The problem with playing when I’m that tired is that it’s hard to frame a coherent narrative of what happened afterward.

These are the things I remember:

• Having my legs forced apart by his legs and my arms pinned above my head.
• Thinking “oh yes, manhandling is good” as I was getting thrown around.
• Face slapping. Lots of brutally wonderful face slapping.
• Negotiating by saying “yes” when things made me happy, and there being almost nothing I particularly wanted to say “no” to.
• More spanking.
• Being held down by his belt.
• Clear expressions of desires.
• Becoming insanely turned on by the combination of power exchange and violence.
• Getting fucked by his hand in a vibrating glove and told that I had to ask permission to orgasm.
• Being completely shocked about the fact that I ended up asking. Twice.
• Enjoying the fact that meanness was pleasantly interspersed with cuddling and petting, and feeling comfortable enough to ask  if he would hurt me when I wanted him too***.

The instantaneous level of connection and sense of being, at least in that moment, on exactly the same page was incredibly hot. I remember thinking at the time, “either he reads me incredibly well, or we have remarkably convergent kinkual interests.” He pushed my buttons so effectively that I also had a vaguely coherent moment of wondering if it was possible that he had read this blog****.

It was quite a lot of fun.

It was also a complete and utter surprise.

–

_{*It’s a not so terribly well known fact that quickest route into a girl’s pants is a good head scritch. Well, maybe not, but they’re nice. Very relaxing, when done right… where right is “in a way that does not make me pant and shake my leg like a dog.” Not that that isn’t fun too…}

_{**Given the women involved, the “very hot” is kind of obvious. With those two, how could it not be?}

_{***Not that I can’t orgasm without pain or explicit power play, but, at least when I’m having sex with someone else, they make it a hell of a lot easier to get over the edge.}

_{****At the time, the answer was no.}

There are many different ways to submit.

Sometimes I’m strong. Sometimes I’m scared.

Sometimes I’m quiet.

I don’t know how I got there inside my head or why it was where I needed to go.

It may have started with the need to focus deeply inside myself, to fit more tightly inside the envelope of my skin, in order to ignore the sounds that were swirling all around me.

It may have been the weapon, a singletail, or the mood of the man I was playing with - the man I play with most often these days, a man who I suffer from an overwhelming desire to please.

It may have been the moon.

Whatever it was, however, I ended up silent.

We moved, in the middle of things, to a place to be alone. We moved at the edge of anger, and maybe that’s what kicked me over the edge. I wanted the moment together - the connection. I wanted the sense that this was all there was to think about, the only place to be, and so I ended up still.

It wasn’t about being stoic.

The whip against my skin hurt, sometimes deliciously but other times simply painful, and all I wanted to do was soak it up.

I felt grounded, like there was a deep well of acceptance in me waiting to be filled - with pain, with touch, with words, it didn’t matter. I was silent.

I stood, and I didn’t want to scream.

I didn’t need to scream.

I needed to stand.

Earlier that day I had yelled in pain, begged at the top of my lungs for him to stop, needed to be told that it was supposed to hurt because that was how he liked it, and fought to stay in the role I choose.

This time, however, whip raining tears of fire across my back, I was quiet. Not completely, but most of the times  when the pain became too much to bear I simply let it bend me over and then stood up to wait for more.

“You’re feeling deeply submissive, aren’t you?” he asked me.

I nodded and was far too content to even want to make a sound.

The beating continued, and I stood, head bowed, hands before me, and waited for each stroke to fall.

At the end of the scene, curled up on his lap, back aching, still silent, I realized there was someplace else that I wanted to be.

I slithered to the floor to kneel naked at his feet, feeling happy and still.

Still and content.

Quiet.

Second Scene:

He took away my opposable thumbs.

He folded my hands into fists and then wrapped them with vet wrap until I had black paws at the ends of my arms instead of human hands and informed me that I had ceased to be a member of the primate kingdom.

It made me growl.

There is something to be said for being outclassed.

When in a scene, I don’t want to escape, don’t want to avoid, don’t want to hurt, and so I will not fight unless I cannot win.

My girlfriend disagrees. “What’s the point?” she says, “of fighting when there’s no chance that you’ll succeed.”

“I win,” I say, “by giving everything I have and losing. It’s not so often that I have to truly admit I’m powerless.”

Playing with him makes me aggressive. You wouldn’t think there would be space in my head to be both aggressive and submissive at the same time, but there is.

The first time we played, it was an accident. He wanted information that wasn’t mine to give. I told him he couldn’t have it. He said he could get it out of me. I dared him to try.

Exquisite pain. Wonderful violence. Agony at the very edge of control. Defiance was my motivation, and knowing that I was safe in his hands, that he would hurt me but not damage me… I won.

I had bruises in the shape of his hands for days, and he still doesn’t know what it was I refused to tell him. It was insanely hot.

Playing with him brought out the animal in me. It felt almost like being two great cats. He might be the apex predator, but I was a hunter in my own right. We both had teeth and claws.

So I proposed scene two, and ended up with no hands.

It was strange to see black pads at the ends of my hands instead of fingers. It put immediate distance between my mind and the normal world.

Then he told me to fight.

What ensued? Violence- teeth, claws, and impact. Struggle- pinned down and resisted with extraordinary strength. Pain- to which I refused to give up.

At the end of the scene, covered in sweat, bite marks, and bruises, exhausted and exhilarated from the workout, he went to get a pair of scissors to release my hands.

As he reached for them, he saw me start to remove my bonds myself, laughed, and told me I was welcome to try.

I had my thumbs back in under a minute, and smirked as I threw the wrappings down onto the floor.

“Next time,” he said, “I’ll have to wrap them tighter.”

Next time? I thought, I can’t wait.

(A long overdue distraction.)

“Does it bother you,” I asked as I took off my clothes, “that I’m just using you for sex?”

“Not particularly,” he smirked, “although I rather think it’s more a matter of me using you.”

“Potato, potahto. ” I folded my clothes and put them on the chair by the bed, “Because for me it’s all about…”

He smacked me hard across the face, making me gasp and then grit my teeth to finish the sentence, “getting exactly what I want.”

I gathered myself together, looked him straight in the eye, and challenged him, “Do it again.”

“You’re in a mood today,” he told me, a glint in his eye, as he ran his fingers across my jaw line, the touch making me press my cheek against his hand.

“Me?” I quipped, “In a mood?”

He raised an eyebrow and smacked me again gently, fisting his other hand in my hair to keep my head still.

“Mmm.” I purred happily, holding his eyes with mine. “No, if I were in a _mood_ I’d say that you hit like a girl.”

“Really?” he asked tapping his fingers against my slowly reddening cheek, “That’s really what you’d say?”

He backed me up until I was against the bed, and then pushed me down onto it and climbed up so that he was kneeling above me.

“How about this, then,” I asked, feeling my eyes going dark and the space between my legs growing wet. “Do it again, please. Harder.”

“Well…” His eyes began to gleam, “if you’re going to ask so nicely,” and he smacked me again.

“That’s what I like about you,” I said, breathing harder. “You’re so obliging.”

He fisted his hands harder in my hair, pulling my head back and making me close my eyes and gasp.

“You say the nicest things,” he said, and as he his hands from my hair I heard the sound of a zipper opening and felt his weight leave me as he removed his pants. “Now let’s see what else you can do with that mouth of yours.”

It was an awkward angle for cock sucking, but you can do anything if you’re motivated, and I certainly was, both by my own desires and by his hands at the back of my head moving me into position or holding me still so that he could fuck my throat.

I love sucking cock. It’s so delightfully undignified, and I gasped and choked on my own saliva as he used my mouth the way he wanted to, moaning my own desire around him.

When he pulled out of my mouth I made a sad little sound of disappointment.

“What was that?” he asked, pushing me back down when I tried to sit up and follow him.

I whimpered up at him wordlessly, trying to figure out what I was supposed to be answering, but as usual having sex with him had turned me into a puddle of incoherent need.

“Disappointed, are you?” he asked, his hand traveling down by body to grab between my legs and make me simultaneously scream and moan. “You don’t want me to fuck you?”

I shook my head, hard, in negation, and said quietly, “Please.”

“Please what?” he said, his hand alternating between causing me pleasure and pain.

“Please fuck me,” I writhed under him.

“Beg,” he demanded as he positioned himself above me and waited.

“Please.” I whimpered, “Please fuck me. Please use me. I love the way you fuck me. Please. Please. I want you inside me, please,” and I gasped as he finally, slowly pushed himself in.

It felt incredible. It always feels incredible, and then he found the angle that pushes him deep against my cervix and makes me writhe in pain.

“Oh god,” I whimpered, as he did it again, simultaneously loving it and wanting to push him away, holding his arms as though I could somehow keep him from hurting me so deeply inside but at the same time not wanting him to stop.

“Yes,” I gasped.

I forced myself to open my eyes and give him both my pain and my desire. It was hard to keep from closing them, but I love the look in his eyes when he hurts me. The fact that it’s a turn on to him to make me ache, make me scream, is insanely erotic. I often feel somewhat selfish as a submissive, and a masochist, just wanting to be hurt and used, so to see in someone’s eyes that hurting me works for them is a powerful drug.

He put his hand over my nose and mouth and took away my air as he continued to push himself inside of me. As always, the action made me go completely still – a combination of fear and submission, my body’s way of saying “Yes. Anything. You have the power over me. Show me. Use me,” and the focus it gave me was incredible. For long seconds, my world was nothing but fear, sex, and the look in his eyes that said he knew exactly how much power he had over me and how much he wanted to use it, nothing but long moments of sensation and terror and wondering if I’d tap out or surrender to my desire to let him do whatever he wanted, even unto insanity.

I tapped out, and gasped for air as he continued to fuck me. It was still so good, but I wanted that look back, that feeling of utter and complete control. I wanted him to fuck me the way he wanted to, and not care about me as anything other than a vehicle for his pleasure, a toy to be used exactly the way he wished. I wanted to give him everything that he wanted and keep nothing for myself. I wanted to put my life in his hands*.

Finally, as I stopped gulping in oxygen as though it were water, I looked him in the eyes and in terror and acceptance told him, “Do it again,” and he came inside me just as I was reaching the point where I had to decide whether to give up or let go. He held his hand there for a few seconds more, reveling in the moment of pure power, before collapsing down on top of me and letting me breathe.

I lay underneath him and made happily burbling noises until my brain slowly began to function again.

“You were right.” I said, as he snuggled me closer.

“Hmm?” he replied.

“It should have been , ‘do you mind that I’m using you to use me for sex?’” I mumbled contentedly and then, after he stopped biting me as silent commentary, slowly drifted off to sleep.

–

_{* I must admit I creep myself out writing stuff like this, but there’s an edge there that is both terrifying and intoxicating. It’s the control, and the feeling that both of us wonder, just a little bit, about taking it too far. I have these fantasies about being fucked with a blade to my throat, by someone who’s as into knives as I am, and I think about walking that line. I think about what it would feel like if the control slipped, and then I have to slip off to my room to touch myself with cold steel and hot thoughts of blood, danger, and sex.}

At one point on my date with the subject of my last post, long before any touching had occurred, he randomly said to me. “I’m not that into blow jobs.”

I always wonder, when men say things like that, if it some sort of a maneuver to be non-threatening. If they’re saying “Don’t worry, I won’t push you to go down on me” or something. If that’s it… it’s a bad line for me. I love giving blow jobs. I don’t think I could have regular sex with a man who didn’t like them. I’d be really disappointed.

Still, what I said in response was this, “Why?”

He gave me three reasons.

1. I don’t understand why anyone would want to do that.
2. I feel like I should be doing something.
3. I’m afraid of teeth.

He then admitted that given his personal preferences about what he likes to do in bed with women that he recognizes that the first two reasons are completely insane. It’s good that he recognizes it. It gives a girl hope.

In exchange for his admission of irrationality, I was willing to give him the third reason as legitimate and, since at that point we hadn’t even kissed, I decided not to say to him “well, we’re not likely to end up having a lot of sex if that’s really the case.”  Instead I said that most women I know seemed to be in one of two camps on blow jobs - that they either really REALLY enjoyed giving them or that they would be quite happy never to have to give one again.

(In response to his second objection, I also mentioned a conversation my girlfriend and I recently had about a man of our mutual intimate acquaintance where we had discussed that one of the reasons it’s so fun to go down on him is that he’s such a delightfully active participant. Then I let it drop.)

The irony about the whole thing is that I can also quite happily live without receptive oral sex… it’s just that my reasons for it are completely different.

1. I find that negotiating barriers for cunnilingus  is often so much of a pain that I don’t want to bother.  (There are circumstances in which I am willing to negotiate a lack of barriers. It has been a long time since I was in a sexual relationship where they were applicable.)
2. Oral sex often makes me feel vulnerable, self conscious, or uncomfortable.
3. It’s not something I particularly look forward to or miss as part of sex. Until very recently I had gone, probably, 10 years without it. Although I may be forgetting someone, until a few weeks ago I don’t think I had had receptive oral sex since I broke up with my first sexual partners.  It’s not that I don’t enjoy it (I used to have many, many orgasms from it), it’s just not high on my priority list… like penetration and pain are… or even providing oral sex.

I don’t have a lot of entirely vanilla sex with entirely vanilla partners. The other night may actually have been the only time I’ve had sex with someone who is entirely outside the realm of kink, and who I met in a more traditional manner.  So when we were fooling around and he was pulling off my pants and expressly wanting to go down on me and I stopped him to say “I only do oral sex with barriers,” for the first time in a while I felt like I might actually be missing out on something during a sexual encounter. Still, at 1:30 in the morning I didn’t feel like teaching him how that worked, and  I knew he wouldn’ t be all that interested in letting me go down on him… especially with a condom, so I asked him to fuck me instead… and though he was slightly disappointed (ah, irony!) , he did.

Talking about this with various people the next day**, I discovered that I am quite unusual in the fact that, for me,  intercourse with a condom is less of a big deal than unprotected oral sex with someone whose STD testing status falls into the “acceptable risk*” but not “totally comfortable” range. To me, oral sex is sex. Period. It’s not more or less than intercourse and since I’m not worried about pregnancy… ***. Plus,I like the fucking. I like it a lot. (Although admittedly I have been totally spoiled by the gf and her husband. It’s easy to forget that not all intercourse is that amazing.)

Normally for me, in situations like that - where sex hasn’t been explicitly negotiated in advance, things tend to end up limited to kink and mutual masturbation. But that works better when both people are a) kinky and b)handsy, and while I am… he was not. (Well, normally I am. I wasn’t as much that night,  because of an extremely painful infected cut on my dominant hand that is still making me, literally, scream in pain when I screw up and touch things the wrong way.) We were clearly at a breaking point of “are we going to stop here” or “are we going to fuck” and… I really wanted to get laid. So I did.

–

_{*In this case, no recent testing but just came out of a long term sexually monogamous relationship with a clear test before that.}

_{**I have overprocessing disease. Sue me.}

_{***Yes, dealing with an accidental pregnancy with another person instead of an intentional one with test tube would make my life a lot more difficult, but it wouldn’t be the end of my universe. I’d find a way to make it work.}

_{****I honestly have no idea if I could date this guy even if we both wanted to. It woud require figuring out a way for us to interact that isn’t so high energy (mentally and physically) all the time. As a friend and fellow artist, I love that just by being himself he pushes me to be a more creative, faster, and smarter performer in performance space, and it’s a real turn on, but I can’t sustain that level of “on” 24 hours a day. I’d collapse.}