Becoming Dominant

"Do you like to hurt me?"

When you first asked me that question, I was taken aback. I had to think. Was it the fact that you were so little and tight that I liked so much? Or the fact that I knew it was hurting you every time I went in all the way? Both, I suddenly realized.

"I guess so," I replied.

"Why do you like to hurt me?"

You'd ask this question on many other occasions, and every time, somehow, I feel like I'm drawing a blank.

"Because it turns me on," I usually reply.

You say that's enough of an explanation, but I feel like I should have a better one. I still don't. And I only just figured out recently, consciously, that I like to hurt you. And everyone else I've ever had sex with, probably. Maybe in another twenty years I'll figure out why it turns me on.

* * *

You have certain basic physical and emotional limitations. You want me to use you for my pleasure, and I do, whenever I think you can handle it. Which isn't every day, but the days you're up for it, it's really good.

Much as I love fucking you, lately I've been fantasizing almost as much about the next time I'll be fucking Kara, which is soon. There's a freedom I feel with Kara that I'm not sure I've ever felt before. She can take anything, and she wants it all. If she has limits, I haven't really found them yet.

She wants me to do anything I want to her. When I realized that really meant anything, I had to figure out what that meant for me. In the absence of sufficient direction from me, Kara made it clear what she wanted. She wanted me to fuck her, she wanted to come, she wanted me to hurt her, and she wanted me to humiliate her.

I don't understand the humiliation thing, at least not at this point, or not the way she relates to it. Being so encouraged to hurt her, I realized again that I really like that. But her wanting me to fuck her seemed too demanding, as did her desire for orgasms.

I figured out what I wanted from her, and I gave her a set of rules. Free to give her whatever rules I wanted to, I was able to realize what they should be.

Now she's not allowed to show desire, whether for fucking, coming, or anything else. She knows now that when I lie down naked on my back, she should eat me. And I fuck her any way I want to, anytime I want to. She's only allowed to come when I fuck her now, which in practice means she's not allowed to come anymore.

I hurt her as much as I want to. She's allowed to show pain or pleasure, because I like that. As long as she does it quietly. I've never fucked someone in the ass for such extended periods. It hurts her so much she can barely stand it, especially at first, but she never stops me.

* * *

Twenty years ago I was a sensitive New Age guy. Sex was a complicated, negotiated process. I had to make sure each step of the way that everything was good, pleasurable, mutual. That was great for some women, and for others, as in the main protagonist in the Secretary, in retrospect, it probably bored them to tears.

Meeting Kathy was complicated for me at the time, back then. I couldn't admit to myself what I really liked. Though I had some idea what she liked. I found out after she and I got involved that her ex was lovers with another lover of mine. He had broken up with her not only because she, it turned out, had some pretty serious issues and would randomly freak out at him for no particular reason, but also because he was uncomfortable with her rape fantasies.

I never brought up with her that I knew of this previous relationship. But I wondered when she might mention these rape fantasies with me, and I wondered how I might react. I had no idea. I was definitely uncomfortable with the idea, but not so much so that I was thinking about breaking up with her or anything. (Except for the fact that she eventually started randomly freaking out at me, too.)

Kathy and I had probably been lovers for only a few days when she first asked me, "do you have any fantasies?"

At which point I realized, I hadn't given the subject much thought. Although up til then, my mid-twenties, I had, in retrospect, had had a pretty impressive series of relationships with some pretty fabulous young women, I didn't think of myself as a casanova or anything. I had had many unhappy months on end as a single person up til then, and I didn't like that at all. My fantasy, really, was just to have the chance to fuck a hot young thing like Kathy on a nightly basis.

"I don't know," was my reply, if I recall. A fairly honest one, really.

"Do you?" I asked her. Dishonest question, since I knew she did, and I knew what some of them were. I don't remember how she answered, just that it was elusive.

Without any verbal understanding about this stuff, we started living out my fantasies, ones I didn't know I had, and would have been too much of a born-again feminist to feel the least bit comfortable talking about if I had known I had them anyway.

I wanted to hurt her and I wanted to deny her pleasure, and I started doing both of those things every night, while we both maintained some kind of weird pretense that we were having a normal kind of sexual relationship. I think we even talked of "making love" rather than fucking. But we were fucking. Or more to the point, I was fucking her.

She'd come if I fucked her while facing her, so I took to doing that a bit, until she was close to the edge, and then turning her around, onto her knees, me behind her on mine. This position was good not only for denying her orgasms, but for causing her a lot of pain. This was the angle where it was easy for me to hit her cervix hard with my dick.

I remembered other relationships with hot, petite women like Kathy who I had been lovers with. Depending on the woman, there was always a position that was she would call a "bad angle." What that "bad angle" was would vary, depending on the person, but we'd always find it, and then avoid it.

Invariably, hitting on that "bad angle" would elicit a gasp of sudden pain. Sometimes it would mean the end of intercourse for the night, or at least a few minutes off for her to collect herself.

With Kathy, I'd put her on her knees and bend her to the position that involved the bad angle. She'd always willingly go into that position. I'd then fuck her hard, fast, repeatedly pounding on her cervix. She'd tense up and sweat. I knew there was no pleasure involved for her, only pain, and lots of it. She knew it, too, but not a word was ever spoken of it by either of us.

After sex we'd maintain the pretense. "Did you like that?" I'd ask. "Oh yes," she'd reply, smiling a forced smile, actively repressing the winces and the tears, neither of which she'd ever show me.

* * *

Somehow, meeting Jennifer was a turning point of sorts. Not the turning point where I realized it was OK to be open about having a certain kind of kink disposition. DS, I learned to call it, much later, and learned that it was OK. And especially OK - perhaps only OK - when verbally acknowledged first, with all sorts of rules and boundaries drawn up in the process, too.

I hadn't figured that out yet when I met Jennifer. I had only gotten to the point of figuring out that while I was still enough of a decent human being to know that consent was important, I no longer felt like I needed to be too hypersensitive in the process, in a somewhat warped sense.

Another thing that had changed since around the time I met Jennifer was that beautiful young women were pretty much regularly throwing themselves at me after I played a show, on a regular basis.

I couldn't believe it was happening at first. It was way too good to be true. I knew that I wanted to fuck one out of ten women I saw walking down the street, based on just about nothing but their looks, but that seemed like the way of things between men and women. The idea that there were all these women out there who were ready to fuck me on the basis of my ability to write songs and play the guitar without otherwise knowing me at all was astonishing.

I had become so used to the idea that sex had to involve love, and that it was bad to want sex from someone you didn't love, or worse, didn't know at all, that I had managed to convince myself that men were basically unruly and fucked up, and that women weren't like that. Figuring out that they were basically just as stupid as we were, just that the stupidity took different forms, was a revelation.

But after a while I realized that if I asked a woman to go have a smoke with me or whatever, alone, even though both of us knew that we didn't know each other at all (aside from her having just heard my show and not left the room yet, whatever you can judge from that set of facts), she would usually say yes. And if she said no, I was usually able to ascertain that she had not been offended by my asking, and was usually flattered, even if she declined my request/offer.

Jennifer was another one of these impossibly beautiful women. 24 years old, athletic, she ran every day, had large, pert breasts and abs of steel, and a glowing, gorgeous face framed by long locks of hair that were somewhere in between wavy and curly.

I had asked her if she wanted to come back to the farm with me, where I was staying, and she came. We talked and smoked for a couple hours there at the farm in the woods. I was ten years older than her, which seemed like a vast age difference at the time, thirteen years ago, when I was in my thirties. I felt like I understood her well, and felt a little bad about the extent to which I did, somehow. Was this fair or honest? Legal, yes. Consenting, adults, etc., yes. Beyond that? Pretty ambiguous, though I was far too unsophisticated at the time to have really grasped that concept. And maybe too arrogant as well.

In any case, here we were. Jennifer was a woman with a privileged background. She had just graduated the previous spring from four years of university, and the world was her oyster. She had spent a summer in Mexico, and had the kind of worldly confidence that I thought I knew was borne out of only a very limited amount of actual life experience at this point.

Years later, I thought, she would look back on this stage in her life and think, I sure thought I was hot shit back then. She'd think, that was my promiscuous phase, when I felt like I had something to prove to myself and others. I knew that. I hoped she wouldn't think ill of me later on. Which didn't stop me from telling her that I was going to go sleep under the stars, and she was welcome to join me if she wanted to.

She did. We walked out of the living room in the farm, leaving the group of people we had been hanging out with, and we both did so in a way that it was clear we were both trying to give the impression that we were just two friends or acquaintances or something who were going off to sleep next to each other. Maybe there was nothing sexual about it.

I reminded myself that that might have indeed been the case, that I didn't know what her intentions were, and certainly sleeping next to each other under the stars was not consent to sex.

We had only been lying down together for a few minutes when Jennifer's hands began to feel my body, under my t-shirt, which I had worn to bed, trying not to be presumptuous. We both began to unbutton and unzip each other out of our clothes, until soon we were naked together. I reveled in her classically stunning body, kissing her and licking her everywhere, which she clearly was enjoying.

I wanted to fuck her, and I asked her if I could. Probably I asked her if she wanted to have sexual intercourse with me, rather than using a harsh word like "fuck," but that's what I wanted to do to her little body.

She said yes, unequivocally. I said what I had become accustomed to say.

"If I do anything that you don't like, if you want me to stop doing something that I'm doing, if anything is making you uncomfortable, just tell me, OK?"

"OK," she replied.

In years past, I might then have spent the rest of the evening trying to find things to do to her that pleased her, things that made her say "more," but I knew then that that wasn't what I had in mind. What I had in mind was to exploit her desire to please me, her desire to prove her worldliness. To push her, to do with her as I pleased, to take from her what I wanted.

What I didn't know was whether she'd like it, or whether she'd tell me to stop. Or whether she'd take it even though it hurt too much, in order to give me what I wanted as best she could.

I started out fucking her gently, slowly, and enjoying every second of it. Her lean, long legs were open only part way. I asked her to do what I suspected she didn't want to do, since I figured, as worldly as she was, that she knew it was something I might want, but that it might hurt her - to put her legs up in the air, wide, with her knees up closer to her chest.

She did this, in an almost apologetic way. I fucked her slowly and deeply now, and she looked somewhat overwhelmed. It was too deep. She bit her lip. It was hurting her. I don't know if she thought I didn't see her bite her lip, or if she knew I was ignoring the fact that she had just done that, pretending I didn't understand the signal. I did understand it, and I ignored it. I had told her to tell me if she wanted me to stop doing anything, and I assumed she knew that what I meant by that was verbal communication. You can bite your lip all you want to and I'll pretend it's not happening, I thought, saying nothing, feeling somewhat conflicted, but fucking her hard and deep nonetheless.

Not only did I ignore this signal, but I then got up on my knees. At this point she started looking timid. I imagined that in past relationships with younger men, they had come quickly. Maybe she had never been fucked really hard before. Or maybe some guys had tried to fuck her hard, but they were closer to her age, and she felt more confident about telling them that this hurt and wasn't good, and they had stopped, apologizing along the way, as sensitive guys are wont to do.

She gave another physical sign that this wasn't such a good thing for her. I was on my knees, but she was pressing her legs downwards, as if to suggest, let's go back to that other position. I ignored this, and instead used my hands to pull her legs further apart, and up towards her chest. I held them in that position and fucked her hard, picking up speed as I went.

It felt so good to me, but it was clearly overwhelming for Jennifer. She looked like she was trying with all her might to let me keep her legs in that position. She could have pushed against my arms, but she knew this would be an admission of defeat. She bit her lip more, and started pinching her own breasts, as if to try to distract herself from the pain I was subjecting her to. She looked up to the stars as if she were trying to find strength from some heavenly body. I don't know if she found it there, but it seemed she found it from somewhere, for she kept her legs in the position I had put them in, breathing heavily, saying nothing.

Eventually I stopped for air, savoring the stillness, lowering myself, savoring her lithe body against mine.

I could tell she had had enough. I didn't let on, though, and neither did she. Instead, she took the opportunity of the lull in activity to take initiative herself. It was somehow obvious that the initiative she took wasn't one she was taking because she really wanted to see what it was like to be on top for a change. She was getting on top because she had been feeling distinctly not in control of the situation when I was on top, and she was hoping this would change now.

I looked up at her, attempting to take in the full extent of her exquisite beauty, and failing to do so. I tried some more. She moved slowly back and forth, gingerly. It felt less like she was fucking me, and more like she was nursing a wound, while trying to pretend she wasn't. I loved watching her body move like that, and it felt good, too, but I wanted to fuck her harder.

"Will you lay down on me?" I asked.

She did, readily. We both relaxed, and it was again good to feel her body next to mine. I held her tightly with my arms around her back. I lifted her hips in the air a couple inches.

I don't think she was even aware that it was possible to be fucked hard in that position. It felt like she was making a new, terrible discovery. I fucked her faster and harder in this position than at any other time in the evening, and I believe harder than she had ever been fucked. Her body in my arms started to feel like a thing that had once again lost control of the situation, a sort of defeated person, trying desperately to behave as she thought I expected her to behave under the circumstances, always taking what I had to give her. Her face was next to mine so that I couldn't see her expressions, and I found myself feeling uneasy imagining the look of pain, perhaps despair.

When I moved her to her side, with me above her, her right leg up and left leg down, between mine, in the position where I knew I could fuck her the deepest, she seemed to know this was the case, too. She had a slight look of shock on her face, and I believe I talked to her to make sure she wasn't actually in shock. After making sure she wasn't having some kind of dissociative episode, which I knew was stepping over the line of any kind of plausibly acceptable behavior, I then fucked her deep and hard some more.

She buried her face in the pillow, so I couldn't see her expressions. I was hoping she'd do that. I knew that if I saw a look of really serious agony on her face, I would probably stop, even if she never told me to verbally. But she kept her face buried, and I imagined that she was my sex doll, a warm sex doll with an impossibly tight, realistic little pussy that I could fuck as much as I wanted to, and I did, reveling more with each passing second.

Finally, she may have been at her breaking point. She may have been about to tell me to stop, or perhaps to slow down, at least. She gasped for air, with her face exposed again, and the look of absolutely authentic, serious pain on her face was exquisite. It was seeing this look on her face that made me come, inside the condom we were using. The knowledge, too, that she could likely endure no more of this, was also exquisite.

I didn't ask her if it was good for her. I knew it hadn't been.

"That was amazing," was probably all I said, and I meant every word. She may have politely agreed. We slept beside each other, spooning the rest of the night.

She got up before I woke. I believe she was scared I'd want to fuck her again in the morning. Rather than being faced with the prospect of saying no to me, or exposing herself to more pain, she took the third option, and got up.

The fact that she never wanted to have sex with me again after that was a big part of my future education. It was only much later that I learned there's more to consent than just saying yes, or not saying no. If you're into causing someone a lot of pain, it's much better if you tell them in advance, and see if they respond enthusiastically to this idea, when it's actually verbalized.

At the same time, it was undoubtedly the lack of what you might call DS consent, rather than just consent for sex, that made my one night with Jennifer probably the most memorable night of that year, at least. For me, anyway.

* * *

"I need you to hurt me," you say again. It's my favorite phrase. I love it when you say that. Someday maybe I'll know why.