This is part of an occasional series looking at the power of different aspects of sex. It's a follow on to my piece, the Power of Photography. I recommend that you read that before this.
*
Chapter 1
It wasn't the fact that I was standing in the tiny kitchen in his poky flat in Blackheath, South London. It wasn't the fact that I was only wearing a black suspender belt and fishnet stockings. It wasn't the fact that Matt was buried into me as deeply as he could be. It wasn't also the fact that he was fucking me from behind, that his balls were slapping against my arse, my full tits were flying around all over the place and my long, unruly chestnut coloured hair was hanging down over my face. No it was none of those facts that made this so different, so unusual and so exciting.
Our affair, which had started with him 'pulling' me in Starbucks when I dropped some 'compromising' photos of myself on the floor, had progressed rapidly. We met regularly, but not that frequently for his job as a police officer was demanding and I, being divorced, had my fifteen year old daughter to look after alone. We managed to meet probably twice every three weeks or so I guess. On reflection, since he had moved from the very suburban, social graveyard of Dartford in Kent, which was thirty miles from my Dockland's apartment, to the pleasantly, upscale inner-city village of Blackheath, which was just across, or just under using the Blackwall Tunnel, the Thames, it had probably become weekly or more.
A pattern had developed quite quickly. He would start photographing me. Fully dressed, buttons undone, in underwear that I happened to be wearing, in special stuff he or I bought or naked. In my apartment, his little flat and occasionally outdoors. Me just posing, caressing my breasts, touching my pussy and, lately fingering myself or using a vibrator. We rarely got far before we fucked. We had both fallen under the spell of the power of photography.
But this time it wasn't the fact that he had photographed me. It wasn't the fact that when I lifted my skirt up I wasn't wearing panties. It wasn't the fact that I hadn't been during the lunch we'd had in Costa Coffee across from the station in the village, and it wasn't the fact that we quickly moved from photographing to fucking.
No it was none of those facts that was giving me the unusual and never before experienced combination of extreme thrills and enormous trepidation I was feeling in that small kitchen.
Something else had crept into our relationship. Well not relationship, we didn't really have one of those, simply our sex. That was aggression.
So it was none of those facts that were giving me these amazing sensations.
It was the facts that:
he was squeezing my breasts far harder than they should be squeezed,
pinching and pulling my nipples far harder than they should be pinched and pulled and that
he had grabbed my hair and was yanking it far more aggressively than it should be yanked.
Yes it was the power of pain, the power of force that was turning me on so much.
Chapter 2
That was the start, well pretty much, but thinking back, there had been a couple or three occasions when he had pinched me rather hard, dug his nails into the soft flesh of my buttocks, thighs or tits and sucked overly fiercely on my nipples.
I hadn't complained, so presumably Matt thought I was giving him the green light, that I was into being roughed up a bit and was used to being hurt as part of a sexual relationship. I wasn't, but I had to admit it did something to me, something odd, something different and something that I sort of enjoyed. I couldn't put my finger on what it was, but I found myself welcoming his more aggressive lovemaking.
"You're enjoying this aren't you?" He growled his nails digging in my breasts.
I didn't reply, but instead writhed myself against his cock, which was deeply in me.
"Aren't you?" He repeated louder, giving a strong yank on my hair.
"Yes, sort of," I whimpered the pain on my boobs and scalp getting to me.
"What the fuck's that mean, sort of?"
"I er, I um, I don't know Matt," I mewed, loving what his cock was doing to me, but wondering why I didn't object to his nails digging into my boobs and his hand pulling my hair.
He seemed to pull harder on my hair and dig deeper with his nails. The pain from both was searing. It hurt, it was agony and painful, but it mixed with the glorious sensations that his cock was creating deep inside me. I couldn't understand it. I didn't honestly know whether I was enjoying it or what I was feeling; all I did know was that I didn't want him to stop.
The orgasm he gave me was awesome. It was right up there with anything I had ever had before. It ranked with the one he gave me the first time he photographed me, the one I had the first time I had sex with a woman, the massive one I had when I had my affair with David, probably the real love of my life, while I was married and with any that my ex, Kevin ever gave me.
After the sex, we didn't talk about it. We didn't discuss what he had done to me and my reaction. We didn't review our feelings or analyse what we had both got from his much harder than usual squeezing, pinching and pulling.
We didn't talk about it, but I thought about it, a lot.
Usually, I am able to work out why I did something, why I reacted and acted in a certain way. I can generally work out what it was that caused me to gain enjoyment or other sensations from most experiences, especially of a sexual nature. I had been able to do that and had come to terms with my reaction to Matt wanting to photograph me and, more significantly, me wanting him to do that. I had, after a great deal of thought, understood and had coped with the evident need I had, although it may have lain dormant for years, to exhibit myself.
This, though, was different. I had no idea why I had enjoyed Matt becoming more aggressive with me and I had no one, not surprisingly, with whom I could discuss it, not even him. Our relationship wasn't like that, but then I don't think many are. Until you have developed a long-lasting, very trusting, perhaps even loving relationship with someone, it's usually too difficult to discuss in detail your sexual wants and the reasons why you like certain aspects of sex. As the saying goes, 'some things are best left unsaid!'
Chapter 3.
We'd had sex before dinner. It was quick and energetic with no photos.
He had pressed me face first against the floor to ceiling, sliding glass doors that led out to my balcony, overlooking the Thames in the distance. I knew I could not be seen, unless someone in the high rise flats over the south side was using a telescope or binoculars. I doubted that, but I had seen numerous flashes of the sun on glass during the day recently, particularly since I had been sunbathing out on the balcony, yes topless, of course.
I was naked and the cold glass on my breasts made for a strange sensation, strange but nice. They were squashed against the glass, which almost flattened the dd sized mounds. Looking down on them as he fucked me from behind, they looked huge and I realised another diet was required. Why is it in winter, when I play less golf and put on a little weight most of it goes to my tits, I always wonder?
Matt was on the ten pm to six am shift, and Sara, my thirteen-year-old daughter, was out for the night. I'd been able to have him round for the evening giving him a mild panic attacks by cooking him dinner, pasta, cheese sauce, from a packet sprinkled with some herbs and crusty French bread. A nice bottle, or two, of Chablis would have completed it and possibly diverted him from the slightly overcooked pasta, but in deference to him having to go to work to keep us all safe, we just drank San Pellegrino.
I hadn't showered after sex, for I had to fix the dinner, so I had slipped into a pair of combats and an old tee shirt. After dinner though, I needed a shower and went and had one as Matt watched some football on TV.
I saw that it was nearly nine and realised he would have to leave soon. There didn't seem much point in getting dressed for I would go to bed directly he left, which would probably be nine forty five or so I guessed.
I slipped into the thin, cotton, sleeping shorts and a singlet, a bit like a mans' vest, that I had taken to wearing lately, the vest outside the pants, not tucked in.
I had until recently always slept naked. In the mornings I would put on a dressing robe to get Sara's breakfast. We had a pretty open and relaxed relationship and often I would find the gown gaping and showing most of my breasts or slipping open beneath the waist exposing my thighs. That had been fine until the past few weeks. If that happened to the robe now, Sara would see the fierce red marks on my breasts and inner thighs that were the leftovers of my sex with Matt. Hence the new outfit.
The apartment is very open plan. Basically one large room, about 45 by 30 feet square with, as the architects love to call them, separate 'areas.' Dining one end, seating around a fire place the other. Two alcoves, one a kitchen 'area' and the other, the smaller one, the 'study' area. The mezzanine upstairs sleeping 'area' was about two thirds the area of the downstairs. Here there wasn't 'areas, but rooms, the master bedroom and two more roughly the same size. There was a twelve stair, open staircase linking the downstairs to the mezzanine, so the link from one to other is easy.
I walked down the stairs and I couldn't believe what I saw. He was lying on the six-seater sofa, naked. All round the room were ten by eight inch photos propped up on shelves, chairs and other furniture. All were of me in varying stages of undress including naked shots and close ups of my most private places, some with my fingers doing the most wonderfully rude things. Matt was smoking and there were several bottles of beer on the floor.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
"Nothing."
"What you mean nothing, you idiot."
