I have recently submitted my first work to Literotica. In fact it is not my first, but it is the first I have chosen to publish. It is in the category of "Non-consent/Reluctance," because that is the category in which my deepest fantasies reside.
I received some unkind feedback. I do not resent it, because the category suggests rape, and rape is an offensive thing. But while my fantasies may begin as "rape," they are truly stories of reluctance with a change of heart.
You may be wondering why I would choose to write such stories. I've done considerable soul-searching on this matter, so I will tell you.
I am the girl your mother hoped you would marry. I have strong though liberal values. I am not a partier. I'm educated. I teach math at a Catholic school. I sew. I cook. I care. I do all those things necessary to be deemed a "good girl" in the eyes of those who have ever mattered to me: my mother, my grandmothers, my teachers.
Part of being that "good girl" was being quite vocal about my choice to remain celibate until marriage. I was judgmental of those who chose not to. I engaged in heavy petting with a boy or two before I met my husband, but nothing below the waist.
I met my husband when I was 15 years old. I was immediately smitten. He was tall, and handsome, and he played guitar in a band. He had a great smile and he made me laugh. We started dating when I was 16. He was 20.
It was my 18th birthday the first time we had sex. Right up to the moment of penetration, I believed I would wait until I was married. But I did love him. And my body was alive. And we were in his bed, in his apartment, and naked, and I wrapped my legs around him as he slid himself gently inside of me. We made love for eight hours without a break. I suppose youth and a year of sexual repression can make miracles. But when it was over, I felt guilty and ashamed. My mother would be so disappointed. My grandmothers would be heart-broken. I was a sinner and a hypocrite. So I told him that I loved him, but that I didn't want to do that again.
He began mocking me. He made fun of the things I had said during our love-making. He smote me with my own whispers, as if to say that I was the one who had behaved shamefully.
We got married six months later. I thought that would make up for the sin of fornication. Our sex life improved little. He did not like for me to initiate. He did not like for me to tell him what I wanted or needed. He did not like for me to coax his hands to the right places. He wanted me to be his good little girl. I obliged.
For eight years, I lay on my back and let him do what he wanted and hoped I would achieve an orgasm now and then. I mastered the art of self-pleasure in those years.
But bad habits are hard to break. And when my husband and I divorced, I realized that I was afraid to admit that I wanted a man.
I have pursued my sexuality like a bounty hunter since then. I have had more lovers than I care to admit, but with each, the story was the same. They could not satisfy me, because they could not know what I wanted and I could not bring myself to confess it. And I came to wish that they would simply take it.
There are days when I can think of nothing other than being touched. I stand, mid-task, and my mind wanders to a moment yet to come, when my body arches to meet his, and my nipples ache to be bitten; but then my face flushes hot and snaps me back into the present. I want it so badly, I taste it. I smell it.
He is no one that I yet know. He has no face. No particular body. It is his skill that thrills me. He knows my body and handles it with the confidence of a carpenter handling his newest and most precious project. He knows how to work me, how to turn me, how to hold me. He worries little about harming and even less about offending; not because he doesn't care, but because he knows his ability and he knows how to gauge a woman and what she wants.
And he knows that when I resist, it is out of obligation to this beast I've nursed since the first time I gave in to carnal pleasures. For her, I deny wanting what I want. For her, I suppress my songs of pleasure and lust, and utter only whispers instead.
But he knows. He knows that I have a song, and he finds his pleasure in coaxing it from my lips. He knows they are ready to form the words but that my voice is not strong enough yet, and he gives me that strength.
"Tell me what you want," he tells me, staring into my eyes, not allowing me to break his gaze. We are naked and pressed together, and my body is so ready for his, but he won't come to me.
"I just want you," I whisper in his ear, closing my eyes against the beast who watches us, reminding me to hold back. Don't give him everything.
But he knows better. "Tell me what you want," he says again, teasing me with his kisses. He knows exactly what I want, but he won't give it to me until I say the words. He flicks his tongue around my breasts and I want to scream at him "take it into your mouth! Suck it! Bite it!" But I can't.
Why are words so hard for me? I can do the things, but I can't bring myself to say them, to ask for them. To admit to wanting them.
He kisses my stomach, and I feel his furry chest sliding down my thighs. My legs want to spread, to let him fall into me. I want to push his face to my pelvis and hold him there until he's made me scream.
I wonder if he knows how badly I want to say it? I wonder if he knows that what I really want is for someone to take this beast from me. Tell me what to say, and I'll say it, and then it will be his fault and not mine, and I will be free. I want him to make me naughty.
I feel his breath on my inner thighs, and I quiver and arch and ache for him to finish what he's started. But he won't. "Tell me what to do," he says, quietly, persistently.
I won't open my eyes. His gaze would be too much for me, burning through to the truth, and he would see the secrets I keep.
"I want to lick your clit," he says, finally, and I raise my hips to let him. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
I nod, eagerly, covering my face with my hand.
