What You Need 4

Sometimes you can pinpoint a moment where things... changed. A crossroads where you could have taken another path and things would have turned out differently.

For me, that was two weeks ago. Winding down with you on the sofa. You were curled up tightly with your head in my lap. My fingers weaving absent-mindedly through the tresses of your hair.

I felt a soft, lazy wave of arousal swell over me, the heat of your body radiating up my thighs as I noted the proximity of your lips to my cock.

I traced my fingers over the curve of your waist and we shared a brief flicker of eye contact as I gently squeezed your ass. I smiled wickedly, thinking how easily I might manoeuvre you over my lap and spank you then tease your aching clit, making you burn and tingle with desire.

That's why I wasn't ready for what you said next. You sprung it on me, shaking me awake from my idle daydream.

"Do I ever... have rape fantasies?"

"What?"

"What do you mean? Why do you ask?"

Well, I did know why you were asking. Of course I knew. That familiar spectre, clouding the edges of this otherwise contented scene. Pushed so far to the periphery of our vision, I forgot he was there. I thought we were just enjoying a cosy evening together, alone.

I started to feel a heavy fog behind my eyes. I rubbed the bridge of my nose, trying to forge a path through it, so I could find the answer for you.

I really didn't know what response you wanted to this.

Are there times I feel overwhelmed by my lust for you? Do I enjoy the powerful feeling of claiming you when I first plunge into your wet little cunt, gripping your hair and feeling you tremble beneath me? When the only thought that blazes through my mind is 'she..is..mine'? Yes, I do.

And when I put my hands firmly on your body, and it feels so perfectly ripe that it makes me want to squeeze you, to mold your innocent flesh to my desire, and make you mine in ways that would tear your sense of self apart? Is that a rape fantasy? I don't know. I've never examined it too hard. I suppose I've had that privilege.

Then I looked at you. Your eyes were wide, waiting patiently. You're so innocent sometimes that I forget. Sometimes it just hits me that underneath my spirited and daring lover, there's someone who's been hurt. In ways that can't be neatly healed. You've just had to learn to live with the scars. The thing is... scars itch sometimes.

"Real rape fantasies? I don't think I do, no baby."

I wish I had drawn a line under that conversation now. Maybe I should have just pulled you across my knee and spanked you. For testing me. Asking me silly questions. It could have ended with a playful battle of wills, with you giggling and breathless as I pounded you into the sofa. I didn't though.

It went on. You wanted to know if I would enjoy taking you. Using you harshly and taking my ferocious pleasure from your body, without considering yours.

"What are you asking me? You have to come out and say it. What do you want?"

Of course, if you asked me outright, that would break the spell for you. It wouldn't be 'rape' if you asked for it.

I got it. You wanted to replace those memories with something you could be in control of. You wanted to endure the pain but emerge unbroken this time. But first, you wanted to struggle. To fight. To turn our bedroom into an arena. Of course.

You never fought back, all those times. You were terrified. Just the sound of his key in the door made your heart sink, by the end. So when he slithered into bed next to you, pawing at your clothes, you squeezed your eyes shut, because it was safer to just lie there than risk making him angry. Wait for it to be over.

I turned it over in my brain. Who was I to tell you that what you wanted was wrong?

So last week, I decided to make it happen. The mood didn't take me until Friday. There was just something about getting to the end of a draining week of commuting and petty office politics that made me start ticking with need. The slog and then the relief of finally shaking off those deadlines put me in the mind to blow off some steam.

My cock was already twitching on the cab ride home, a nervous excitement growing as I anticipated taking a leap into the unknown. By the time I walked through the door, I was tightly coiled and ready to strike.

You frowned, confused, as I grabbed your wrist and spun you around to face me, my eyes flashing dangerously with lust. A fleeting look of recognition crossed your face, but it was soon replaced with defiance, your eyes burning brightly as you steeled your jaw and prepared to resist me.

I grabbed your other wrist and started to pull you towards our bedroom, your feet dragging on the floor in protest.

The scent of your fear filling my senses started to affect me. Emotions were flooding in and I felt an intoxicating rush of my own power, one I didn't even know I wanted. It felt reckless, but it felt honest for the first time. The spectre in the room wasn't just the past, it was the power imbalance between us, my strength and your weakness in my burning grip.

Then as you pressed your face away from me and started to whine, I was confused. And I'll admit, almost... annoyed.

"Isn't this what you wanted?"

"To test me?"

I scruffed you from behind and bent you over the bed. I was grasping a fistful of your hair, the short, wispy strands that cover the nape of your neck. As I did, I thought about how I've never even put my hand on the front of your throat. How I can't because of the things he did to you. And just then, I felt furious. Paying for his mistakes. Picking up his mess, even now.

So even when you whimpered with shock at the pain, I didn't feel bad. I felt vindicated for one glorious, awful moment. And I gripped tighter.

Oh, you resisted me. You fought me, bucking and twisting and kicking your legs, groaning with the effort. And I suppose, I feel some sort of relief, and pride that you did. That you'll never be so afraid of me that you freeze in terror and merely acquiesce. That your submission to me is a powerful choice, not a desperate act of self-preservation.

But it didn't matter. You don't even realize, do you? How much I've held back? All the times I restrained you. I like the ritual of tying you up. But I don't need to. You're weak. Fragile and breakable.

Every time I've spanked you, or slapped you in the heat of our passion, I've used a fraction of the strength I could have unleashed. Why don't you know that?

Maybe he did too. Have you ever thought of that? Maybe he was in control of himself, choosing a calculated amount of force to satisfy his anger, but keep you compliant.

We all make choices sweetheart. You made this one.

So when you struggled... It was... pathetic. I only needed one hand to pin both your wrists behind your back. I almost felt sorry for you.

But baby. Let me tell you how it looked. Your nose and cheeks, flushed with effort. Your hair flying wildly. Your ass and thighs tensing as you drummed the tops of your bare little feet against the floor. So small, so delicate, so vulnerable, yet so much passion.

And have I ever fantasized about that? Isn't that what you wanted to know? Yes. God, yes.

Do you like that? Finding out we're all the same? That I'm just another slave to my urges?

Is that easier for you? Than trusting again?

I could see you were ready for me, for all your protests. Your pussy was wet and swollen as I pressed my knee between your thighs and parted your legs roughly. I could smell your arousal start to blend with the fresh beads of sweat pooling in the small of your back.

I held you under your jaw. My fingers pressed into your delicate flesh and gripped you tightly enough so it would hurt to twist away.

When I thrust into you, deeply, without warning, I felt my cock hit every angle of you, pounding you, filling you with a deep, throbbing ache, all the way to your stomach. And as you started to shriek and sob, it wasn't clear if it hurt or if it felt good. Maybe it was both. Was it both? Do you even know?

I just know that I felt you pulsate, I felt each, tight, hot ring of muscle squeeze me and milk me. And it felt good, so good it didn't matter right then if that sensation was your body embracing me or rejecting me.

I know I heard a final sigh of air escape your lungs through your trembling lips and then I felt you go limp. And I kept fucking you, using your ragged doll-like little body, because I know you like that sometimes, to give and give, to the point of exhaustion.

And if it hurt you, I hope it stopped hurting then, when I turned you over. It was hard to read your expression, your eyes were glazed and blank as I made the final thrusts that took me to the edge and over it.

Then when I kissed you, tracing my fingers gently over the skin where they'd so recently been pressed, I thought I saw the faint shadow of my own fingerprints, painting little blotches on your chin.

And I'm not proud of this thought, but it briefly thrilled me to think you might wear my marks somewhere people would actually see them.

There's a first time for everything.

You were so weary then, there wasn't time for many words. I just held you as we both caught our breath and I felt you slip into a deep, exhausted sleep.

I've only replayed a few snapshots of that scene since then. Until this morning, when I had a rude awakening to the reality of what we'd done.

You were in your robe, completely bare underneath. You registered my appearance in the kitchen but nothing gets between you and that coffee machine first thing. I sidled up to you and slipped my hands inside the robe, running them over your breasts and stomach.

As you wriggled in shocked delight at my not-yet-warm touch, I twitched, and knocked the mug you'd put out for me off the counter.

It smashed into pieces, scattered across the cold, hard floor. I knew there was no use trying to save it or put it back together again.

You jumped. Your head whipped around and your face was stricken with pure panic. Your eyes were darting wildly from me to the door, programmed to plot your escape. I know you can be a little jumpy with loud noises. But I haven't seen that look since we first started dating. And fuck... it felt exactly like it did then. Like someone poured freezing-cold water over every organ in my body.

"Baby. We fucked up."

We're at another crossroads now. Just like before. And this time, I am going to take charge. Do the right thing for both of us.

We can keep playing like this, if that's what you want. But we have to talk it through properly. Our desires. Our fears. Even the ones that are buried. That hurt to speak about. And to hear.

I know you'll protest. Sometimes that kind of intimacy feels as raw and painful to you as a punch to the stomach. Why wouldn't it? That's real vulnerability.

But I won't stop until I make you feel so cared for that you never feel the need to test me, or prove yourself again.

You don't like that idea, do you baby? It makes you squirm. I can see you pouting even now.

"Sometimes what you want and what you need are different things, Little Girl."

Next time we play on the edge, there'll be no real surprises. And then the fun can really begin.