Arousing Shame and Pain

The blade doesn't separate the flesh. Not yet, though the graphite point dimples the tender skin of my neck. It draws a line, the most linear explanation of point A to point B, from the left of my collar bone to delicate hollow of my throat. The fear makes me need to swallow, but I am afraid to press myself any further to that blade. You are perfectly poised, and even in the vermilion haze of my alarm, and the growing excitement within my body I can tell you are completely in control. The knife will cut only if you will it. I am fully safe from carelessness on your part. Your eyes are cold, and I shiver naked in their presence. Vulnerable from far more than the weapon, your gaze strips me of any resolve I could muster.

I could almost say that it isn't you. Even if it were your hand holding my wrists behind my upturned back, or your lips set in a cruel line of mocking it could never be you eyes. Eyes so infinitely kind, gentle, or even hurt as I recall your sensitive nature. The eyes that cried with me, sometimes for me. There is a hardness in your gaze, now, completely disassembling of my Self, with complete disregard for my petty gasps and moans. You absolutely see through me. Knowing that though I struggle with breath, tentatively moving my body away from your outheld knife, that I am captive to an unpretty and dangerous desire. Fully confident that if from your position, straddling my chest, were you to reach behind yourself to touch the narrow cleft between my thighs you would certainly feel the slickness betraying my position. And it is your confidence that devastates me.

When did you become the villain half-imagined from a thousand sinister fantasies? What was the distinct moment where you decided to delve into the menacingly erotic thoughts that were tucked beneath my surface? And when did those thoughts, so arousing to me, begin to infect you?

Perhaps I have stared into space too long, or not answered your roughly whispered demand, for you strike me, open handed across my face. The point of your weapon digs deeper, and I am amazed at my skin's resiliency that I do not yet bleed. Though I want to, and that thought frightens me the most. Suddenly the weapon revolts you as something foreign and inorganic, and you toss the blade aside in order to use other means to subdue me to your amusement.

Your hands, strong and hot, clamp around my neck. So fragile, now that you press down and my breath becomes a rasp through my burning throat. A gasp, and then nothing as the blood pounds in my ears and my breath is stolen. At first I merely struggle in jest, striking with playful fists and with half-force. Panic sets in when you do not release me after twenty seconds. Bright flashes of white dance in my vision, and I struggle in earnest, eyes wide and legs kicking at you, anything to gain breath. The importance of begin breathing makes my throat raw and I try to roll to my side. You let me, finally, and I draw in painful breaths. You remark at how you love that sound, how pretty the suffering is to you when you are the cause. And I am undone; wet and aching for you, desperate to please you, to be claimed by you. Eager to please you, to sate you so that I can feel the familiar rub of your body on mine, through mine. The pain, the waiting, the look in your eyes act as the seasoning of the act.

You turn me over roughly, slapping me on the ass with an almost playful hand. Your fingernails rake down my back, and I arc to meet that sensation, a cry muffled on my lips by the pillow I clutch. I want a thousand sensations at once, to be filled by you, to have your teeth at my neck, your hands grasping at my breast, my hips; your fingers exploring my secret places, my vulva, the recesses of my mouth and tongue, my anus. You explore because you own, with a proprietary air of pride and ownership over a willful child.

I want you in every orifice in which I could take you, filled with you in every way. Where there is no thought but you; and if there were, you would burn them from me. Your fingers are cruel as they twist my nipples, you often generous mouth selfish as you steal kisses with an angry slant from my lips. Your knees part my legs from behind, and if I struggle you use my hair as a leash to pull me into position. I am falling, a concert of stressed muscles, fear, arousal and shame. On my hands and knees, the glans of your cock stroking the inside of my thighs thoughtfully, making my shiver. Sometimes your gentleness is even more cruel than your force. You take your time, testing me with your finger, whispering to my ears, making me beg with you to fill me. Your patience is endless as you tickle softly the tender skin of my vulva, over saturated with arousal. My taste on your fingers as you drive them into my mouth, making me suck the juices of my own arousal your fingers (first two, then three) painfully aware of the desperation I feel to have you inside me.

I begin to beg. With my eyes I implore you to keep me in suspense no longer, my mouth whispers entreaties as a mantra until they gather no meaning, my body is lowered to you if only to receive your caress; as if it were all to be a spell unbroken. And I, the sentient sleeping Beauty, where penetration would fully wake some part of me.

You enter me so suddenly, that I cannot draw breath. Your timing was perfect, and somehow you dually penetrated me with both your member and a foreign object. The feeling of fullness, of completion is exquisite and terrifying. There is nothing, to my knowledge, more startling than loss of personal control of my orifices. I twist my head to see what object you've invaded my ass with, put you suddenly grab my hips and thrust my forward, stirring my brain. There is pain, and the amazing feeling of supplication; where you govern the traffic of my body, within my body. I feel dirty, as anal sex often causes me to. But divine as well as you manipulate my body into such a depth of feeling that pleasure alone could not offer. The shame fuels us both, I can feel you nearly vibrate with the arousal as you twist my face to meet your eyes. I cannot, as the shame of being invaded by you, and taking such pleasure in the violation, makes me shy.

And you may not say it, but it is here; this exact moment in time where I know (beyond a shadow of a doubt) that you love me. You see me at my lowest, most base and sullied by my own lusts, and you accept these things about me, perhaps relish them. You claw at me as your body quickens with the anticipation of orgasm, and you work the foreign object into my body until I writhe against your thrusts. Growling, and moving so hard against me, I think you mean to pass through me cock first. But you do not. You come with a shout, crushing my body to yours, skin sweat intermixing between our bodies, my own breathing loud and filled with throaty cries. I always enjoy the frenzy of your orgasm, where you need me the most, where your body is wracked with pleasure and you cling to me, even as your nails bite into my skin.

There is love. There is lust. There is possession and pain. The medley we explore with each other, as adults in our sexual life brings us alive as we learn the dense truths of our sexuality and desires. I rise from the bed, nearly unable to walk from the welts and the stretched muscles in my legs and back, but I am smiling, draped in a towel, heading for the shower.