That Feeling

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A bride's first experience with sexual humiliation.
1.1k words
2.67
69.6k
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The first time I experienced it was at the breakfast buffet of the Serine Resort in Varadero, Matanzas, Cuba. My husband and I had just flown in from Toronto for our honeymoon, a joint wedding gift from both sets of parents. It was our first morning there together and I was still groggy from the night before. We were in a long line of people, most of them dressed in their bathing suits and carrying towels over their shoulders. I had on a neon pink bikini, which I wore beneath a gauzy white skirt and black tank top, with rope soled thong sandals and white sunglasses. He was dressed in navy blue shorts and a white band tee shirt. Black wraparounds obscured his eyes.

We hadn't spoken more than a few words to each other since the previous evening—just the quiet smiles of a newlywed couple—and I can remember to this day the delicious afterglow of newlywed sex that we basked in. I can recall with ease the love I felt for him, the lust that made me want to forego breakfast altogether—I had suggested as much—but which I had somehow contained in order to satisfy the simpler of his two needs.

Matt never liked to miss a meal.

Just thinking his name brought to mind his presence behind me. He was close: so close, a warm reassurance of the rightness of my world. I knew that he wanted me as much as I wanted him. And I also knew that I couldn't wait to get back to the room so I could be alone with him, just the two of us.

The line moved slowly. The servers behind the sneeze barriers seemed half asleep, like I was, and doled out portions of the resort's meager offering of fresh food—omelets made to order, waffles with cane sugar syrup—as if they knew how desperately I wanted to be done with it all. When offered, I took one of the waffles. It was dark brown and crispy and looked delicious. Moving past the servers, I came to the hot table, where trays of premade food sat under bright red heat lamps: hash brown potatoes, scrambled eggs, sausages and bacon.

I remember I picked up the bacon tongs, thinking I would grab a crispy piece, since they tend to have less fat and less chance of being underdone. But before I could actually do so, I felt Matt's hand close over mine.

"You don't need that," he said gently.

"What—"

"You know you'll regret it later. Besides, you always get sick when you eat pork."

"But I want some bacon," I persisted.

His grip tightened.

"No. You don't."

His voice was quiet but, nevertheless, people at the nearby tables turned to look at us.

"Matt," I whispered, "Let go of me. Please. People are staring."

He held on for a moment longer, his eyes not leaving mine. As soon as he judged that enough people had seen, he let go.

"Fine," he whispered, "Get sick. Just don't expect anything but 'I told you so' from me." And he stalked away.

Furious, I grabbed a pile of bacon and put it onto my plate, then left the line and made for the vacant section in the far corner of the room. I had originally intended to eat alone, but found myself sitting down across from him, in spite of myself, at a two-person table up against the white stone barrier that separated the dining area from a small garden.

He never said a word. He barely even looked at me.

I remember the food had no taste. Its texture made me retch with every bite. Yet I ate it all, mechanically chewing and swallowing until I'd finished everything on the plate. Everything, that is, except for the bacon. I couldn't bring myself to touch it.

When the waiter came to clear our plates away I felt guilty, ashamed. My eyes went from the pile of uneaten food to his kind face, then, automatically, over to my husband. He smiled at me, and I knew that behind his glasses his eyes were smiling, too. There was a night's worth of stubble on his cheeks—the sight of which always made me want to feel it against me—and his skin was very pale. But his smile was bright. It was sunny. It was vibrant and alive. In the face of it, I was powerless.

The anger I felt melted away. It left nothing but shame in its wake.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"What?" he said. "I didn't hear you."

"I said I'm sorry, Matt."

He didn't reply. Just kept smiling that awful smile. Until, finally, he said:

"You know I'm just looking out for you. Right, Alice?"

I nodded.

"I love you and I don't want to see bad things happen to you. Remember, you even told me yourself that pork makes you sick. How can you enjoy yourself if you're stuck in bed, or worse, on the toilet, for our honeymoon?"

He reached across the table and caressed my cheek.

"Am I right?"

I nodded.

"Say it."

"You're right, Matt. I'm sorry."

"That's okay, baby. I know how you get sometimes."

My eyes focused on the logo emblazoned across his chest. My expression remained neutral.

"Now," his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "Why don't we go back to the room and pick up where we left off last night?"

I tried to keep his shirt in focus, but my gaze wandered as my mind processed his words. Out over the tops of the stone barrier and the hedge beyond, past the swimming pools and outbuildings that housed the specialty restaurants and dance club, I stared at the white sand and turquoise waters of the pristine beach. Part of me wished that I was there at that moment, laying on a white chaise lounge beneath the bright Caribbean sun. That part of me hated the rest for acquiescing so easily when I knew I was right. That part of me was strong.

Unfortunately, that part of me was also in the minority.

To my surprise, the smouldering remains of my earlier lust rekindled, took flame. I agreed wholeheartedly, and, when he offered me his hand, I took it.

Later, when we were in the throes of our third bout of lovemaking, I found myself fixated on the first moment his hand had gripped mine: the shame, the sense of powerlessness that I felt. I thought about my burning cheeks and teary eyes and wounded pride. All of that, I focused on as he slammed into me and I clenched him tightly and held him inside me as we both screamed our pleasure into the quiet, air-conditioned room.

I remember feeling torn emotionally as he climbed off of me, kissed me on the lips, rolled over and went to sleep. I remember that I didn't know whether to hate myself or hate him for what had happened.

I remember I cried for a long time afterwards.

Then I was okay.

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5 Comments
DeviantSinDeviantSinover 11 years ago
Urm....

Well I have to ask...is that is? I think you would have had a better reception if you had expanded this a little but more thoroughly. You went into more detail about the buffet line and apparel than what was written about the sexual act and the act of control/ humiliation. I see great potential here, you write very well, but this is definitely too short and just needs more. I aslo agree with the rest of the feedback that it is inappropriately placed especially if this is all there is to this story.

JonTaylorJonTaylorover 11 years ago
Subtle Beginnings

I interpret this a the subtle beginning moment of your trip to submission. This would be the first chapter on that trip. Right?

AnonymousAnonymousover 11 years ago
Wrong Category

I couldn't agree more: I really made a mistake in placing this story here; non-erotic would have probably been a better choice.

AnonymousAnonymousover 11 years ago
wrong Context

A very interesting and intellectual story. dont go by my rating .... it's just that if i am reading this particular section, im looking to JACK OFF for a particular need ... and this is an intellectual story that i would have nejoyed at any other time ... EXCEPT right now and right here .... take care

AnonymousAnonymousover 11 years ago
Real

Well done and oh so real. Pardon the redundancy, very well done and realistic as it gets. Regardless if story is fact or fiction this was one tale that had me truly emphasizing with the female character. Keep writing and sharing please.

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