The Power of Force and Painbymandywilluk2000©
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.
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.
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!'
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?"
"What you mean nothing, you idiot."
Sounding like Kevin Kline in A Fish Called Wanda, he said. "Don't call me an idiot."
I was too pissed off to be discrete. "You are an idiot and acting like one, smoking and drinking in my lounge. You've got to go to work."
"Stop it, Mandy."
"What do you mean, telling me to stop it, it's my fucking apartment you're trashing"
"I'm not trashing it."
"Well you're acting like a yob, the sort you're supposed to catch."
As I walked down the stairs he stood up.
"I'm not a yob."
"You are, you're just a bloody fascist yob, like most of the fucking police force," I snarled, a little cruelly, but then it was probably true.
"I wasn't a yob just now was I?"
"When?" I asked.
I started to tidy up forgetting what I was wearing, the short shorts and vest and, more to the point, what I wasn't wearing, a bra. As I bent forward and reached out to pick up the bottles, ash tray and newspaper, my tits were all over the place and the front of the vest was gaping alarmingly.
"When I fucked you," was your reply. "I wasn't a yob when I fucked you and made you cum was I?" He went on the booze obviously badly affecting him, for his dark side was starting to appear. "I wasn't a yob when I had you up against the window, your tits squashed against it was I? You liked that you slag didn't you?"
"Don't." I said
"Talk about that," I went on taking all the debris into the 'kitchen area.'
"Why not, I want to talk about it," he said following me into the kitchen.
I shoved the bottles and ashtray remnants into the bin and turned to look at him. I was furious. But when I saw him, I was also shocked, it hadn't really registered that he was naked. And it hadn't registered at all that he was semi-erect and getting harder.
"What are the bloody photos there for? You're daft." I said going to walk past you out of the kitchen.
As I went past him, he grabbed my arm.
"No," he said grabbing both my arms and turning me towards him. "I want to kiss you."
I struggled and broke one arm away.
"No Matt, you can't."
"It's over, this is going crazy."
He grabbed me again and pulled me against him. His cock was now rigid, fuck I thought, he wants sex again.
"No, I want you. It's not over."
"You can't have me now."
"I can, I can fucking-well have you when I want, you're my slut." He said pushing his cock hard against the cotton shorts and my soft tummy.
"You can't. That's it Matt."
"What do you mean, that's it? I decide when this is over, when I want to get rid of my slut?" He growled, holding me tighter. I started to struggle.
"No Matt, you don't, I do."
"In your fucking dreams," he said crushing me against him and grabbing hold of my bum.
"Let me go," I growled struggling and half breaking away, but not before he reached out and got hold of my boob. I squirmed and broke the contact with my tit, but he grabbed the vest. "Stop it Matt, this is crazy, you're acting like a lunatic."
"It's not crazy and don't call me a lunatic." Bloody Kevin Kline again, I thought, nearly smiling
"Matt you're being ridiculous," I said pulling away, but being restrained by his grip on the material of the vest. "Can't you see it's over?"
"I told you I'll decide when it's over," he snarled grabbing my boob again.
"Oh no you don't, I'm telling you we're finished."
"I'll tell you why you can't decide that, slag."
"No you won't," I said, the dialogue sounding a bit like pantomime.
"Ok maybe I won't, but these will," he said shoving me into the lounge. "All your fucking photos say it's not over Mandy."
"What do you mean?" I asked, my heart sinking.
"I have them all on pc together with lots of e-mail addresses including, of course Sara's?"
"You don't, you wouldn't."
"I do and I would, so shut the fuck up and get on your back on that nice leather settee."
"You're insane. You're acting like a lunatic."
"I'm sane enough to fuck you and make you cum so I am not a lunatic," he said pulling the vest. He stretched it very tightly across my boobs and the top of it was pulled down so that my nipples were almost showing. He saw that and pulled harder on the top so that the neckline slid further down and my tits popped out, completely. The sight of them in all their voluptuous glory with, I realised to my horror, horrendously swollen nipples, distracted him and I got away.
"Now stop it," I said trying to walk away and shove my tits back into the clearly totally inadequate vest as I did.
He just held me tighter and pulled the front of the vest down again.
"Look at you, you slag, your nipples are hard, I bet your cunt is soaked as well.
"Fuck off you pervert," I growled, alarmed that quite possibly I was wet.
I squirmed free, now a little scared. I started to run; my plan was to go to my bedroom and lock it. But he grabbed me by the waist with one hand and the hair with the other. I struggled and got near to the foot of the stairs with him still holding me. I thought I would get away, but I was wrong, for I slipped and fell to the ground on my front. He tumbled with me pulling my hair quite hard and gripping my bum with his other hand.
"Let me go," I moaned feeling trapped.
"No," he said squeezing my bum.
"Matt this is madness."
"You keep saying that," he snarled yanking my hair and taking hold of the waistband of the shorts. "It wasn't madness on the patio or in your bed was it or when I took all those photos of you."
"That was different."
"No it wasn't."
"It was, now let me go," I said wriggling to get away.
"Shut up," he said pulling hard on my hair. "You struggle any more and I'll pull your fucking hair out by the roots." He gave it another strong yank to emphasise the point. That made me cry out in pain. At the same time he pulled my shorts half-way down my thighs.
"Stop it, right now."
"Why, if I don't you gonna tell the police are you?"
"Don't be daft, no of course not."
"Right of course you can't," he said sliding his hand between my thighs. "You can't tell anyone can you, not them, your precious fucking daughter or anyone, can you? Not with all this fucking evidence," He said referring to the all the photos.
He wiggled his hand so that he got his fingers onto my lips and pulled hard on my hair again. "Can you .....slut. My slut?"
That realisation hit me strongly. It made me start to cry.
"And that is why you are going to let me fuck you again isn't it?" He said trying to prise my legs apart.
He got his knee inside mine and pushed one leg with that and pulled the other with his hand. I couldn't stop them opening, he was just too strong. The shorts were drawn tightly round my legs at the knees and they prevented him pushing my legs completely open.
"Matt, this is rape. Stop."
"It isn't rape, you want it really," he said pushing me half on to my side.
The neck of the vest was now caught under my boobs almost supporting them. He took hold of my nipple and pinched it hard. That made me yelp.
"See look at your fucking nipples, they're like rocks. What's that all about?"
"I don't know," I whimpered as he squeezed and pinched them.
He still had his knee pushing my right leg open, but he was now almost lying on my back. His cock was pressed securely against the back of my left, upper thigh and the left cheek of my bum. I was helpless. I felt his hand between my legs, his fingers were fumbling at my lips.
"You dirty fucking bitch," he snarled pulling my hair and shoving what must have been three fingers in me.
"Don't," I moaned knowing full well what he was going to say next.
But he surprised me by saying nothing. Instead, I felt his full weight on me, his chest on my back. His stomach on my buttocks, his legs against mine, his cock on my bum.
I started to struggle again, for oddly I had forgotten to do that for a while. Why? I had no idea.
"Get off, you sod," I mumbled, wriggling my bum and trying to close my legs as I lay there on the silk Persian rug, which Kevin and I had paid five thousand ponds for, nearly ten years ago. Despite the desperation and the humiliation of my position, lying on my front, my legs wide open, I couldn't help, completely incongruously thinking, how smooth the silk carpet was. Being so expensive I had never had sex on it, but it did strike me as being a perfect place to make love, not one though to be raped.
The pain was awful as he pulled my hair very hard and dug his fingernails into the soft flesh on the side of my left breast, which was squashed against the floor. Holding my left tit, sticking his fingernails into the flesh on the side and pulling my hair so that my neck was bent and my head was held up off the floor he wiggled himself downwards a little. Down so that he was lying completely between my legs, down so that his cock slid off my bum. Down so that it was also between my legs and down so that he was able to press its bulbous head right on my lips.
He moved his hand from my breast and I thought I might have a chance of escaping, but his hold on my hair was too tight; any movement of mine was met by a yank from him, which did feel as if the hair might come out by the roots.
I couldn't move, I couldn't escape I could do nothing but groan with frustration as unhindered he slid the head of his cock between my lips.
"No, no Matt, stop," I said.
"Shut up," he said. "You know you want it."
He suddenly pressed his finger right against my anus. Not in it, not yet, but on it, right on where he knew I got most sensation. He wiggled it, he probed around the entrance, he opened it bit, anally caressing me with surprising gentleness. I realised that he had wetted his finger with my female excretions.
As he did that with the bulbous knob of his cock snug between my lips, I had the traumatic experience of feeling my hips moving, they were pumping slightly. My body was going out of control, it was out of sync with my mind, my need for sexual pleasure was overcoming my desire to control my destiny. I realised I wanted to be fucked.