The Truth about Reluctance

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.

"Say it," he insists, breathing his hot breath against my ache.

I shake my head in protest, feeling the heat and color rise in my face. I giggle stupidly.

"Say it."

"I'd like that," I say, weakly.

"You'd like what?"

"I'd like it if you licked me," I say, covering my face with a pillow, hoping the beast didn't hear me.

He flicks his tongue ever so close, but not quite. "Licked you where?" he says, persistently. I can hear the coy smile on his face.

"There," I say, touching myself with one hand.

He moves my hand aside and holds it. "Say 'I want you to lick my clit,'" he says so boldly.

I can't say those words.

"Say it, Lover," he says, using my name. There is a tone in his voice. It is comforting and strong and I know he will not think less of me if I say it. I know he wants to please me.

But I say nothing. There are a lot of years of silence to overcome on this one night.

He lets his fingers trace the shape of my pelvis, gently. I still feel his breath close to me. I want him more, now, than ever. But he's stopped asking.

I wanted so badly to give in and he's stopped asking, and I realize that that was just as much a part of this dance as anything else and I'm sorry I let another chance to rid myself of this beast slip away.

I feel his body sliding up mine, again, and he pulls the pillow from my face and kisses my forehead. "I'm going to take a shower," he tells me, and I feel my heart sink into my stomach.

"Wait," I tell him, as he heads to the bathroom. "I thought we were going to.... you know.... make love." Even those words burn my lips.

"How can we make love, when you're holding back on me?" he asks me, cutting right to the issue. I'd never thought of it this way.

"I know you know what you want," he tells me, seriously, resting his forehead to mine. "Why is it so hard for you to say it?"

"I don't know," I confess. That's the truth. I don't know. I don't know why I can't tell a man what I really want. I don't know why I can't say the "naughty words." I know that I want to. I want to do all of those things. And yet, I'm afraid that if I do, I lose a part of me. And once it's gone, I'm not sure if it can be recaptured, if I'd even want to.

"I want you to tell me what you want me to do, Lover." He used my name again, and he looks me in the eyes as he holds my head between his two hands. "When you tell me what you want, I'll do it."

I put my face in his chest. Say it? Say "lick my clit?" Where is the beauty in that? Where is the emotion? Doesn't that cheapen everything?

And yet, I know how I feel about him. And I know how he feels about me. It's not cheap. It's real. And he wants me to say these things.

I put my lips to his ear and I whisper, "I want you to go down on me." I feel the heat rising in my face and my joints grow weaker. I wait for him to laugh or humiliate me. But he lays me gently backward on the bed and begins to kiss my stomach and thighs and I feel his mouth leaving delicate kisses against me.

I want him so badly, I push his head down, hoping he'll just do it, but he won't and I know it, and groan with frustration and he laughs as he continues to tease me beyond any hope of return. If he doesn't take me soon, I just may melt into oblivion.

"Just tell me what you want me to do, Baby," he coaxes and I can't resist anymore and I say it.

"I want you to lick my clit," I shout, trying not to cry, knowing I've broken some taboo whose origin is a complete mystery to me.

But he does. He plunges his tongue into my readiness, and with one flick, I think I'll explode into a burst of colors and screaming. And he holds me tight, to please me and comfort me, knowing what it took to get me here. Knowing I'll be glad of it always.

I feel the sweat beading on my face. I want so many things, but I've already broken the rule once. Surely the beast is angry. "Better to be hung for the chicken as for an egg," I remember from a book I once read. What a stupid time to be remembering book quotes! But it's true. I'd let it go. I may as well indulge.

"Use your fingers," I whisper behind my pillow.

He pulls the pillow from my face. "What?" he asks, looking up from between my thighs.

I close my eyes and put my head back. "Use your fingers," I tell him. And he does. And I think I might cum, right there, as he licks me on the outside and strokes me on the inside and I think every spot is in motion.

But he stops.

And suddenly his face is in my face and I feel his hardness pressing between my thighs. His fingers are probing me and he says, "tell me you want my cock."

I gasp. It is partially for the sensation of his fingers eagerly exploring me, but mostly at the suggestion that I use that word.

But I do want it. I want to feel him inside of me. I want to grind against him and feel him pressing deeper and deeper and know that he's there and not going anywhere.

But that makes me feel weak, and I'm afraid again.

But I feel his heat pressing hard against me, and there is suddenly nothing in the world more frightening than the thought of not feeling that heat and girth inside me. So I try.

"I want it."

"You want my cock?" he says.

"Yes," I say, sheepishly, biting into his neck, hating him for making me do this, yet loving him more for it.

"Say it," he insists, grinding his hips against me. I feel him so close to me I can't stand it.

"I...." I can't bring myself to say that word.

"You want my cock, don't you, Lover?" he says, grabbing my ass and pressing himself against me so hard that it would hurt if I didn't want it so much.

"Yes," I whine, wanting to say it, but still unable to coax the words from my mouth."

"Say it," he demands, pressing his hot mouth to my breast. He sucks hard, biting and pulling my nipple so that I nearly cry out from the excruciating pleasure of it.

"I want your cock inside me," I say, humiliated. I said it. It's over now, isn't it?

But in fractions of a second, he's inside of me, pounding, pushing, groaning. And I understand: These moments parallel my entire life. I'm the strong one. The independent one. The good one. There is great control in pleasing others, even at the expense of my own pleasure. No extremes. Follow the straight path. But what I really want is to see what's down that crooked road. And what I really want is for someone else to take that control with my needs in mind. Lead me. Make me. Not always. But for a little while. For now.

"Don't cum without telling me," he insists, through grunts. There's another word I'll have trouble uttering. But what the hell?

When the waves begin to crash against me, I cry out, "I'm coming."

And then he'd let loose his flood gates as well, and his entire body would convulse with mine, and we'd collapse into trembling exhaustion.

My heart would pound, believing I'd angered the beast. But in the silence, broken only by our labored breath, I'd realize that there never was a beast, only me. And then I realize that this man could lead me to do just about anything, with the right amount of coaxing.