tagBDSMA Bad Feminist

A Bad Feminist


Not a man-hater so much as completely indifferent, couldn't care less, don't blame them they're only children. Girls chase boys in the playground, we always won. My mother was the one with the spade, the hammer and nails, the electric drill; my sister and I playing rugby, football, cricket, cars. And there's me in the gay bar, with my gender-fluid friends, softly watching the girls, hand curled around my beer, in jeans, flat shoes, nothing tagging my once-pierced ears.

Their names hang in my head like saints, like prayers; Mary Wollstonecraft, the Pankhursts, Betty Friedan, Simone de Beauvoir... I have my own personal commandments. I will not sit on a man's lap. I will never let a sexist joke lie. I will never let a man carry my bags. I will never dress for men. I will not allow people to take rape lightly. I will not ask a man to help me fix anything. I will not own anything pink. I will not thank you for opening a door for me because I'm a woman, do you think it's a disability? I will not giggle. I will never use the word 'vagina'. I will not bat my eyelashes. I will not let you pay, I have an income too. I'll prove that you don't need a penis for sex. I will not beat you in an arm wrestle, but I'll damned well try. I will not let you contain me, constrain me or try to control me.


But you flip all my switches. Something in the tone of your voice and the dark look in your eyes cracks and shatters my hard, ass-kicking, man-eating exterior. Beneath it I'm soft and raw as new skin, helpless, wild and pliant to your body, your word, your will. As if drunk, I find myself in your thrall, more than naked in nothing but stockings and heels. And as if I were created for this, I kneel at your feet, worshipping you, with your cock thrusting deep in my throat. Held there by the catches in your breath, needing your groans more than air, needing your hands in my hair, holding my head, fucking my face. It feels like grace, your pleasure steadily asphyxiating me, and the room darkens to the point where we join. And when you come, endlessly, you hold me to your spurting cock, but there's no need. This is my sacrament, I will drink your seed, every last drop; only then will I stop, only then will I feel able to breathe.


It's no use; in a lecture on Women's Liberation, I realise I don't want to be free. You've suddenly possessed my mind; I'm obsessed with your cock; the shape of the head, the taste of the tip, its hardness in my hand. And over and over in the lecture hall, the delirious pain as you enter me. At night, when you finally order me onto my hands and knees, your voice growing rougher with lust, when you finally spread me wide open and tie me down, when you finally capture me, there's nowhere on earth I'd rather be. The blindfold settles over my eyes, and helpless, I start to drift, moored only by the cuffs at my wrists. With closed eyes I'm forced back into my solitary slide show, the one that delivers me daily between sleep and waking, that succession of glorious, anonymous blows.

Your voice is urgent in my ear, your hands sliding across my back; you're going to punish me, I've been a bad girl. What use is feminism now? The answer is yes, I'm a bad girl. Breathlessly, yes. Please. You bite my nipples until I scream. Then you bite them again. I can smell your cock near my face, feel its pulsing heat on my already hot cheek. Blind and mewling I turn my head seeking it, tickling your cock with my uneven, panting breath, begging you silently with my parted lips. Slowly you run the tip across my lips, for me to lick, greedily, wetly. I stretch for more but you're out of reach, open-mouthed, I whine in frustration like an animal.

Grabbing my chin, you force my head upwards, "What do you want, slut?" The word crashes over me, sending me reeling, but I manage to whisper, "I want... Let me suck your cock, please?" Your reply is the slow slide of your cock to the back of my throat and moaning I work my mouth over you, losing myself totally to your control. But it's too brief, after all this is a punishment, I don't get what I want, you give me what you know I need. You step away from me and I'm suspended, motionless in the silence and darkness that you've imposed on me. You tighten the tension like violin strings and I struggle uselessly against my bonds.

The first blow comes out of nowhere, the crack of your palm on my buttock snapping the silence. I cry out with the pain I barely feel, cry out in welcome, longing for the next blow. It falls on my other cheek, shockingly hard. For a while you play out this stinging percussion, to my fluid, unthinking moans, reddening my buttocks with your handprint, marking me as yours. Your cockslut, your dirty little bitch, your filthy whore. This is the mantra we chant to each other, both panting from the spanking you've just given me, rubbing your achingly hard cock slowly back and forth across my dripping cunt, biting my shoulders, both of us desperate to fuck. "Stop it" you tell me as I thrust backwards, trying to capture your cock, "You're a very bad girl, and bad girls need to be punished." Those few syllables make my breath catch in my throat and I release it in a shuddering moan, my whole body is tingling, wondering what will come next.

I hear the clink of your belt buckle, but you are already naked. "Oh fuck yes" I hiss, in spite of myself; the old childhood threat echoing in my ears: "If you don't be good, I'll have to belt you, and if you're really naughty I'll use the buckle end." I hear the thwack as you test the leather, against your palm, or against the wall, I didn't know but I flinch, shaking. It even sounds like it would hurt and here I am, spread open to you... I hear you take a deep breath and feel the blow rather than hear it, like a band of ice across my skin, melting to burning fire. I hiss through my teeth, gritting them, bracing myself for the next blow, knowing it would be worse, better, willing myself not to scream.

The next blow falls, hard and I scream, despite myself. Another, and another and I no longer know what you're punishing me for, and I no longer care. I'm begging you for more, or to stop, or something and my face might be wet with tears. You do stop and I'm relieved and disappointed, it was too much for you, now all you want is to fuck me. You stroke my skin, striped with red and you thrust into my cunt as though you own me, which, in this instant, you do.

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