A World of Her Own Ch. 01

Poetically speaking, authors of all stripes have used the description 'my soul shivered' to describe things that induced everything from panic and dread to pleasure and ecstasy, including, on many occasions, the pleasure of sex.

My soul didn't shiver. It didn't tremble. It *quaked*. My world shook hard enough to split off California from the west coast of the US. Philosophical cities, built on bedrock truths I knew about myself and the world, crumbled into dirt and ruins with the force of that quake. It fundamentally shifted my identity. I had never imagined pleasure like that was possible. Hell, I knew people took drugs to try and increase their pleasure during sex, to try and reach a 'higher high'. I didn't believe they could get any higher than I reached right then, at that moment.

I'd never tried drugs, not seriously. To my mind, that had always been a fruitless and pointless search. There was no 'higher high', no 'better orgasm'. Sure, there were big ones and small ones, but those to me were always just as much about whether I was in the proper state of mind to experience them properly. My opinion was that barring some neurochemical mumbo-jumbo, the underlying physical mechanics were pretty much set in stone. And my typical orgasm was more than satisfying enough.

This didn't satisfy me. It devastated. If every sexual experience was like this I think people would only actually fuck three or four times in a lifetime. Anything more and I think our brains would be too unstable to be capable of anything remotely approaching sanity. I certainly lost mine. I admit it. That orgasm drove me insane.

I swear I could *feel* Cal's pleasure, but not just that. No, I could feel that his pleasure wasn't just caused by physical sensation but by the primal satisfaction of knowing he was *inside me*, physically and spiritually. He was reveling in the physical sensation, sure, but that was compounded multi-fold by the knowledge that he had made me his *vessel*. That, in a very real way, he had made me his proxy, claimed me, planted a piece of himself inside me, a piece which would *grow*, a piece I would carry and turn into another person, a piece of himself given a separate and distinct life. But his pleasure didn't revolve around that potential life, oh no, it revolved around *me*. In his very loving, caring, endearing, and very masculine heart of hearts, I could feel it - he believed he owned me. Owned me in the only way I would let him. I would never leave him now, never escape him. Even if I left, I would take a piece of him with me. I would never, as long as I lived, be truly free of him.

He *loved* that.

And just as I was overloaded with my pleasure, when he entered me I was washed in his, my pleasure doubling as his soul thrust into mine. Feeling his pleasure added to my own, I didn't care. I *couldn't* care. My mind was barely able to keep making memories, and only sketchy ones at that. The feelings I was feeling, both his and mine, were simply being filed away for later, raw and unprocessed.

Despite that, I did react. It was as instinctive and primal as everything else, as mystical and magical as everything else. I reached out with that part of me, the part that he was even now forcing himself into, making a home for himself and claiming as his own, his fierce joy and pride at doing so boiling through me, undeniable and insatiable, and I tried to do the same. To give *back*. To make this thing he was reveling in a two-way street. To claim him as much as he was claiming me. To revel in it with him, to make our bonds the bonds of love eternal. To create a feedback loop that might just blow our minds out like circuit breakers and leave us both happily brain-dead. Honestly, I'm not quite sure what would have happened.

I reached for him, prepared to offer him the same experience he was giving me, to blend my spirit with his and allow him the joy and love he gave me. He simply had to let me in, to allow me to penetrate him in return, even in the smallest way, so that I could bleed my feelings into him as he was doing with me. To truly *share* the joy of sharing ourselves this way.

He refused me.

No, that isn't strong enough. Isn't painful enough. He *rejected* me. And why? I could feel his revulsion boiling up even as he rejected me. Why would he refuse this fundamental spiritual union?

Because no real man would allow himself to be *penetrated*. Even spiritually. Even in a moment of sharing and love so profound that 'penetration' was simply a euphemism for something which had no true physical analog, a blending of our spirits.

But he didn't see it that way. Men claimed. Men dominated. Women were the ones who felt, who were claimed, and who were owned. Men were bastions, complete of themselves, but not women. Not to him. He didn't mean subservience, that I needed to treat him as my king, to wait on him hand and foot and make my life about fulfilling his desires. No, women weren't good enough for that. We couldn't fulfill a man's desires. A man could only fulfill his *own* desires, even if he had to use a woman, or another man, or a pig, to do so.

But he did want my devotion, for me to worship him as the next thing to a god, to be the sole star in my sky, day or night. He wanted to be the ground that I walked on, the food I ate, and the water I drank. He wanted to consume me until I was little more than a slightly distant extension of himself. He wanted his fuck-toy to be so engrossed in him that any time he needed to fulfill his desire I would be there, ready and willing. Unable to resist.

It's hard but I admit that this is a bit of an oversimplification of what he was feeling, a distillation rather than the whole truth. There were other things, many other things, so many other things that I couldn't possibly comprehend, much less document, them all. But this was his core, the real center of his feelings for me and about me, exposed at that moment when all the other complexities took a back seat to his most fundamental self as he pushed me away.

Nobody got inside him because he was a man and men didn't *do that*.

I recoiled, my own emotions trying to turn sour, taking on a thread of that blacker emotion in the sea of pleasure. I didn't want this anymore, didn't want him inside me anymore. Once that feeling crystallized it became real and, poof, he was gone. But the impact of his presence remained. I could still feel the place he had been, even if that place was now a void.

But the pleasure was not gone. Now he was angry, I could feel it, not with my soul but with my body. He was becoming forceful, purposeful; intent on eeking out every bit of pleasure he could from me.

I'd heard of hate-fucking before but never experienced it. Never really had any desire either. It sounded awful. Why would I want to fuck someone I had a love-hate relationship with? Fuck them just so they could use me to express the totality of their emotions on my body, to brand me with them.

Cal fixed that. I knew now that he liked taking my firsts, that it fed his male ego, that toxic dump inside him that needed at least one woman beneath him, beneath his heel, to be satiated. At least it explained why he wasn't fond of me trying to ride him.

Just because I knew what he was doing didn't end the pleasure. It grew and expanded, the toxic emotions fueling it simply turning the experience into something more, something greater. Mutating into a new, albeit unwanted, experience.

He knew this would be our last time. The jig was up; the game ended. If not for this miraculous, hateful magic, I might never have realized. But now I knew. I had felt it. My soul had sickened with the realization.

But my body didn't care. It still quivered with the electric shock of my nerves firing excessively as Cal took advantage of my inability to react, to respond, to object. I was brain-fried, barely conscious, but I could still feel.

He'd never asked for anything from me except plain old vanilla sex. Never had any kink he'd exposed. I'd assumed he didn't have one. More fool me. He was a conman playing the long game, seducing a woman who thought she was a true feminist into surrendering her ideals to become his satellite, forever bound in his orbit.

So when he spit on his cock and pushed himself through the seal of my anal sphincter, I felt it. I felt the pain and humiliation. I felt dirty and used. The worst part is that if he had asked, if he had ever shown any interest in trying it, I would have been happy to try it with him. I'd never done it, but with proper preparation, I know plenty of women enjoy it.

But that wasn't why he did it. Not for pleasure, his or mine. He didn't even really do it to hurt me, though I believe taking pleasure in my willingly endured pain was in there somewhere. But that wasn't it. It was about taking. Claiming. He did it so he could always say he had my first time. He did it because he could and, because he could, because I didn't stop him, he thought it was his right.

I have no idea how he was still hard. Maybe it was the magic. I don't know. All I know is that he was not gentle, loving, or kind. He'd felt my revulsion, just as I'd felt his true self, at least his true self when it came to how he felt about women, and we both knew he'd never get another chance. Whether our relationship was truly a sick game to him I'll never know. I do know that, when we were bound together, I had felt his very real love for me, real love for what we had. Real love for the idea of starting a family. It had been real. I knew that.

That is why I don't begrudge him his parting shot, even if I would have stopped him if I could. I think he did it as much out of hurt as anything else. He had refused because of a very personal, deeply held belief, and I had rejected him because of that belief. Rejected him in the same way I felt rejected. We couldn't be together, never again. Our views on how relationships worked were opposed, even if we'd somehow made the gears mesh up until the mana wave came and brought it crashing all down.

He shoved his dick into my ass the same way he would if he were fucking the proper hole - unhesitatingly. He didn't deliberately hurt me, no, he was just showing that he didn't care. Then he fucked me. Fucked me as thoroughly and surely as any time he had ever fucked me. His cock was a steel rod.

At first, it hurt, then, somehow, it hurt *more*, the thousands of pinpricks of my sphincter being stretched well beyond anything I'd ever experienced before paired with the rasping grating friction of his rhythmic thrusting as the spit failed to provide proper lubrication and my vaginal juices were either quickly scraped clean from his cock or absorbed by my bowels.

I cried. I moaned. I'm sure I begged; I'm *certain* I told him it hurt.

And somewhere along the way the strange alchemy of our coupling - the initial orgasm that I'd had what felt like hours ago, the slow and romantic build-up to his orgasm, the mind-blowing and still-lingering effects of that second orgasm, the force, which had caused us and our pleasure to go from 10 up through the roof and into the unexplainable - managed to turn pain into a strange sort of pleasure. I didn't want it. Part of me hated it. Part of me *wanted* it to simply *hurt*. That would be easier. So much easier. I could let him go believing he anally raped me once he realized he'd never get another, more legitimate, chance. But my body didn't understand my reluctance or my lack of consent. My nerves were still firing on overdrive.

The pain never went away. It slackened some as I adapted, but it was still there, persistent. But the pleasure of the act boiled up like overheated water from a tea kettle left too long on the stove. Except something was adding more water and soon that pleasure, which had been bubbling up but mostly subsumed by the sheer discomfort of having someone TRYING TO TEAR OPEN MY ASSHOLE, was suddenly like a pressurized stream of pure pleasure, hot and scalding still, but that became flavoring rather than the meal. Now, this was something I'd never eaten before, a type of pleasure I'd never felt before.

I was just starting to surrender to it, to get into it, when Cal bent down, grabbed my hands, and pulled them up above my head before forcing me to kiss him, his lips on mine.

I started to resist. I don't know why that did it but something about it got to me. I just couldn't kiss him, not anymore. I started to try freeing my hands, pushing his hips away, but his hands had a firm grip on my wrists. As for his hips, well, he was already inside me, as close as he could get, and it was impossible to get my feet, or even my knees, in between us to push him away.

He must have tired of my struggles quickly because he released my hands and rolled me over before sitting on my thighs and wrapping his hand around my neck. I tried to squeeze my cheeks closed, to deny him. He pinched and then punched until I relented. The pleasure was gone and the pain was everything when he got back inside me, but somehow, ridiculously, as he squeezed my throat and pulled my hair - something he knew I hated - he managed to use his cock to fill me with pleasure once more.

God help me but I orgasmed as he abused me. Twice. I've tried to blame it on the magic wave, on some lingering effect, and that's probably true, at least a little. But some part of me, something inside that I desperately try to deny even now, found some pleasure, some way to enjoy, the abuse he heaped on me and my body.

It was so different from what I'd experienced before, so new. And the pain kept pushing the pleasure down so that when he would relent it would surge all over again, taking over, and relief and pleasure would mingle and soon I was on the precipice and...

I screamed. In pleasure this time. I screamed in pleasure as he took me. I will never say that I enjoyed the pain. I don't think people can truly enjoy pain, though I know those who will argue, with some merit, that pain can accentuate and enhance pleasure.

But pain can be cathartic, like lancing a boil. Somehow, in the time that he held me down and brutally rammed his shaft into my behind, that pain became my penance, my catharsis for rejecting him. I would endure him, endure this, take what pleasure I could, and let him take his own in any way he deemed fit. I would let him have what he *truly* desired from a woman, just this once. Then he would be gone and all he would have of me was his memory of why we weren't together and his sick satisfaction at having broken me to his will, even if only briefly.

With the pain given purpose, compartmentalized, the pleasure of what he was doing to my body took hold. I never knew I enjoyed anal sex before that, but I did. Or at least, now I knew I would when I was with someone who would do it properly. Someday. When I could imagine it without thinking of Cal. Then, maybe, I could enjoy this new aspect of my body.

Regardless, I've never passed out from pleasure before, never had a true loss of consciousness orgasm. So when I did finally black out, sometime as I was coming down from that second orgasm, I'm pretty sure it was because of his hand around my throat, and not because I had tripped some physiological trigger with my ecstasy.