I'll Never Hurt You

He started whispering, and then he began tracing his fingertips on my lower back as he talked. Tracing, talking, tracing, whispering... His fingers were all over me. Between my legs I was throbbing. He had my hands spread wide, and I tried to keep them that way, but I kept sliding them back and forth. He told me to keep still, but I was trembling and pleading. "I can't, I can't." I cried out. "Please, please," I begged. I wanted him to fuck me.

It was too much to bear, I couldn't keep my hands in place, and he spanking me three times. On each smack he yelled No! As if he was punishing me. "No!" Smack. "No!" Smack. "No!" Smack. "I told you to be still!" he said.

Before that night I had never been spanked, but it had always been a fantasy. He did it really, really hard, and it hurt like hell, but after each spank I was also shocked to feel how good it felt. It stung and burned, but it was so arousing.

I kept making weird half-laughing half-panting sounds. I imagined I was his slave girl and his victim.

His tracing got lower and lower, and I couldn't keep still, I just couldn't. He kept touching me and stopping, circling around my hot spots. My lips were so swollen and wet that I thought if he doesn't fuck me right now I'll die.

***

He leaned his whole body on mine, so I had to support him, and he began unbuttoning my shirt. I almost fell but not from his weight. The pleasure overwhelmed me.

He was still fully clothed but hard as a rock, and he kept pushing between my buttocks. I kept thinking: Put it in. Put it in.

He sniffed my hair and my neck, but he didn't kiss me. He just kept undoing buttons. He was shaking, trembling. He had lost control, but he finally got the shirt unbuttoned, and he stood me up and pulled my shirt off my shoulders and down my arms. He wrapped it around my wrists and tied it tight, binding my wrists behind my back.

His hands kept circling, starting just above my ass, moving out and down over my hips, and then coming to the insides of my thighs, from the rear, then back up, avoiding my pussy.

He started again, in the center of my lower back with his fingertips near my spine and his palms at the top of my ass. He moved his hands outward, again, and then down over my hips. He cupped my hips and then ran his hands down to my thighs, on the outside. Then his hands went behind my legs, with his fingertips on the insides of my thighs, and he came back up again, but, again, he avoided touching my pussy. Then his hands came up my buttocks with his fingertips tickling between them.

Of course I'm very sensitive down there, on the insides of my thighs near my pussy. My knees kept buckling.

He made me stand. My arms were pulled behind me. I still had on my tank top, but my button-up shirt was at my wrists, and he was holding it tightly, so my bound wrists were in his grip. He made me feel how strong he was and that I could never get free.

***

He had told me to wear a strapless bra. It never made it home. I assume he still has it. I hope his wife doesn't find it. I don't want Him to be hurt, and he told me it wouldn't fit her, anyway.

He was holding my shirt, tightly, holding me captive. Then he said, "All these clothes, are you trying to hide from me?" He meant the tank top and the bra, and I still had the button up at my wrists. He told me to wear all that, but he pretended I was being naughty, not cooperating with my rapist by trying to keep my clothing on.

"Let's see what you are hiding," he said. At that point all I was hiding were my sensitive breasts that most men would love to see. He reached inside my tank top, from the bottom, and put his hands over my bra. Then he put his hands under my bra, from the bottom, and held my breasts. "Let's lose this," he said, meaning the bra. He took his hands out, took his time, and unfastened the front clasp of my bra. It was strapless, so it fell. I'm not sure if he intended that, or not.

When I first became a woman my nipples weren't big, but since I became a mother I've had to wear a bra all the time, a thick one, because my nipples stick out so much. Another reason I wear a thick bra is that I'm soooo sensitive. When I make love, at first I can barely stand to have my nipples touched. But after they get used to being manhandled I like them to be treated firmly, even a little roughly. When He started rubbing them from outside my shirt it felt soooo good. I never thought it would feel that good. Having them rubbed and teased through the shirt felt better than without one. After he took off my bra and started fondling my breasts, after I'd been teased for so long, I had an orgasm. I couldn't believe that's all it took, but rather than relieving me it made me want to be fucked, more than ever. I was unable to stand, and I fell back onto him.

"I didn't tell you, you could do that," he said angrily.

***

I couldn't stand, and he lowered me to the floor and stood over me. I was his slave girl. I imagined he owned me and could make me do anything he wanted, and I couldn't refuse. He untied my shirt from around my wrists and ordered me to take my hands out of it, and he began to rub his penis through his trousers. I knew he was going to have me suck him, but I wanted to be fucked, so I cried out No, No.

He knew what I wanted, but he wasn't going to give it to me. He pretended to be sadistic. He was going to make me do what he wanted. "You don't have a choice," he said. His smile was scary, but it was also adorable. He walked to the bed and sat down and spread his legs. "Come Here," he said. When I didn't move he ordered, "Come Here!"

I pretended to be really scared, and I crawled to him. I was his pet, his victim, and his property. I had no choice but to do what he wanted. My subjugation and crawling made him so hard he had to adjust his penis. He smiled. I couldn't tell if he was happy, wanted to kill me, or was going to impale me. He played me, and I followed like a lovesick puppy. I crawled on hands and knees and groveled. I would have done anything he asked, anything he wanted, anything he told me to do, and if I didn't he would have made me.

"I'm not going to repeat myself," he said. "You know what I want, and you're going to give it to me."

Please fuck me, I thought. Please.

"Unzip me, and take it out," he said.

I crawled to him and unzipped his zipper, as slowly as I possibly could.

"Cute," he said. "Now you're being a good girl."

I thought I'd die when he called me a 'good girl,' but I was soon distracted by his lovely treasure—the way it was showing how much it wanted me and knowing that I had made it that way. The few I'd seen up close were all about the same length, but his was much thicker. I knew it would be especially fulfilling. He laughed at the way I stared at it, awestruck, speechless, studying the big boy, looking him over and wondering what it would feel like in me.

"Take off your shirt," he said.

My nipples were hard, and I was throbbing between my legs. I wanted to move along quickly, so I didn't hesitate. I was dying to be fucked, and I was mesmerized by his thick hard cock.

I took off my shirt. I was completely and utterly naked, but I wasn't embarrassed. He told me to look at him. He told me I was beautiful. And then he began to cry, just a few tears, because I was giving him the ultimate gift—me.

He took my head in his hands and kissed my lips. That's the moment I remember most, next to 'I'll never hurt you.' I was on my knees, naked, in front of him, submissive, all his. He was dressed, but his penis was out and hard and pointing at me, ready to do its work and take its pleasure. He was holding my head in his hands, kissing me and crying. I'll treasure that moment forever, forever.

We stopped kissing, and he looked at my lips. "Lovely lips," he said, and then he sucked on my bottom lip and kissed me again, much harder, not gentle, demanding, needing me. His thick hard cock stood like a beacon in the night signaling I'm coming for you, soon, sticking up, almost touching my mouth, wanting my sweet lovely lips wrapped around it, the sweet lovely lips of a submissive girl.

"Put your lips around my cock," he said.

I don't crave sucking a penis. I don't even like it, but I do it to please. I like pleasing. His was thicker than I was use to, but I did what he wanted. My mouth was big enough, but when I tried to keep my teeth out of out of the way... It was a wide package. As soon as I started sucking he thrust into my mouth and gasped, and he made me stop. He started and stopped several times. He was close to coming. I kept thinking: it's dangerous to suck a cock when you want to get fucked.

He stopped so he wouldn't come, and he pulled me onto the bed with him, but he still didn't take off his clothes. He lay facing me and kissed my mouth and then my breasts. I almost came, again. He kissed me all over, pulled me close, and he slid his finger inside me, deep inside, just one finger, the rest of his hand holding me. It was a nice feeling. I'd never been held that way. I was on the verge of coming.

He rolled me onto my back. He lay on his side, next to me. One of his arms was under my back, holding me. His hand was between my legs. His finger was inside me. The heel of his hand rested on my clit. His other fingers squeezed me, and the finger inside kept exploring.

One of his legs was over one of mine, high up between my thighs, just below his hand with the finger fucking me.

He took his finger out and licked it. He looked like he was eating candy. Then, quickly, he flipped me over, like at the last second he changed his mind—remember he's an ass man.

"Wait!" He said. Then, everything became quiet. At first I didn't know what he was doing. He still had his clothes on and was very still. Then I realized he was taking off his tie. He pulled my hands behind my back and tied them together.

God, I love being tied up.

My hands were behind me. My thighs were wet with my juices. He waited, probably enjoying the view of my ass, and then he pulled me up by my waist, onto my knees, a favorite position of mine we had talked about, and he held me tightly around my waist.

My head was on the bed. My hands were tied behind my back. My ass was in the air. My legs were spread. My pussy was wet and open. I was totally aroused and vulnerable. He could do anything he wanted to me, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. And then he did, thoroughly.

He pushed his penis in and began to fuck me, firmly and purposefully, not fast, not hard, but purposefully, in firm measured doses. In out, in out, not fast but in precise, metered, demanding strokes, taking his time, being in control.

Don't stop. Don't stop, I thought.

I was in heaven. That was the first time that I had ever had sex that was all feelings. I was so aroused that there wasn't a thought in my head except for Don't Stop. I didn't ever want those feelings to end. I crave to feel them again, and it makes me sad that that will probably never happen. We had shared everything. He told me all about himself, his wife, and his son. He told me about his work and all the things that made him happy and all the things that made him sad. And I told him everything about me, my husband, my children, and about what made me afraid and what made me feel sexy and desired. I told him things I could never tell anyone else, not even my husband—sexual fantasies—things I imagined being done to me. For two years we talked almost every day. We were obsessed with each other, with sharing our deepest feelings. There was nothing I couldn't say to Him and nothing He couldn't say to me. And what we wanted was the same. We had to have each other, for real. We had to be in each other's arms. I needed to be in his arms. I needed him to wrap me up and hold me and touch me. I needed to give him everything. I wanted him inside me. I needed him inside me. And when he was, and even before that, from the moment he said 'I'll never hurt you' to me groveling in front of him and sucking him and having him inside me and coming in me... You can't imagine, after two years of falling in love and not being with each other, how intense it was.

He grabbed my waist, he pulled me hard onto him, and he pushed hard into me, all the way in... And He came.

I screamed. I had never screamed before, but I screamed then—no words—just screaming. My voice is lower than average, so I probably sounded throaty. It was a new feeling, all around, and I was all around him. He was a full fit.

I cried out with screams, tears, and sobbing, and I fell to the side, crying uncontrollably. He quickly began untying my arms, and he kept shushing me, trying to get me to be quiet, but I was overwhelmed with fulfillment.

He fell to the side and pulled me with him. He spooned around me. He hugged me. I kept crying, and he comforted me with shushing and caresses. He was still inside me.

***

I was happy that he came in me, but I hadn't, yet, had a completely satisfying orgasm. I was still terribly aroused, and I needed to come. After he untied and calmed me he pulled out and we rested. Then he went back to playing with me.

He was behind me, spooned, with one arm beneath me. His other arm was caressing up and down my side, my hips, over my breasts, all over. Then he turned me, so I was lying with my front on his arm. His arm was under me, and I spread my legs, and he reached and put his hand between my legs and put his finger in me, again. It was like an electric shock—my legs squeezed tightly around his hand.

He wasn't, specifically, playing with my clit, but he was rubbing it in the process of everything else he was doing. I was humping his hand like mad, gasping, on the verge of orgasm, his finger in me, and then the fingers of his other hand caressed my buttocks and found their way into the hollow between my thighs, and I cried out as years of waiting climaxed in the spasms of an intense, prolonged orgasm. Contractions throbbed in my groin, waves of pleasure washed over me, hallucinations filled my cortex, and feelings of elation, love, and harmony swirled within the chaos.

"Open your eyes, Open your eyes," he kept saying as he leaned over me, watching me come.

I didn't want to, but in the midst of orgasm I blinked my eyes open, just for a moment, but it was too much to bear—too personal—too communicative on levels I didn't understand. I thought I could share everything with him. I had bared my soul, every day, and let him own it. I bared my body and gave that to him too. And, I let him inside me. But I couldn't share the moment of ultimate release by opening my eyes and exposing my soul as I came.

I shut my eyes, and sank back into my feelings.

***

After I came we spooned into each other. I was satisfied like a cat full of cream. We snuggled. It felt wonderful, but he still had his clothes on, and I wanted them off. Keeping his clothes on was part of our rape fantasy, but I wanted to see all of him.

He agreed, but I was still his servant girl, and he made me undress him. He made it hard for me, poking, pinched, and tickling me, while I tried to get him naked. It was very silly.

We snuggled again, both of us naked, and we talked about little things: him fussing at me about being ashamed of my body and asking if what we did was what I imagined it would be. I told him he was spunky for an old guy. Things like that.

Then he brought up a future relationship and asked me, again, if this was the only time.

I said, "We agreed it would be. It has to be."

He apologized for asking. He said he knew he promised not to ask again, but he had to. He said he couldn't help it.

Did we ever do it again? No, never. It would be terribly dangerous for me to continue an affair that could destroy my family life, maybe even separate me from my children.

I wanted to do it again, but I could no longer believe my excuses. I could no longer rationalize doing what I had done under learning about sex and my problems, not if I kept meeting him. I couldn't risk my marriage more than I already had. He couldn't either. Even telling what I did, cultivating a relationship and meeting Him, is dangerous. But I've been obsessed. I needed to get it out, to talk about it, to someone, to anyone.

I won't meet him again. I'm tempted, but I won't.

***

After we met, I talked to him twice. The first time I simply left him a note that I was safely home. It was unnecessary and therefore another act of betrayal. I feel guilty about it.

The second time was worse—we had a long talk about how we felt about each other. Again, he broke his promise and said he wanted to see me.

I told him no, it's over. He won't contact me, anymore. I'm sure of it, because He said 'I'll never hurt you.' And he won't.

Epilogue

I've thought, many times, about that moment, in the midst of orgasm, that I looked into His eyes, and I realized that I am not ready, and may never be ready, for that kind of love. For that kind of love is true love, love in which you can stare into your lover's eyes while in the midst of an orgasm that bares your soul, expose your self, totally, and make you vulnerable. I'm not ready for that. It's a goal, a wish, perhaps, that I can strive to achieve. But if I could I'd only want to achieve that with my husband, for he is the man who chose to be my partner, forever, and who, unlike I, has acted with unselfishness and devotion. He is the man I chose to be the father of my children, and he is a good man, a good father, and a loyal husband. If I can achieve true love, he is the one who deserves to share it.

My other lover, He, said, 'I'll never hurt you,' but sex, especially good sex, especially the best sex, sex that is delayed and denied as He and I got to know each other, learned about each other, stroked each other, day after day, built arousal, from orange to red to white hot, and then and only then consummated the lust that overwhelmed us: can those experiences, those thrilling sexual compulsions and the acting out our fantasies, be resisted? Should they be? He really did change me. It's not an illusion. I was healed, sexually and in other ways, but does that make the risks I took worth taking? Is what I gained worth the price I paid—being selfish and unfaithful? If I had it to do over would I do it again? Would you? Would you cheat on your lover, maybe only one time, if you had the chance to be healed with sex like that?

***

I am done confessing. I am guilty, and I seek no absolution. I only pray that my husband never finds out. And I worry. For I still know how to get in touch with Him.

And He still knows how to get in touch with me.