Submissive

He flopped over onto his back, and I wondered if this incredible session was over. But almost immediately he grabbed me and by main force dumped me on top of himself. I was afraid he was going to get rough with me, but he just started caressing and cuddling me as if I were a favorite niece. I will admit that I do like snuggling after sex, and my very few previous partners hadn't been good at that. So that was a point in Patrick's favor, even if practically everything he had done up to this point could have been considered something close to—

Well, I won't say it.

I began to fall again into a dreamlike state as he stroked me into a feeling of calmness and repose. But then, after about fifteen minutes, during which we hardly uttered a word (what, after all, was there to say?), he abruptly pushed me off of himself and got up, apparently heading toward the bathroom.

I didn't ask where he was going. Did he have to pee? I know a lot of guys need to pee after sex. Or was he just going to clean himself up, get dressed, and say "See you later, baby"? Was this going to be the abrupt ending of this most incredible date?

But no. He came back holding a blue jar that he'd found in my medicine chest. I frowned in bafflement as to what he could possibly want that stuff for. Only when he flipped me over onto my stomach and scooped out a bunch of the cold white substance onto his fingers did I grasp—with a sense of alarm, even horror—what he was going to do.

"Oh, no, Patrick," I cried weakly. "Please . . . not that way."

It was as if I hadn't spoken. Standing next to the bed, he began coating that spot—I don't need to tell you where it was—with the cold cream. The bizarre feel of it—to say nothing of the feel of those fingers probing that forbidden orifice—induced a kind of stupefaction in me. Then he climbed onto the bed and got right on top of me. I just lay there (yes, passive and submissive): I certainly wasn't going to get into that horrible "doggie-style" position, which makes me feel like an animal "presenting" her sex to the male for penetration. Patrick didn't seem to mind, as he draped his entire body over mine and slowly but relentlessly inserted his thing into my anus.

I let out a huge gasp when it first went in. I'd never done this before and had no idea what to expect. I couldn't have predicted the utter strangeness of the sensation, so different from when a man enters a woman the usual way. The feeling of unnaturalness, not to mention the pain, was so overwhelming that my mind basically shut down. And yet, it didn't: I could feel every inch of that organ probing me like a blind mole burrowing its way into the earth, until finally it couldn't go any farther. I had no idea how far in he was: even more than the other way, it felt as if his entire body was in me, and I felt even more helpless than before.

As he began going in and out of me, the pain became a kind of dull burning or throbbing. I involuntarily let out little grunts with every thrust of his, and I think my tongue stuck out of my mouth, as if I was choking. My face was turned on its side, and his was right next to mine, and so he kissed me on my cheek and eye and my ear. Omigod! He was actually trying to stick his tongue as deep into my ear as he could, and that utterly weird but exciting feeling gave me a mini-climax that I couldn't have expected.

Meanwhile he had wrapped his hands around my midsection and seized my breasts, sqeezing them tightly. I just lay comatose, but still grunting as if someone were punching me in the stomach over and over. And yet, it wasn't really painful anymore: the whole experience had somehow come to seem normal. I don't think men have any idea of what it is to take a part of someone else's body into oneself. A man can insert his thing into a woman; a woman can't really insert any part of herself (not a sexual organ, anyway) into a man. So there's always this double sense that this is an invasion of a woman's bodily integrity and, at the same time, a natural and inescapable result of the difference between male and female anatomy. Maybe that's why I started to feel that even this aberrant procedure was somehow inevitable.

After a while Patrick slipped one hand toward my sex, cupping it as if he just wanted to hold it tight, then he started to stroke and fondle it—with the obvious intent of making me come right when he did. And that's exactly what happened. When he started emptying his discharge into me, I could feel every drop landing in that unusual place; and at the same time I was moaning and groaning and gasping and squealing like a stuck pig (which, in some ways, is exactly how I felt), my whole body quivering as if electrocuted.

At last we settled down, but Patrick remained firmly ensconced in me, as if he never wanted to come out. And he wasn't getting much softer. Finally, in between gasps, I had to say, "Patrick, please come out."

With an incoherent grunt of his own he pulled out, giving me a final little jolt of pain. He staggered out of bed and trudged off to the bathroom—to wash up, I guess.

When he came back, he again scooped me up and placed me on himself—and once again I felt our hearts beating loudly and irregularly, as my breasts were squished against his hard chest.

He was looking at me with a kind of radiant benevolence, as if he'd conferred a great favor on me. That got me a little annoyed.

"You shouldn't have done that," I said with as much force and severity as I could. "You—you hurt me."

His face took on this expression of utter amazement. "I did?"

"I hadn't done that before!" I almost shouted.

"You'll get used to it," he said, stroking me head as if I were a little girl.

"What if I don't want to get used to it?"

He was now nuzzling my neck. "I'm sorry, dear. I just thought you'd like it."

His cuddling was mollifying me a little, but I really didn't know how much more I could take. Weren't we finished now? He'd already come three times—something that none of his predecessors in my bed had ever done—and I'd come at least that many times too. What else was there to do except for him to leave?

But then, after fifteen or twenty minutes of really soothing caresses, I sensed something that I had trouble believing: he was getting hard yet again.

"Oh, Patrick, no!" I cried. "Not again!"

"Darling . . ." he began.

"I'm so tired!" I couldn't bring myself to add: And sore.

One of his hands was rubbing my bottom, as if that would make that area throb less from what he'd just done. He looked at me speculatively, as if trying to come up with some additional act that I could endure. Finally he said:

"How about sixty-nine?"

I just closed my eyes and cradled my head in the crook of his neck.

He misinterpreted my silence. "Do you know what that is?"

"Yes, I know what that is." Then, after a pause, I said in resignation, "Okay."

He leaped into action—although that basically meant flipping me around so that my legs were on either side of his head and my face was juxtaposed to that enlarging member. He got to work right away, not caring about the stuff (both his and mine) oozing out of my two lower orifices, licking up everything in sight and fastening his lips onto my labia and clitoris and anywhere else he could reach, while his hands resumed massaging my bottom.

At first I did nothing, just glorying in the attentions he was bestowing on me. I reflected that his passion had to reflect something more than merely the fact that I was a generic female with the right body parts. Surely I was inspiring him because I was something special—and that knowledge made me forgive a lot of the manhandling he had done, from the incident at my front door to his invasion of my anus.

Finally I began licking and sucking that big organ of his. I actually like the feel of a hard cock in my mouth: there's such a strange combination of firmness and softness (the tender and delicate skin, I mean) about this thing! What a curious little (or not so little) object it is! It so often seems to have a mind of its own, and even though it has played such a big role in the subjugation of women over the centuries, I just can't help finding it weirdly compelling. And that cute little sac of testicles below it, so soft and pliant but so potent!

I hate to admit it, but I worshipped that cock. What else could I do? It loomed up in front of my face like a huge obelisk, and its pungent odor (especially after three entries into my body) made me almost dizzy. I licked the shaft, I sucked on the tip, I even craned my neck to place those balls gently (oh, so gently!) into my mouth. After a while I felt as if nothing else existed in the universe except that organ—unless it was my own sex, which Patrick was manipulating with lips and tongue and fingers in a way that seemed to give me orgasm after orgasm, one after the other.

And then he shot his seed into my mouth in several spasms. I let it trickle thickly down my throat. I had to swallow: it was a sign of respect and devotion. I drank in every drop.

I had to roll off of him, lying flat on my back and staring up at the ceiling. Soon he was gazing down at me with this curiously energized look.

"Did you like that?" he whispered.

"Yes," I whispered back. "But, um, could you get me some water?" That stuff of his is so salty!

He leaped out of bed and brought me back a glass of water. Just like a considerate father tending to his little daughter!

I really hoped this was the end—but in a way I knew I would be sad if it was.

He gave me a little kiss on the mouth, then positioned himself for sleep. I guess he was intent on spending the night here, and I couldn't begrudge him that. In fact, I welcomed his presence next to me. It's always nice to have a man in your bed, isn't it, girls?

I married him about a year later. We get along really well, for the most part. Sometimes he still tosses me around like a ragdoll, but he always does it with a smile and without being mean or violent. I don't mind. That's just the way I am. I love him desperately, and I know he loves me. He can't get enough of my body—and also my mind and heart. So I've forgiven him for some of the things he did on that first date, especially that time at my front door when he went from kissing me to fondling my bottom to pulling down my panties to putting his thing into me, which most people would think of as—

But no, I'll not say that word. I'll never say that word.