The last few weeks, He has started to play with issues of consent and non-consent. It gets very complicated and he has challenged me to re-examine my ideas about control and submission through the prism of consent.
I do retain the right to withdraw my consent for any activity at any time if I have an adequate excuse. If I am sick, I can tell him and he never pushes me on it or disrespects my health. While we are having sex, I am within my rights to call things off if I am injured. But if I am not in the mood? Well, that doesn't happen that often, but in that situation he is within his rights to ignore what I want altogether. The thing I've realized is that doing so is an unbelievable turn-on for him and an amazing point of focus in my submission for me.
The first time this happened, it was a Sunday and we had spent the morning in bed. After having sex about three times the night before, we had sex another three times that morning. We were both worn out - tired, dehydrated, in desperate need of food. I felt hungover, even though I don't drink. I didn't think that I could take another orgasm. I just didn't have the energy in me. And how could he keep getting hard? It didn't make sense!
Maybe I gave him that look that he accuses me of giving him, the one that makes him growl and narrow his eyes with lust? Maybe he could see it in my eyes. There are times when my desire and my physical capacity do not match up. It is possible that I looked like I wanted to be fucked again when it was not physically possible. Whatever it was, he pulled my ear to his mouth and whispered, "Are you my hungry little girl?"
Yes, I'm hungry for breakfast, I was thinking. But he was talking about a different type of hunger. In any case, he was soon on top of me.
I was fine for the first couple of minutes, until he started fucking me harder and I started to feel a bit sore. I whined a little, thinking that he would let me stop, or at the very least change positions or use some lube. Instead, he seemed spurred on by my complaining and fucked me harder.
I started to ask him more desperately to stop. I was pleading with him. "Please, please, it hurts, I can't anymore, please..."
"Keep begging. Beg me to stop fucking your sore pussy, go ahead, beg me."
I felt wrung out and exhausted. I couldn't even keep my hips at an angle that would minimize the impact of his thrusts. After a time, I couldn't even keep my legs around his waist. I was sobbing - making the sound a person makes when she is crying - but the tears wouldn't come. I think I was so drained that I couldn't even produce tears.
"Why is your pussy getting wetter?," he taunted me. "You like this, don't you?"
"No, no, I can't take any more, please," I croaked.
"Then why are you so wet, huh?"
"I don't know..."
He bit into my shoulder viciously. I was laying underneath him as he fucked me. I couldn't even move in response. I was a rag doll. Was he still inside me? I couldn't tell. I was completely numb. I closed my eyes and listened from far away as ridiculed me for being so unconsciously turned on by his sadism.
And that's what I didn't exactly understand. I really did want him to stop, not because I was in any acute pain but more out of my own discomfort. At the same time, I knew that I had to submit to him. I was intrigued by the fact that he wasn't stopping, no matter how much I begged. In fact, the more I begged, the more enthusiastic he became. It seemed so messed up to me.
I could deconstruct why being forced to do something that I ostensibly didn't want to do would be a turn-on for me, especially in light of my background. Sexuality or sexual behavior was discouraged in my childhood home, something to brand you as a slut and an inferior, base person. To express a sexual desire of any sort would be frowned upon, a terrible breach of etiquette for a proper young lady. As a result, any sexual behavior could not occur willingly. It would have to be forced on me in order to absolve me of any responsibility for my own sexual agency. If I was forced, I wouldn't be a willing, eager slut. I might be the proper young lady that the world sees. There's the mindfuck - what side of the coin would win the toss-up?
But what about Him? I really couldn't figure out why that would turn him on, aside from the immense feeling of control he had over me at that moment. I was begging him to stop and and he retained the power to continue to make me suffer against my will. Was that it? Was it that simple?
The next time, we were in exactly the same situation: weekend morning, overfucked and overtired. I just wanted to take a hot shower and have a cup of coffee, but he pinned me down on the bed and wouldn't let me up. He touched my pussy, slowly inserting one finger inside me. As I tried to squirm out from under him, he started threatening me.
"Get back here." He touched himself, stopping occasionally to slip a finger into me or rest his hand against my throat.
"I don't know, maybe you do want to get fucked," he mused. "Maybe you want my cock in your sore little pussy."
"No, no I don't," I stammered.
"Hm...," he thought for a moment before rolling onto his back. "Get up here and straddle me."
"Please, no. I can't right now, please." I was exhausted and could barely gather the energy to sit up and mount him. But I straddled his body anyway. He positioned his cock right at the entrance to my vagina and paused.
"You want to get fucked, don't you?"
"Please no, please, please no," I begged. He rubbed his cock against my wetness and smirked as I continued to beg and pull away. He put the tip of his cock right against my hole and started pushing it in slightly.
"If you want me to stop, you had better beg better than that," he warned, holding my hips steady.
"Please, please, I'll do anything you want later. Anything, just please, not now."
"Anything! Name it, I'll do it later, I promise!"
"Silly Kitten, don't try to bargain with me. You know I'll do whatever I want with you later anyway. You can't bargain with what you don't control."
I whimpered and clutched at my hair. I lost all sense of decorum and began begging with shameless abandon. And suddenly, he released me.
Later, after I had recovered in his arms, he looked down on me fondly. "You know that I would never make you do something you didn't want to do, Kitten."
I thought about that for a minute, then said, "You did last time."
"I did, but you liked that too, didn't you?"
"Maybe. I don't know...yes," I equivocated.
"Hmm," he mused and we laid there together, lost in thought. I don't know where that left us, but I don't think I've seen the last of this dynamic play out between us yet. One thing is for certain, and that is that I don't know what to expect - and that is what he loves the most.