The Framework of Fantasy – Part One
“Are you ready?”
Nerves churn in my stomach but my gaze never falters.
I tell you no; you do it anyway.
I shove you; you push back.
I try to scream; you seal my lips with yours, swallowing the sound
I feel your fingers inside me, insistent and unrelenting. Each thrust of your hard hand pounds against my soft sex, echoing through my whole body. The length of your arm presses between us, a long, pistoning force I cannot shake. I feel it—feel you—in every cell of my body, inescapable, unignorable.
I rear my leg back to kick you, my power surging as I bend my knee. But, when I strike, you catch my sole in your palm.
My body tenses and I try to bite back a shrieking laugh. “Yellow.” The sound squeaks out as my ticklish foot recoils.
“Sorry.” You let go instantly, practically thrusting my foot away from you. We both wince at the break in the scene.
I give a small shake of my head, hoping we can hold it together. “Green.”
You nod and flash a small smile before that hand grabs my ass, your palm firm as you claim the full flesh.
I gasp when you tilt my hips to gain the angle and access you want. Another finger joins the others to grind deeper within me, stretching me further as you take more space from me and make it your own. I moan at the loss of my body, bit by bit, to you.
“So, even though you’ll tell me to stop, I shouldn’t stop.” You look at me like my words—like I—don’t make sense. Like I’m crazy.
I take a deep breath and refuse to let your words—that look—hurt. You don’t mean it the way so many before you have.
You would never want to hurt me. You just want to please me.
It’s not you.
Because I asked you to, please, hurt me.
I sit next to you on the couch and shake my head. “If I say ‘stop,’ it’s just part of the scene.”
You sigh and shake your head, frustrated. “Then how will I know if you, you know, actually want me to stop?”
I touch your knee. “That’s what the safewords are for.” I know that this is hard for you. That I’m asking a lot of you.
I smile sadly. I know, when you’d asked me to tell you my greatest fantasy, you were hoping it was anal or swinging or exhibitionism.
Sometimes, I wish it was too.
I turn my head from you and shut my eyes, searching inside myself for some space—some corner or crevice—you haven’t possessed. My voice cracks as I tell you to stop.
I feel your hand against my face. “Yellow?” Your voice is quiet, unsure. I don’t even notice my eyes have started to tear until your thumb brushes the wetness gathered there. The touch, like your voice, is gentle.
I press close to your palm for a moment before wrenching away. “Green.” I reach up and harshly shove your hand away, my scent still strong as it cloys to your fingers. As my back arches and my hips shift against yours, your semi-hard length limply smacks against my thighs. I don’t need your softness. “Green...”
Read Part Two Here