“How did you know… how did you know I’d respond to you the way I have?“ “I saw myself in you.”
I lay on the bed, flushed, sweaty, breathing like I’d run a marathon. My bound wrists were at an awkward angle at the middle of my back but I didn’t have the energy to move. I’d just experienced the first orgasm given to me by a lover and I was so blissed out, so undone, I just lay there in stunned, awed silence.
Finally I turned my head enough to look at him, lying languidly beside me, his sleek muscles and tall frame stirring arousal again, even though I’d just come with an unholy force. He had a palpable air of pride that irked me, although I acknowledged it was very deserved. I slowed my breathing and forced my brain to work enough to ask him something very similar to that line from 9 ½ weeks. How had he known?
For years I had harbored secret fantasies. I had imagined being tied up, being kidnapped, being held down, being made to take pain and pleasure. I had thought about what it would be like to cede control, to be manhandled, to have no choice in how I was fucked. For years I had wondered what was wrong with me that I liked those fantasies, fed them, nurtured them as my own understanding of sex and sexual acts grew. I had read The Story of O in a fervent rush of adolescent desire, blushing hotly at the descriptions of what happened to O and secretly wishing something similar would happen to me, only to immediately feel guilty. I had my first kiss, my first boyfriend, my first lover - and while I enjoyed all these experiences and liked sex - I never came close to the physical pleasure my solo fantasies provoked. Until now. Now this man who had just laid waste to every single one of my previous encounters smiled, raised one eyebrow, and said “educated guess.” To this day I find a man’s ability to raise just one eyebrow both insanely attractive and tremendously annoying.
We met at work - which was awkward because our mutual attraction was off the charts. He was sophisticated, urbane but funny and charming. I could barely look at him without blushing, the energy in the room always felt charged when he was in it. For months we danced around each other - trading sarcasm and witty barbs as cover for the things we really wanted to do to each other. He gave me a hard time about my boyfriend (an earnest 23 year old graduate student) and I ribbed him about his age (he was 13 years older than me) and the way his hair was starting to turn gray at the temples. We tempted fate with late nights at the office and happy hours after work until one night temptation got the best of us and I found myself pushed up against a wall of a bar, in that little corridor that takes you to the restrooms, with his hands pressing down on my shoulders and his mouth on mine. He didn’t ask nicely or start tentatively, but swept his tongue in my mouth like he already owned it, licking, nibbling, sucking until I was mindless with the need for more. I wanted to claw at all the layers that separated us and feel his skin on mine.
I don’t really remember how we ended up at his place. But the memory of him pinning my wrists at the small of my back and binding them with his tie is seared into my brain. So is the first smack of his palm on my ass. It didn’t hurt exactly, but I shrieked as he told me that was for the crack I had made about how he liked shit movies. Then he asked me if I liked it. The flood of arousal his words evoked almost overrode my embarrassment but I still couldn’t answer him. Tell me, he insisted, or I’ll stop and untie you and send you home. I choked out an affirmative and was rewarded with another smack, and another. In between he rubbed and gripped my sensitized flesh, turning the sting into a burning throb that tightened the muscles of my belly and made my pussy ache to be filled. By number ten I was gasping and writhing on the bed, one of his arms pinning me around the waist to hold me still. Suddenly the hand that had been resting on my hot flesh moved lower, slipping between my parted thighs to brush against the wetness that had gathered, telling him more than any verbal clue about how much I liked what he was doing.
He slid one finger inside me, pushing into my tight, slick flesh and pulling out, mimicking what I wanted his cock to be doing. Without conscious thought I was grinding back on his hand, moving faster, a supplicant needing more, chasing the orgasm I could feel building. Then he pulled his fingers out, replacing them with his thick, hard cock before I could protest the loss.
Using my bound hands for leverage he thrust hard and fast, bottoming out on a few strokes, overwhelming me with the sensation of truly being fucked, the way I needed to be, for the first time. He urged me on with dirty words that spilled over me and made me burn hot with both embarrassment and arousal until finally the tension snapped. I unravelled, contracting around him for the longest time from the most intense orgasm I’ve ever had. I think I was making noise, but I honestly don’t know. My thighs were shaking and my back was arched so hard it almost hurt. I vaguely heard him groan through his own release, his fingers digging into my hips before he let go and I slumped onto the bed, my ears filled with white noise and my brain completely offline.
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