Warning: the following vignette may be too intense for some, or may prove a trigger, so stop reading now if depictions of rough sex and strong consensual verbal play between a sadist and masochist offend or upset you. (There’s a point, I promise.)
“You cunt!” he growled.
Grabbing a handful of her shoulder-length blond hair, his powerful fingers fisting close to her scalp, he pulled the naked girl on her hands and knees across the hardwood floor towards the sofa. She cried out, biting her lower lip, and crawled to keep up with his relentless tugging, her ass swaying.
“Fucking hole,” he rumbled deep in his chest as he stopped, his narrow hips rotating. The movement dragged her forward and she lost her balance, tumbling chest-first onto the sofa cushions, her knees still on the floor.
He lifted his bare foot and placed the sole against her cheek, pressing her head harder against the cushion. Her gasp was muffled by the fabric and foam.
He laughed. “Useless meat. Why should I fuck you?”
Her spine curled and heaved as she pulled in a breath.
“What, whore?” he snarled, shoving his foot harder against her face. Reaching down, he seized her hair and yanked her head back. “Speak up, worthless fuckhole, or I’ll toss you into the alley with the other trash.”
She cried out again as her head came up, her words dying away in a pant. Tears streaked her mascara.
He chuckled at her reaction. Taking his foot from her cheek, he kicked her knees apart and regarded her naked pussy. “Dripping slut. See how wet you are.”
He dipped three fingers into her soaking snatch and brought them to her mouth. Forcing her lips apart, he shoved all three fingers into her mouth and compelled her to taste her own juices. She resisted, and he slapped her face.
A moan escaped her as she took in his fingers and licked and sucked them clean. A groan of protest as he removed them earned her another slap.
“You think you have a choice here, bitch?” he said. “Let’s clear that up right now.”
Taking hold of her hair once more, he sat on the sofa and levered her across his lap till her round ass pointed straight up. She struggled, but he captured both her wrists easily in one of his large hands, and hooked his leg over hers.
“How many do you deserve?” he said.
“T… ten, my Lord,” she panted.
He laughed. “Twenty.”
His palm, broad as a dinner plate, came down on her bare ass. She jumped and shrieked, wriggling against his strength to no avail; his capture of her was iron. He scented her—hot, sweet, frantic. The laugh rumbled up from his belly again.
“Fucking cum-meat,” he said, his hand alternating ass cheeks. Smack! Smack! She pinked up on both by the fifth swat, and was cherry-red by the tenth. By the fifteenth she was crying and begging him to stop.
“Stop?” he thundered. “Do you want me to add ten more?”
He grabbed her hair and yanked her hair back. “I don’t think I heard you, hole.”
She pulled in a breath. “Please, my Lord. Please don’t add any more, I beg you.”
Smack! “What happens next time I come home and find you’ve been watching TV all day in your pajamas, instead of attending to your duties?”
“You… oww! You will punish me, my Lord!”
“And don’t fucking forget it, worthless meat.” He gave her the last of the twenty smacks, was proud that she simply bit her lip and accepted it without protest.
When they had met at the munch three weeks ago, he was struck both by her beauty and grace, and by her energy that told him she was an unattached submissive spinning out of control. He’d had every intention of taking a break from training submissives after the last one had taken a piece of his heart with her when she’d left, but the moment he’d looked into this new girl’s eyes, he’d seen something that made his heart beat faster. And that had made his right palm itch to lay it on her full round bottom.
Against his better judgment, but quite in line with his beast side, he invited her for coffee after the munch, and they talked all afternoon and into the evening. Within the first five minutes of speaking to her, he realized what she wanted, and wanted badly. He could see the wheels of her mind spinning so hard they were smoking, and knew she wanted nothing more than to have someone quiet them for her.
He was also very aware that many subs in this situation would attach to the first Dom that seemed like he might be able to help them, so he was very careful about vetting any new submissive. Sure enough, in that same first five minutes, she was calling him “Sir” and indicating in no uncertain terms that he could do many delightfully unspeakable things to her. That wasn’t how it worked with him.
“If I am to train you,” he had said to her, “our bond must be special to us.” He’d fixed her with his deep brown eyes. “I am not a generic dominant. I get no pleasure from simply tying up and beating a random submissive. If you are not special to me—and I, to you—then we cannot do this.”
She’d squirmed beneath his fierce gaze. And for other reasons. “I… I understand, Sir.”
He’d scented her, and quelled his own stiffening erection at her obvious need for him. “Do you? Because we will not play tonight. Or tomorrow night. Or the next night.”
Her head came up then, a flash of disappointment in her cool blue eyes that she quickly masked. “I am for you to train, Sir. I am for you to use. I wish to decide nothing. Please, Sir.”
He’d nodded. “First, drop the ‘Sir’.”
Her brow had crinkled in a cute little frown. “What should I call you?”
“Ah,” he’d said. “That is something we will discover together.”
Now, looking down at her ass, blood-red from his palm, he smiled. She had waited those three nights as patiently as a frenzied submissive could, and their bond had grown. They had discussed everything—not just their kinks—and discovered they shared many common interests and outlooks. He liked her.
But he never forgot his responsibility to her as she attached to him.
“You asked for all this,” he said to her now.
She was confused, not being privy to his thoughts, as well as being subspacey from his ministrations.
“Never mind.” His palm, warm and tingling from the vigorous spanking he’d just given her, caressed her ass cheeks. His fingers strayed between her legs and found her swollen pussy lips. She moaned as he slid two fingers inside her dripping cunt.
Taking a fistful of her hair and tugging back her head till she gasped and sighed, his other hand in her sopping puss, he controlled her entire body as he made her come. She shuddered and soaked his lap, her toes curling, her back arching. He fingered her until he felt her contractions begin to subside, and slipped his fingers from inside her. Cupping her pussy with his hand, he released the grip he had on her hair. Her head fell forward, her arms going around his leg in a feral hug. She kissed the coarse fabric of his black denims.
“Who owns you?”
“You do, my Lord.”
“What may I do with you?”
“Anything you like, my Lord.”
“Where do you belong?”
“At your feet, my Lord.” With that, she slipped from his lap, curled her long legs beneath her, and hugged his leg as she sat in silence at his feet. He stroked her hair.
Later that evening he would fuck her, hurt her some more to achieve his own release, but for now this was enough.
We are animals.
We clothe ourselves in varying degrees of finery, live in artificial structures with indoor plumbing, and pilot cars and planes. We bathe regularly to erase our animal scent, use porcelain fixtures to carry our waste from our sight, and affect habits to change our natural appearance, but we are animals. Clever ones, but beasts all the same.
No matter how far we remove ourselves from the fertile ocean soup that spawned our forebears, we share the same needs as every other mammalian species on this planet: the requirements to take in oxygen and nourishment, expel waste, and the drive to continue our line through procreation. Attempting to deny that link to all other life is as futile as pushing a rope uphill, yet we never seem to tire of trying.
The philosophical and psychological reasons for this are far beyond the scope of this article, but my point is this:
Why extend this artifice to the bedroom?
In other words, we bottle ourselves up every day inside clothes, cars, cubicles. We eat foods stamped and pressed into shapes not found in nature. We are polite to bosses who we often want to kill. It’s a testament to the resiliency of the human psyche that we don’t snap more often than we do.
Don’t you ever just want to tear off your clothes, stand at the top of a hill far from the concrete crowds, and bellow to the sky?
And yet, many of us go through life in a kind of stupor, denying ourselves, what we are, in favor of acting civilized. I don’t disagree that in daily life it’s necessary; the veneer of civilization is too easily scraped away, and a lawless society is a short-lived one. But then, where is the outlet?
Some people use sports as that outlet, either playing or watching. Others knit, or do Sudoku. While diverting, none of those activities reach the heart of the matter, in my opinion.
Since I haven’t posted in awhile, a brief refresher: I write mostly hetero D/s—male dominant, female submissive—and conduct my real life in a similar manner. It is never my intention in my articles to argue every possible permutation of a debate or topic, and there are always exceptions in every system. Or course you may feel free to point out those exceptions in the blog comments, but I will probably respond with a version of what I just said above.
Having thusly refreshed your memories, moving on. The brain of the human animal is not some advanced device that has evolved into a godlike organ over the millennia. It is a mish-mash of piled on systems, each one a bit more developed than the last, in nature’s attempt to adapt us to changing conditions and habits.
But the first brain is still in there.
It’s buried deep, that reptilian brain, but it’s there at the core like a black hole at the center of a galaxy. And like the cosmic violence of a black hole tearing up planets and stars, that lizard brain still retains all the basic instincts it had when it first formed: aggression, pleasure, dominance.
I’ll repeat: instincts. Not thinking. Not reasoning.
And yet, so much of how we’ve arranged our society seems designed to deny that the primal brain exists. Living in tidy boxes removes us from the nature we came from. Eating foods from packages numbs us to just where that steak originated. Always smiling and being civil keeps us from being arrested.
Be clear: I’m not suggesting we live in caves, run down deer for our dinner, or go on killing sprees. I enjoy the benefits of civilization as much as anyone; it allows me time to write and pose these questions, rather than eternally searching for food and shelter.
What I am asking is: Where does it end? Do we conduct ourselves politely 24/7/365? Do we ignore that aspect of ourselves that craves to roar at the heavens? Given the uptight, frustrated, in-your-business nature of the culture at this point in time, I’d posit ignoring has not worked out so well.
Is rough sex for everyone? Of course not; refer to my paragraph about exceptions further up. But, I would argue, it would probably do more people more good than those currently engaging in it.
The most difficult thing to find in another person is trust. In our vignette above, the female submissive came to trust the dominant; that’s one of the reasons he took several days to get to know her before he did anything to her. The kind of activity in which they engaged is fairly rough as depicted in that short scene, but by no means all-inclusive. The hard treatment of her, the verbal “abuse”, are but two aspects of D/s rough sex, and are merely two of the kinds with which I am most familiar. It doesn’t really matter what the activity is, as long as it satisfies these two criteria:
- That it is consensual.
- That it provides a release to both people.
Within those two primary criteria are undoubtedly many sublevels of clarification. I.e. what is “consensual”? What is “release”? That is for the people involved to decide with each other.
And I did not order them the way they are on a whim: consensuality is the most important, otherwise you end up getting abused by a sociopath. This is particularly important when a submissive has been unattached for awhile, and may become desperate for a Dom to quell those rampant thoughts by whatever means necessary. I’ve known more than one, sadly, who got herself into trouble in this manner by hooking up with some detritus who fancied himself a “dom”, but merely wanted to knock a woman around. This is not okay, and any assholes like that need to be tossed in jail and bent over a prison bunk by a large man named Bubba.
Ergo, our actions must be consensual.
But once both people have dotted their kinky “i’s” and crossed their St. Andrew’s “t’s”, and know what to expect from each other, it’s time to seek that release.
I, as a sadist, can always tell when I am in need of that release, and I have been fortunate to find a wonderful masochist that is always on the same page with me. This didn’t happen overnight; much introspection over the years led to a series of epiphanies that brought me to where I am today. It’s going to be a different journey for everyone, but the destination is the same:
Releasing those violent desires for dominance and submission, in a controlled, safe manner.
He must be able to express his aggression and dominance without hurting-hurting her, and she must satisfy her need for submission and pain while knowing he would never truly put her at risk. Only then will we find that release that eternally builds inside us.
We are animals. Let’s fuck like it.
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