I never knew what I wanted until I met him.
He was tender. It caught me off-guard. He took his time undressing me, savoring every inch of my skin as he unveiled me. His gaze made me slow down as I watched him examine me, seemingly trying to memorize every curve of my body. I had forgotten what it was like to be admired, and given attention to. It was a silent compliment that touched me more than any flattery he could have given. His hand glided over me as if I was precious. His concentration made me nervous: a sensation I had lost for years.
When his cock entered me, I felt something more than the physical warmth that I usually relished. His thrusts were deliberate, as if he was trying to reach toward my heart, into my core. I wrapped my arms tight around his muscular shoulders and enjoyed the togetherness that surfaced from the pit of my stomach.
Later, I gradually discovered that my longing for him was more than just for carnal pleasure: I needed to hear his voice, see his smile and have him near me. Every time I left his apartment, a strange emptiness filled my heart. I did not understand what it was, until one day I walked past a sex shop, and I strolled in just for the sake of it. There in one corner, amidst leather corsets, paddles, and other torture devices that I could not name, the answer dawned on me. It was no longer enough to simply have great sex with him, I was in love with him in a way that was new to me: I desired him to own me — body and soul.
“I want to do something for you that no one else can,” I messaged him immediately in the aisle of the sex shop. “I want you to remember me, forever.”
“No one can replace you in my heart,” he texted back. “It is impossible.”
“But I want to… I need to.” I typed. “Think of something, something outrageous. Please.”
An hour passed. I asked him, “Would you like to whip me?”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he replied.
“I can take it. Try me.” I probed again, “Would you like to?”
After a long pause, he wrote back, “I would love to.”
Our first session was pivotal. He regarded me with concern and made me repeat the safe gesture we had agreed on. “It would make me very sad if I hurt you for real,” he said as he held me close. But I placed the hemp rope in his hands and begged him to tie me up. I offered him his favorite belt from the closet.
“Use me,” I whispered, “please.”
His soft brown eyes searched mine intently, but my resolve must have shone through, because the only word he uttered was, “Kneel.”
I complied, all the while gazing up at him, waiting for his next move. He tied my hands behind my back expertly. The friction of the old rope against my wrists was inexplicably agreeable. He stood tall before me, and slowly unzipped his fly. When he took out his cock, I gulped with desire and a hidden sense of satisfaction: it was already engorged and throbbing. He was aroused by my submission; he was pleased.
That was the first time he gagged me. He was especially hard that evening, hitting my throat with his every thrust, grabbing my hair forcefully and pushing me deeper onto him, holding my nose and restricting my breath. I loved being choked: the world vanished into nothingness, the only thing remaining was the sensation of him filling my mouth, my saliva dripping along his thighs to the floor, sloppy and messy. His groans were primal and urgent, they sent shivers down my spine as I felt myself almost fainting from the lack of air and the incomparable high that this induced in me. He released me just before I passed out. I caught my breath at his feet, light-headed but gratified.
That night, he used clothespins on my nipples, around my breasts, on my clit, on my labia, and sent me over the edge twice when he later removed those tiny clips. He barely had to penetrate me to make me scream with ecstasy. He did not whip me that first time; he saved that for another day, when he bruised my hips, left pink marks on my bosom, and made me sore from inside out. I was spent, wrecked, and truly satiated.
Since then, everything made sense. I did not understand the meaning of pain before, but now, I do. It is not the act of sadism that is arousing for him; it is not the smarting blows that turn me on. It is the combined dance of the man who knows my secret hunger, and my full acceptance of his ferociousness that is the true nature of our special bond. This has become our world, encompassing all our waking thoughts and dreams. Other people’s approval is pointless; the only meaning lies in our obsession with each other. We urge each other on. This is a union that is unbreakable, our pleasure limitless.
Bio of the author: Anna is a shameless romantic, lifelong bookworm, and chronic daydreamer. She writes erotic romances for the fiercely loyal at heart. Catch her typing naked at her blog: Anna Bayes.