This is a guest post from Tizz and Baby Domme Blues. This is the second of two parts. If you would like to be part of my The Other Women series and write about your sexual identity, contact me! Your story can be silly, sexy or sad. There is no normal and all points of view are invited to join.
He pushes me against the wall, our mouths pressed and open to each other. My left leg is curling up around his right, starting to wrap around him, and he presses his body against mine. He pulls away as quickly as he pushed against me, grabs my hand, and leads me into the living room. He kisses me again, and sits back on the couch.
“I want you so fucking bad right now,” I tell him, my voice low. I straddle him on the couch, pressing my chest to his.
“Oh, really?” He smirks and put his hands through my short, dark hair, pulling my head back. As I lean back, he looks me in the eyes. Arousal. Amusement. The air is heady, and our game has started. He slaps me across the face; instantly, a tingling sensation rushes through my entire body. We do this power play back and forth all the time, and although the pain is always more intense than I remember it, the pleasure that fills me is equally strong. He softly touches my cheek, running his hands up my face, to my ear, and back down my neck. He takes his time with this part, building anticipation and countering the harsh hits with soft caresses. I flinch and stare at his face. It may be strange to call a man beautiful, but the power and desire in his face make this already goodlooking man gorgeous.
“Are you okay?”
I nod, struggling to form words at this point. All I can manage is: Don’t stop.
He slaps me again this time. Harder. My cunt is wet. He loosens his hold on my hair and I rush my mouth toward his. The soft warmth of his kiss is broken by him biting my lip, causing me to cry out. The rush continues throughout my body in waves, unabated, both pleasure and pain and pleasure and pain.
He takes me, with bites and slaps and orders. He takes me in a way that may seem non-consensual, but this is what I want. This is what we talked about. I can barely contain myself as he fucks me with equal parts brutality and affection. He pulls back momentarily, and I beg him to choke me again. Please, don’t stop.
This is what I wanted. This is what I asked for. What was forcibly delivered, the acts that left lasting charred marks around the vulnerable parts of my soul, was now something I begged for. What does that make me?
This isn’t making love; we aren’t in love, but the affection is undeniable. At the end, his semen paints itself across my chest, and we lay together and laugh. He rubs my neck and kisses me on the forehead. We fall asleep, limbs entwined and akimbo.
I took a gulp of wine and I said to Jen, “But I don’t feel queer enough since I haven’t been in a real queer relationship. I have only been in relationships with men. And now that I finally feel ready to call myself ‘queer,’ to openly pursue that queerdom, I am getting involved with this guy.”
Jen shook her head at me, and put her wine glass down.
“That is such bull shit. That is totally internalized misogyny. You are queer if you say you are queer, and if you feel queer. We are not defined by the people we are fucking. That is complete bull shit, and you know it. You are not defined by the person you are with.”
Truth from such admirable friends can make a hard heart soften and grow. Blue eyes, wide like windows, welled up with tears.
“You are not defined by the person you are with.”