Three things. Three little things brought our play from “what kind of things do you want to play with” to “I like sex that is kind of, you know… rough” to “what have you always wanted to do, but haven’t yet” to “I would so love to do those things with you” to “I’ve always wanted someone to play with like this” — from physical to psychological.
The psychology was always an undercurrent. It can feel profound to be doing rough, dirty things. When I played with Sarah*, I felt surges of strength when overpowering her physically, pushing her body around, throwing her onto the bed, holding her down, watching red marks rise where I’d smacked or grabbed or punched. I saw the lust in her eyes as she watched me. Her mouth open, breath deep.
We had our tastes of surrendering and surges long before we started to add the play of our minds. But when we changed the game a little, and added just a few little things, our play soared to new mountain summits I hadn’t even known we could reach, or let alone want.
I held her down, both hands around her wrists above her head. She was moaning, but it was late and the walls in my apartment were tissue-paper thin. My roommate was annoyed enough at my late night sexcapades.
I put my hand over her mouth. “Don’t make a sound,” I ordered. Her eyes widened. Underneath me, her hips moved, that gentle rubbing where she tried to get her clit against the seam of her jeans. She liked this.
I shuddered with the surge of lust. She’s listening to me, my whole body trilled. She won’t make a sound. She wants to do what I say. She wants me to tell her what to do. It only works as long as she wants to do it. Ordering her without eager agreement does nothing for either of us.
I shifted my hand to push her cheek into the pillow, my elbow still holding down her arm. “I mean it,” I repeated. “Don’t. Make. A. Single. Sound. If you do, I’ll stop.” Her body quivered. I slowly, slowly made my way down her torso, kissing her, sucking on her tender places, until I got to her waist and slowly unzipped her jeans to slide them down her legs.
I looked up and caught her eye before I lowered my mouth to her again. Her mouth opened like she was going to groan, but she quickly put her hand over it, catching herself, and instead shifted her thighs open just a little more.
After more experimenting, it became: “Don’t move.” First, just, “Don’t move your hands,” but then, “Don’t move at all. Not one single muscle.” I would place her hands against the wall and note precisely where they were in relation to the hole left by a nail and the crack in the plaster and the light switch. Sometimes, she would stiffen in response, trying so hard to hold the pose, but I’d urge her to relax, too. I could feel how she took stock of her body — the precise placement of her knee, the tilt of her pelvis, the bend of her neck — before she settled in and held it. Almost like a yoga pose, dropping deeper into her muscles and pulling out of her joints, releasing the stuck places by breathing into them.
It is virtually impossible for someone not to move — just breathing is movement. So of course there was some leeway … unless I was feeling particularly cruel.
Cane strokes, paddle thwaps, my fists against her body, floggings, dripping ice cubes, sharp knives scratching down her sides — I tried everything I could think of to get her to move. It became a competition: could I get her to move, or would she hold out?
When I really wanted to push her — to push us both — I’d ask for both: Don’t move, and don’t make a sound.
Later still, I asked if she wanted to try a new game. “Don’t come unless I say.” She responded, “Yes, please.” We didn’t talk about what happened if she came without my permission, not at first. Sometimes, I would whisper, “Ohh, you’re in trouble now,” into her ear, and fuck her again. There were no real consequences. Just the game of trying, of obedience, of setting a goal just a little beyond reach and trying to see if either of us could hold to it.
But with this new game, I loved how she would struggle not to come. If I was touching her, she would say things like, “I’m going to! If you keep touching me I will!” and sometimes I would stop, or back off, but sometimes I would just keep going. “You’re not allowed. You better not,” hissing in her ear while keeping up my exact speed and pace. She would bite her lip and grab the sheets with both hands, I can’t help it, please let me, I have to, and her begging would get me. “Now. Do it now. Do it for me. Just for me.”
Sometimes I would push. “Do it again. I don’t care that you’re tired, do it again. Right now. I’m not going to stop until you come again.” The forced orgasm is almost as thrilling as the denied. The control got under my skin, into my bones. I wanted it, craved it. The more I had it, the more I wanted more. I expected we would continue up the “power escalator,” moving from small amounts of control and surrender to more, and more, and more.
Don’t make a sound, don’t move, don’t come — those became not just things we played with sometimes, but games we went back to again and again. Protocol for our bedroom play (whether in the actual bedroom or not), expectations and agreements. When she, hands on the kitchen counter and ass thrust in the air, started turning around to say something, I’d stop her: “Shh. No talking. Don’t move your hands.” And she’d slip into the objectified, worshipped, submissive role that we both craved.
When she asked me to start picking out which panties she would wear, every day: that’s when the protocol started to extend beyond just our bedroom play and into our day to day lives. And that’s when my love for protocol really blossomed.
*Sarah is not a real person, and she’s an amalgam of various lovers, fantasies and relationships I’ve had.
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