Power Play

Content Advisory - Light BDSM m/f fantasy

Sex is power. Don’t let anyone try to kid you it’s anything else. Dewey-eyed young misses may idealize sex into love, a soul connection and a happily-ever-after. But even they lose that notion about the same time they lose their hymen.

In most relationships, sex is the oil that lubricates the cogs, that makes the wheels go round. It’s hard currency to be traded. A little bit of rumpy-pumpy to gain forgiveness for exuberant overspending. A smidge of carnal contemplation to smooth ruffled feathers. We’ve all done it.

As I say – it’s all about power. Who’s giving and who’s taking. As a general rule of thumb, I’m all about being in charge. I like being on top - both literally and figuratively. Not saying I like to beat my men or anything, but I’m not shy about showing and telling them what I want. I mean, how the hell else would a man know what revs my engine and makes me purr?

But I have to admit, I’ve been wondering lately what being powerless would be like. No control, no influence, no consent. A rape fantasy? Hell, that sounds wrong on so many levels. I’ve never thought of myself as the submissive type before, but the more I mull the fantasy over, the more I realize somewhere deep down and dirty, that grubby little daydream has got my pulse all jittery and my knickers wet.

Being the upwardly mobile young woman I am, I have telephone numbers. Any dream can come true, for a price. And what price can be put on pleasure? Even if the pleasure lies on the shady side of Kink Street?

So I make the call. I’ll confess, I misdial a couple of times. I’m nervous. Who wouldn’t be?

I jump when the call is picked up. I stammer. Not like me at all. The operator at the other end of the line converses in well modulated tones. She’s not at all perturbed by my request. After a brief while on hold, she’s back. In a clinical manner, she issues me with my instructions.

My breath hitches at her disembodied final statement.

“Once this call is terminated, your requested fantasy will be arranged. The exact timing and delivery method will be up to the employee engaged. Is this understood?”

I swallow before answering, “Yes.”

“Do you have any questions?”

I exhale slowly, “No.”

“We need your word.”

My lips twitch. It seems impossible in the seedy world of for-sale sex, something as innocuous as my word could be the deal clincher. But I give it and hear the distant click of the handset and the hum of the dial tone.

Well, I’ve done it now. Nothing to do but wait. How and when it will happen, I have no idea.

It’s early in the evening and feeling more than a little antsy, I decide perhaps a bath may be just the thing to calm my frayed nerves. Steamy, hot water and lavender oil are usually the ticket when it comes to tempting out a little tranquility. But the calm of the quiet mind is not mine to find tonight. With one small telephone call, I’d opened Pandora’s box. I’m now waiting for the all the evils of the world to come and bite my sordid ass.

I try reading but the words run into each other and I find myself staring into space, straining to hear noises that aren’t there. Watching television isn’t any better. Flicking through channel after channel, I can’t follow the plot of anything, no matter how inane. Every tick of the clock is like a jack hammer going off, as time lengthens and stretches like a perverted piece of chewing gum into the evening. As the seconds turn to minutes and the minutes turn to hours, I consider turning to alcohol to alleviate some stress and perhaps lighten my mood. Mentally kicking that idea out the window, I decide clarity is a prerequisite if facing unknown night time visitors.

“Fuck this,” I mutter to no-one in particular as I stalk into my bedroom. I’m wound tighter than a two dollar watch. I’m gonna ring the agency and cancel whatever the hell it is I’ve ordered. My nerves are shot and the waiting is killing me. I’m going to call it quits and get some shut eye.

The hand comes out of nowhere in the darkness. The tension coiled inside me all evening explodes through my body in one gigantic surge of adrenaline.

Where the fuck did he come from?

My wrist is grabbed and twisted up between my shoulder blades. My breath freezes in my lungs. Before I can bellow with shock, I’m face down, spread-eagled on the bed, whimpering into the quilt. The bed dips as the weight of a stranger’s body presses up against my back. The fabric of my tank top and shorts is suddenly tissue paper thin, as his body heat scorches my sensitized skin, igniting sparks deep within my cunt.

Holy fuck! It’s actually happening!

Not giving me time to think, he rips my shorts and panties down to mid-thigh, exposing my ass cheeks. Squeaking with outrage, I try thrashing free, but with my arm held tight behind my back, my shoulder threatens to pop from its socket. My efforts are rewarded with a sharp slap on my rump. The sting brings tears to my eyes.

“This can be as easy or as hard as you want.” His voice is deep, gravelly and surprisingly fierce. With my face pushed into the covers, his tone is muffled, but the implied threat is clear. I stop moving.

“That’s better.” The bed sways again as he adjusts his position, sliding my shorts and panties off the end of my feet. “Much better.”

Deprived of sight, I call on my other senses to make head or tail of the situation, but find my wits utterly scrambled. I can’t see or smell anything other than the softly scented cotton of my duvet and my ears thump with the pulse of my own blood. Time is suspended. I’m at his mercy. My breath comes in short, panicked gasps as I wait for his next move.

Feather-light at first, so light I wonder if I’m imagining the touch, his fingers drift up the back of my thighs to my bared buttocks. Tickling like butterfly kisses. I try jolting away from the intimate contact. He delivers another swift slap and my ass cheek wobbles with the force. It smarts and I know I’ll be branded with his handprint. My face flushes with mortification but a deeper more primal part revels in the sensation. I am utterly turned on. I moan into the coverlet as my pussy walls contract and moisture seeps from me. My traitorous body overrides my good sense and my hips roll, trying to find something to move against.

“Hmmm, like that do we?” I shiver as the heat of his breath brushes my ear.

For the first time, his grip on my twisted arm relaxes. The mattress sinks and sways again as he moves away, towards the foot of the bed. Suddenly his hands, now firm and forceful are on my butt massaging, kneading and rubbing. Squeezing my ass cheeks together and spreading them apart, exposing the very core of me. Drifting under my hips, those strong hands pull me to my knees, lifting my ass up into the air. With my face still smothered by the covers, the cool atmosphere in the bedroom drifts over my nether regions. Goose pimples race across my skin. My short, shallow breaths are all I can hear in the gloom. I’m positively quivering with anticipation. Pushing my ass even further back, I hold my breath, waiting for a touch over my sensitive slit… for a tongue, a finger, anything…

Denying me, he instead flips me on my back, pins my hands above my head and drops his hips between my thighs. The unmistakable bulge of his cock presses against my mound. Before I can squeak in surprise, his lips are on mine, bruising me – trying to crush the very breath from my lungs. His tongue forces its way into my mouth. Refusing to accept this dominance, I parry with the brutality of his lips, fighting for supremacy and giving every bit as much as he does. I whimper under the onslaught and taste blood.

He grinds his caged erection up against me. I welcome the friction, hooking my ankles around his hips and rubbing myself shamelessly against the rough fabric of his trousers. My movements become more and more frantic, as a familiar pressure builds in my pelvis. Moaning into his mouth, my world starts shrinking into a pulsing point deep within my belly. With a deep groan of his own, he rips his lips from mine and stares down at me.

For the first time I get a good look at him. My imagination did not let me down. From his black cropped hair to his matching black eyes, he is the epitome of ‘dark and dangerous’. I cannot stop the thrust of my hips against his, trying to maintain the friction. Those inscrutable eyes of his flick down momentarily and back up again, sparking with amusement.

“You wanna come?”

“Yes.” My response is strangled. I hate the fact I sound so desperate, but desire has thrown what was left of my common sense under a bus, and I can only focus on trying to fan the inferno raging inside me.

The bed creaks as he stands and strips. Economical with his movements, he sheds his clothing deftly. Silhouetted against the light in the hall, he grabs his freed length and pumps his cock with a firm fist, allowing himself a little moan of pleasure. My breathing is ragged now as I watch him through glazed eyes. He has every right to be proud. He has long, lean lines and definition in all the right places. He looks fit to burst and I can smell the earthy scent of his arousal through my own lust filled haze.

My orgasm is hovering so close; I know I’ll blow any second. The familiar thrum between my thighs is building with all the subtlety of a volcanic eruption. My legs tremble with the effort it is takesing to hold back the rush of sensation.

“Come on dirty girl, I know you wanna come.” His tone is gentle, like he is trying to calm a skittish horse. “Don’t pretend I’m not turning you on. Come to Poppa, Baby. Give it up.” He punctuates his monologue by pulling me to the end of the bed and positioning himself between my open legs. Shoving a hand up inside my tank top, he snags one of my elongated nipples between his thumb and forefinger, twisting it, smirking at my drawn out moan.

Fisting his fat purple cock, he drags the blunt head up and down my soaked seam, smearing himself in my juices, readying himself. I whimper at the contact, now floating perilously close to oblivion. He hovers at my entrance, waiting for me to beg. Waiting for me to impale myself. Waiting to drown in my heat.

I look deep into those dark eyes of his. I pull my lips back to smile, but I suspect it looks more like a sneer. Making sure I have his full attention, I open my mouth to speak. Smugness radiates from him. He’s pleased with his night’s work, at his ability to bring me right to the edge. I need there to be no mistake; this all about my satisfaction – not his.

“Rhubarb.”

His jaw drops.

It’s my word. The word the agency wanted. An unusual word. A safe word. A word that will make him stop, no matter what. A word that turns him from dominant to subservient. From boss to employee. It is clear he did not expect to hear it, nor does he want to.

I hear the faintest hiss as he sucks his breath in. I wonder if he will let his anger show. There is a hint of a beating pulse at his temple, but that’s all. He is well-trained, this housebreaking fantasy man. Ignoring his now weeping erection, he slides backwards off the bed. Grabbing his clothes from the floor, I watch his chiseled ass cheeks flex, as he soundlessly pads over the plush carpet and out of the bedroom. Hearing the muffled click of the front door as he exits, I let my hand drift down between my legs.

With the barest skim over my clit, the dull throbbing at the centre of me explodes outwards. I try clenching the walls of my pelvic floor in a vain attempt to subdue the release, but some things cannot be tamed. As wave after wave of pent up sexual energy pulses through me, I am reduced to a sum of my lesser parts. My breathing nothing more than ragged inhaling, my exhaled air all primal grunting. Electrified back arching and random limb twitching is all that remains of my motor control. Blind and deaf, I’m oblivious to the guttural noises ricocheting off the walls and ceiling.

Eventually, the tempest calms and I can swallow without shuddering, although the sparks of the tumult still tic in my bloodstream and tremble in my pulse. The tang of copper is on my lips and I wonder whose blood I can taste.
 
Power. Sex is all about power.
 
In theory, I like the idea of submitting to someone else, relinquishing my authority and bending to the will of another. However, it turns out, in the end I still need to be the one calling the shots. 

*****

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Copyright © 2011 Greta Goddard

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

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