Papa Bear and I have been having amazing sex. It has been off the charts. Every time is different and sexy and hot.
A few weeks ago we finally engaged in consensual non-consent (rape play). It is something I have been wanting forever, but it takes a lot of trust and a deep understanding of the other person in order for it to feel and be safe for both parties. We have talked about it enough that finally, one night, we just did it.
I started by teasing him. Doing a little strip tease, then dropping my dress back into place over my legs and pushing my thighs together.
I’d open my legs and play with myself a bit, then close them and wink. He’d kiss me and grope me and I’d reciprocate for a minute or two…and then scamper off.
Eventually, knowing exactly what I was up to and what I wanted, he pushed my legs open and used his mouth on me. I was clearly enjoying it, but I struggled, because that made it hotter.
He grabbed my wrist and pushed me towards the bedroom and threw me on the bed. I went back and forth between fighting him off and coming so hard I could barely stand it.
He choked me and spanked me and held my wrists against the bed, and I loved every second.
It was beyond hot, but of course, TOTALLY consensual. After two years of talking about it, we were comfortable and intimate enough to go there.
That is the difference between rape, and rape play. Rape play is fun for both of you.
We are falling so hard. It is intoxicating and devastating. It’s a gigantic, impossible bruise of a love. It is never going to end in anything but heartbreak. There is literally no rhyme or reason to it–I want to ask “Why?” but there’s no point.
“At another time, in another place…” He keeps saying. At another time, in another place, we would be something legendary.
But he is still monogamous at heart (even if not in action, at this point) and I am still not. Well, actually, chances are if a genie promised me my ideal relationship scenario, I would have a perfect, intense love with one person. And that love would last forever and we’d never even want to look at anyone else. But I don’t have a genie. So this is my life and these are my choices. My love for my husband and for Papa Bear preclude my being able to indulge my love for Boss Man, who wants me all to himself. I can’t say anything at all about it, because he deserves to have the kind of “one and only” love he’s looking for. And he loves Tinder Girl, and she loves him. And yet.
The fire between us when our eyes meet across the room. Our little stolen touches–to tuck a tag, or a not so innocent brush by as we cross paths.
His hands on my face at the end of the day, kissing me goodbye. His pulling the car over when we drive together for work, allowing me to jump into his lap and take his mouth.
Me in his bed. Me in his shower. His cock in my mouth. His head between my legs. Him inside me.
The rumours we now ignore, because none of them know what they’re talking about. In his words “They talk of lust, not love.”
And we are so impossibly in love. The kind that is going to spread, like flames, up the walls of our lives, and burn it all to the ground if we don’t stop it.
When the cab pulls up at his place, he is waiting outside. In the pitch dark, I can only make out his silhouette. The howling wind blows my dress and his shaggy, hipster hair as I walk towards him.
I close the space between us and grab his shirt, pulling his mouth to mine. His lips are soft–so impossibly soft. Our hands roam all over each others’ bodies, as we fumble our way through the door and down the stairwell.
I drop my bag. He pushes me against the wall. My hands under his lumberjack flannel shirt, his in the space between my short green dress and my thigh high boots.
“Do you want a smoke?” He asks. “Because otherwise the dress is coming off.”
I need a minute. “Yes,” I say. “Smoke.”
We go outside. We smoke. I have no idea what we talk about. Our lips find each other again and he pulls me back into the apartment, then begins kissing my neck from behind.
“I wish I could date you,” he murmurs into the space between my shoulders.
“Why can’t you?,” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Because I would want you all to myself. That’s why.” The tenderness and passion in his voice floods all my senses.
He flips me around and I fall back on the bed. We pull each others’ clothes off and he slowly kisses my body, and then he’s inside me.
I gasp. “Oh god.”
He moves in me until I come over and over.
“Get on your back,” I growl. He complies.
I climb on top and ride him. “You feel really good,” he moans. I moan back.
When we’re done, we lay together, kissing passionately, running our hands up and down each others’ bodies.
“Can you believe we did this?” I laugh.
“Yep,” he answers with a smile.
He softly asks me why I’m not single. I softly ask him why he’s not poly. Then our mouths are together again, getting as much of each other as we possibly can in this one night.
“I hate that I want you again already,” he admits. He kisses my neck, as I run my hands over his body, moaning. He enters me, this time alternating between pushing into me with his cock, and licking me to orgasm. I scream, grabbing his hair with my hands, digging my nails into his back, until I am spent.
And then we talk. Office gossip. The kinkiest thing we ever did. When we got our tattoos and why. The most fucked up thing we’ve ever done in heartbreak. Whether or not we believe in forever. What happens after we die. The moment we each realized we wanted each other, and the moment we each realized we wanted each other for more than sex.
“This is the most interesting post-sex conversation I’ve ever had,” he admits.
“What do you normally talk about?”
“It’s usually ‘I see this going somewhere…'”
“Ah,” I replied.
“Can we agree, no feelings?” he asks me.
“Define feelings…”I press.
I agree. Ownership, I do not need.
We smoke another cigarette, talking the whole time, and then take turns going down on each other. After another round of viciously delicious orgasms, I fall back against the pillows, panting.
“Let’s get breakfast,” I say. It is 2:30 in the morning.
We get in his car, and go for breakfast. We talk about what it would be like to keep seeing each other. What would happen if this one night turned into a full-blown affair. What would happen if we got caught.
Pancakes and bacon, and then back to his place to fuck and talk some more. Every time I pull on my panties to go to sleep, he asks why I am wearing underwear, and tosses them back across the room.
I start to giggle. “Well, if you can’t laugh during sex, you’re doing it wrong,” he says. And then his head is between my legs. We are insatiable.
So much of it is a blur of touch and hands and mouths and grabbing and bucking and kissing and petting. So much of it, except, this one moment:
Our heads in a cloud of blankets. Faces inches apart. His hands on my skin. Mine hands on his. Our eyes locked, hazy from exhaustion and wanting. His auburn hair mussed. Both of us floating. Not saying things we shouldn’t be saying, but definitely feeling things we shouldn’t be feeling.
If there is one moment from that night that I will take with me wherever I go, it will be that.
Around 4 AM, he tells me I must sleep. I’m in a meeting the whole next day. I tell him not to boss me. He tells me he is being a good friend. We spoon, and crash, pressed against each other.
My phone’s alarm blares at 6 AM. I rip it out of the wall. We both laugh, looking at each other in amazement.
“Good morning, ” he says. He uses my name.
“Good morning,” I say, using his.
We are kissing and then we are fucking. We are both wide awake.
We smoke, then make love again.
“What’s your weak spot?” he asks.
I smirk in response.
“I will kiss every inch of your body until I find it.”
I raise my eyebrows. Challenge accepted.
He starts at my hips. He kisses my belly. When he pulls a nipple into his mouth, I moan instantly. I moan again when he gets to my neck, and then our mouths are together and I flip over so he can enter me from behind.
He dresses and goes to the kitchen to get us something to drink. I follow , sliding up behind him, pulling open his shirt, pulling off his pants, until he is naked. I run my hands up and down his shaft until he turns and I kneel, taking him into my mouth.
He groans, and I stay there for a few moments, on the kitchen floor. “Back to bed,” he says, lifting me to my feet, carrying and tossing me onto the mattress. His head is between my legs again. I am so sore I can barely stand the contact but our time is almost over. I want as much as I can get.
He says he is going to shower, and then take me to my meeting. I wrap my arms tighter around him.
“You can’t pin me,” he laughs, so I wrap my leg around him too. He slowly kisses my neck. Runs his lips over my collarbone and towards my mouth. He turns me onto my back, gets on top of me, and fucks me into ecstasy one last time.
Then he chuckles, and walks towards the bathroom.
“It was totally worth it,” I laugh back. “I don’t even care.”
In the car, we are quiet. I pull a cigarette from his pack. “Do you want one?” I ask, and he says “Yeah.”
I put his to my lips and light it, handing it to him first, before I draw on my own.
“And they say romance is dead,” he says.
When Boss Man pulled me aside last Friday at work, and told me he was “bailing” on our plan to go back to his place and get naked, I was not entirely surprised. I did, however, feel like shit. I told him it was okay. And then I asked him why.
“It’s too complicated,” he said slowly. “I’m your supervisor. Intimacy isn’t…it just doesn’t feel right.” His eyes were an incredibly sad blue. “We can be friends,” he added.
I nodded, and said I understood. And then I spent the rest of the day feeling awkward and humiliated.
I had propositioned my supervisor. A man I would have to see every day for as long as I held this job. A man I considered my friend. My supervisor!
I am ridiculous, I berated myself.
I am not good enough for him.
I am beyond stupid.
I am going to have to resign and get the hell out of here so I don’t have to see him every day.
I managed to make it through the rest of the day without crying. He returned the panties I’d stealthily handed him during a “meeting” earlier and told me to have a good weekend. I made it halfway home before the tears fell.
Why am I crying? What the hell is wrong with me? I demanded.
You are crying because you are a stupid, stupid slut who makes very bad decisions.
I arrived home and drank two glasses of wine, while Googling articles on dealing with rejection. I ate dinner and gave the kids a bath and went for a jog. I deleted my text messages with Boss Man, as well as his number, so I wouldn’t contact him.
I drank more wine until I was numb.
It wasn’t until the next morning, when I woke in bed on my tear soaked pillow, that I understood.
I like him. I really fucking like him. I like him a lot.
We joke around to the point that at our last team meeting, one of the higher ups laughed that we are not allowed to sit beside each other anymore. When he makes decisions other staff don’t agree with, they comply. I am one to voice my disagreement, and we have repeatedly found ourselves heatedly arguing.
When we started sexting, we both said that when this happens, all we actually want to do is rip each others clothes off and violently fuck.
But aside from the joking and fighting, we talk. A lot. We know more about each other than most people know about either of us. We share cigarettes and secrets. When we drive together for work, we talk about our marriages (his failed), his mother’s death, my mother’s mental illness, our own battles with depression.
There is something real between us. And while I was afraid that I’d ruined it, my heart hurt, because I knew I wanted more than his friendship and his cock. I wanted him–all of him–period.
When I saw him again at work, things were normal. We joked. We bantered. We shared long, lingering looks that made me melt and drove me mad with wanting. By the end of the week, our innuendo was back.
Then we were texting again, but without the graphic content.
Somewhere in there, I ended up telling him I had feelings for him. He said he liked me too.
Then I actually said, and I quote, “Yes, but do you like like me?”
He laughed and said he did. “And truth be told, I would date the fuck outta you, but we have different philosophies on sex and relationships that would likely never align.”
“Because you’re monogamous?,” I asked.
“Once I reach a certain point with a girl, yes. Plus, I’m your supervisor. I don’t like courting trouble.”
“But I AM trouble!,” I replied.
“Do you want me to get over you?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered. “Neither of us is ever going to get what we want out of it.”
“Okay,” I typed back sadly. “I’ll try.”
We said good night, and that was, I thought, the end of it.
Saturday night I had a foursome with Gentleman Friend, the Wifey, and her Dom. We started in the kitchen, sharing drinks and dirty stories, then moved to the living room with its enormous leather sectional and wood-burning fireplace. We sat in front of the fire, surrounded by furry blankets, and then the touching started. I wanted to see the wifey’s undergarments, so I pulled her dress right up and admired their sheer, lacy pinkness. I ran my hand up the seam in her stockings, and before I knew it my dress was in a pile on the floor and I was left in my thigh highs and red bra.
Gentleman Friend fingered me and made me come, and the Dom put his cock in my mouth, calling me “good girl.” We all went upstairs.
His bedroom. My god. It was a circle and reminded me of a turret. The bathroom is separated from the main room by a glass half-wall and has a soaker tub with jets, and the bedroom itself is heated by yet another wood-burning fireplace. A leather couch faces the fireplace, and there is a giant bed in the middle of the room.
But its most impressive feature is the spiral staircase that leads to a look-out –a circular catwalk with 360 degree windows, a telescope, and railings all around–perfect for tying someone up. Which we did.
The Wifey has been needing a beating, so I helped the Dom tie her up, and he handed me different implements to torture her with. Yummy.
After we untied her, we crawled onto the bed, and they pulled out an 18 inch double sided dildo. I lubed it up, and slid it inside the Wifey’s pussy. She gasped as she took it, and then I slid my end inside me. It was very thick, and I had to take more and more of it gradually. But we were both moaning, panting and gushing. Fucking each other.
“Lady!!!,” she screamed on the edge of an orgasm. “You are better than Sugar Daddy!!!” [random editorial aside: she is not seeing him anymore either. same reasons.]
I laughed. “Thanks, I’ll tell him you said so.”
We screwed, and the men watched until they decided they wanted a piece of that action. Then I got on my back, and Gentleman Friend fucked me, while the Dom fucked wifey, who was straddling my face. I alternated between licking her pussy and fingering her, though it was a little hard to concentrate while getting the hell fucked out of me!
I gushed. I gushed so hard that Gentleman Friend cupped it in his hands and spilled it down The Wifey’s back. No idea how he managed that, but she was absolutely dripping. I screamed, gripping the sheets and writhing.
The Wifey needed a break so Gentleman Friend cuddled with her, while I fucked the Dom. He put his hands around my throat and Gentleman Friend told him I like being choked hard, so he tightened his grip. Perfect.
I came again, and then we all went and sat by the fireplace. I noticed that there were big windows looking out into the street and went and stood in one, naked. They teased me for being such an exhibitionist, then The Dom started to finger me and I came again. I almost slid down against his cock, which was hard again, until he said “Are you okay without protection?”
Shit. “No, no I am not. Nor am I sober,” I laughed.
Gentleman Friend went and grabbed us a condom cause he’s helpful like that, and I tried to get him in me again but no cigar. “I think I’m swollen shut,” I apologized.
“We’ll see about that,” he replied, taking me over to the bed. And he fucked me. He fucked me hard until I was a screaming, sobbing mess.
“How is she not dead?,” asked Wifey from across the room. I guess this was the first time that either of them had seen how long and hard I can go.
“You’re gonna sit on my face,” said the Dom. “And I’m gonna make you squirt.”
He ate me out and fingered me, and ordered the Wifey to come over and take care of his cock while I rode his face. I knew he wanted me to squirt but was honestly pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to again. . .and then he hit my g-spot, and I drowned him, just like he wanted.
Then I took a cold beer bottle and held it against my pussy, because I was so thoroughly fucked I couldn’t take anymore.
I made too much noise and I caused too many tremors. I woke the beast, and I can’t get it to go back to sleep.
As strange as it may seem, sex all night is a loaded topic for me. I thought about it this morning, on my way to work, and was overcome with such a heavy saddness that my eyes filled with tears and I had to look up, blinking, to keep them from spilling over.
I feel ridiculous writing this. This is not something that should matter–not something that should cause me pain. But it does. And I will tell you about it, dear readers, because I am too embarrassed to tell anyone else.
I am an incredibly sexual creature. And for most of my life I dreamed of getting married, in no small part, because (as far as my religious upbringing was concerned) then being sexual would go from being a bad thing to a good thing. All men wanted it 24/7, I was told, and I would be a goddess among mere housewives once I tied the knot. The Hubby and I talked extensively about this when we were dating. He knew I was a horny little minx, and I made it absolutely clear that I was going to want to have sex, well, all damn day. He assured me this would be no problem.
We got married, and. . .I knew right away that something was amiss. On our wedding night we had sex twice. I knew from other married people that often couples didn’t have sex on their wedding nights at all, because they were so exhausted, so I thought this was pretty good. But on our honeymoon, he didn’t want to have sex constantly. I was confused, angry, and crushed. Why would he want to go out and explore? Why would he want to lay by the pool, or head to the beach? I mean, I wanted to do those things too, but I also wanted to spend at least one entire day in bed. But that was a no-go. We did have sex on our honeymoon–probably every night (except right after Hubby got horribly sunburned)–but I wanted more. We were married now. We were crazy in love honeymooners. If we weren’t going to go wild round the clock now, then when?
It turns out, the answer was never. I was crushed. I had committed to this union for the rest of my life, and this very simple need–not to have sex all night once a week, or every month, but ever, was clearly never going to be met. All-night sex aside, we would sometimes go weeks or months without having sex at all. As a highly sexual person who had been waiting for this her whole life, it was devastating.
Fast forward 7 years later, when we decided to open up our marriage. Now, I was sure, I would have the chance to not only have sex as regularly as I needed it, but also to have sex all night long, like I’d been dreaming of since before my wedding night.
It still hasn’t happened.
I don’t spend the night with other men a lot, and on the occasions that I have, sleep has been the priority. I can’t say that I have even been woken up in the middle of the night for sex by a lover before (though hubby and I have had mid-night quickies a handful of times), let alone gone all night. I just assumed it was something that I would have eventually. I wasn’t fixated on it anymore, because at least I was getting my needs met and not going to bed desperately aroused every night.
Then I met Sugar Daddy. And on our very first sleepover, he promised he’d fuck me all night. He promised he’d take me outside at 3 A.M. and do me on his patio. He promised a lot of things. But the wrench in this plan, was that I wasn’t to be the only woman there. I loved him, though, and trusted him. I was thrilled that this was finally going to happen. And then, it didn’t.
After that fell through, he invited me over the next week to make it up to me. I spent the night again, but before I got there, he texted to let me know that he needed to be up at 5:30 for work, and I was not to wake him. If he woke me for sex, that was fine, but he required me to let him sleep. I followed his orders. I understood that he needed his rest. I was disappointed, but I had a good night regardless.
The next day, Jailbait came into town. The girl who’d been present for our first sleepover. I had all kinds of feelings about this, but I tried my best to suck it up–even though I was dying inside. Instead of being sensitive, the first thing he said to me the next morning was “Only got 3 hours of sleep last night between fucking!” I would have preferred to have been punched in the face.
He blithely informed me that he’d decided to take the day off. To be with her.
We had been unraveling before this, but that was the day I reached the end of my rope. I was sick with anxiety and rejection all day, desperate for his reassurance. Instead of giving it, he told me I was jealous and insane.
This is what I think of now, when I think of all night sex. A near-decade, book-ended by rejection. The fact that I cannot make a man, any man, so passionate, so crazy, so lustful, that he would rather have me over and over and over, than sleep.
I don’t understand.
Can I give it up? Let it go? Accept that this totally attainable, normal, accessible event is just never going to happen for me? That no one will ever want me that bad? That I will never have the right partner, at the night time, in the right place, to do this with?
It seems I should.
I feel dramatic and foolish. This is not a problem. But it cuts me to the core, no matter how petty and insignificant. And that fact alone, means that it is not petty and insignificant–not to me.
I wanted to tell Sugar Daddy why it hurt so bad, but he never gave me the chance.
I want to bring it up with Gentleman Friend. Not to pressure him or complain–this hasn’t been an issue for us, so its nothing he’s done or hasn’t done that is making me think about this. I want to tell him because I want to tell someone–because right now, for whatever reason, it’s hurting. But I can’t, because I don’t want to pressure him. I don’t want to pressure anyone.
I just want someone to want me as bad as I want them. I want someone to be unable to stop fucking me. I don’t want to plan it, I want it to just happen.
There is my ludicrous tale of woe. Enjoy it with a cup of coffee, and shake your head at how nonsensical I am.
But this is my diary. And if I can’t say it here, then where?
I am happy. Over the moon, want to do cartwheels, can’t stop smiling, happy.
This level of happy is accompanied by panic and terror that wants to be all-consuming, but can’t be, because the happy keeps pushing it away.
We all remember what happened the last time I was this happy. But this is different. I feel it in my bones.
There are no red-flags. There is no “well, we don’t have that much in common, but maybe it won’t matter.” There’s no “I think he’s great, I just don’t know if he’s great for me,” and no “we have tons in common but I can tell he’s a heart-breaking sadist.”
There is only laughing and talking for hours over shared experiences of religion, marriage, surprise babies (one boy, one girl), wanderlust, politics, social issues. There are runs for lemon gelato when my throat hurts, opening the car door, asking what I want at restaurants and then ordering for me, taking my food off our shared platter and putting it onto my plate.
Letting me know when he’s in the part of the hospital without cell reception, the sending of funny, ridiculous selfies, all day text banter, discussions of books and music.
Asking permission to kiss me the first time. Butterflies in my stomach. Butterflies that eventually ignite and set me slowly on fire, turning from a spark into a flame, while the days pass until we are consumed in an inferno.
This is what happens when you take it slow: A kiss releases a churning which becomes a storm, and eventually, though you had not planned it, you are grasping, gasping, desperate, and the cool night air comes in through the moon roof, and suddenly the seats are pushed forward and folded down, and you are in the back of a car, on a quilt, ripping each others’ clothes off like two teenagers.
The stars wink at you and you remember when you found the Dippers and Orion, that he brought you out here to see the Northern Lights, which you’ve never seen before and are not out tonight, but you don’t care, you don’t care, you don’t care because you just want him. And he wants you. And this is soul deep, it is not about your bodies, which are both flushed and covered with goosebumps. It’s about your mutual craving–your soul reflected back at you–being a lady and a gentleman, and then going animal without the slightest warning.
You are happy as hell. He is happy as hell. The fear is there but you know it isn’t because of who he is. It is because of who you are–what you’ve been through.
You tell yourself, I will not rush. If this is what I think/hope/pray it is, it will work out. If he is who I want, and I am who he wants, we will be together. If not, we will go our separate ways, and it will be okay. It will be okay. It will be okay.
I will not cling to it, and I will not run away from it. I will let it bloom and see what it turns out to be.