Red Knees; Grey Carpets

This post is a retelling of a consensual non-consent scene I was involved in a few years ago. It was negotiated beforehand, as something we both wanted to try. If this is something you are interested in exploring, my advice would be high levels of prior negotiations, a safe word for if you get anxious, and perhaps another for if you want to stop completely. Most importantly, trust in your partner is absolutely critical, and I would also recommend a high level of familiarity with their actions, as well as well planned, thorough aftercare. Please use your discretion if this is something that is likely to affect you: keep safe!

Being fucked whilst I’m fighting or struggling, and being pinned down as I’m trying to get away, is one of my more taboo kinks. I like hands being shoved over my mouth to keep me quiet, my head stuffed into pillows and being held down with such force it leaves bruises the next day. I enjoy having my wrists bound behind my back, or secured to furniture so I have little choice but to accept what is being done to me, completely relinquishing my control. It has mostly been explored in the realm of fantasy, however I have met a few individuals with whom I have enjoyed experimenting with.

We had a strange agreement, mentioned only once, that we would try something new each time an opportunity presented itself to see each other. With this person, I thought I’d met my match for a long time. He, unbeknownst to me at the time, teased a lot out of me: kinks I knew were there, but after coming out of a very vanilla long term relationship, I hadn’t explored as much as I had wanted to.

On this occasion, it was to be a consensual non-consent scene. We had been rough in our fucks before, and sometimes my bratty side would appear fleetingly, to try and struggle- which was never very successful. I did feel safe with him, and decided it was the right time to try this.

I was watching a film. It was a pretty bleak film called Shell, about a daughter and father living in a remote fuel station in the Scottish Highlands. It was a grey film, to match the grey carpets and walls of my flat, and a perfectly taboo set up for the events that were about to occur. And I say watching, more accurately I was staring at a screen, knowing at any moment he was going to walk through the door.

I heard him enter. My brain was full, whirling with thoughts, and admittedly some worries, about what was about to occur. Something was happening in the fuel station in the Highlands. But he didn’t come in. I was likely just hearing things, anticipating a moment of which I was unsure exactly how it would materialise.

So lost in my own brain, I didn’t notice when he actually entered. It wasn’t until the tug of my hair, and the forcing of his cock into my mouth. For a second I was intoxicated by his smell. You know that unique smell people have? I had no choice but to be reminded of it as he was forcing his way to to the back of my mouth. It all became familiar again, and I started to eagerly suck his cock, forgetting everything we had spoken about.

The second tug of my hair reminded me of my place. I pulled away, straining against his hands in my hair and on my shoulder. Trust me, trying to avoid sucking cock is not a game I play lightly, and I almost thought I wouldn’t be able to continue. Why deny myself of one of life’s great pleasures? That was until he grabbed my head, held me in place and fucked my throat. Over and over again.

I remember being pulled onto the grey carpet. The grey carpet, which matched the grey walls, which matched the grey goings on of the grey fuel station in the Highlands. I remember gripping the rug, pulling it up, trying to get some sort of purchase to pull myself away. But each time he pulled me back, scratching and burning my legs. He wasn’t taking any prisoners (ironically) as he pressed his weight against mine, to keep me still amidst my physical and vocal protests, as he fucked me.

I remember being thrown onto my back which made it easier, I thought, to escape using my arms. I could at least fight him off, and wriggle away. However, no matter how hard I tried, there was no way I could keep a tall, strong (and did I say dreamy?) one as him off me. I caught his eye, something I had been worried to do until now. He held me still, and my protests lessened for a second as I read the thirst in his eyes. But, beyond the electricity and desire, still the same eyes as I’d looked into before- when I had danced around his kitchen to Graceland in a blanket- and I knew I was in safe hands.

Later that evening, with carpet burns on my knees- neither the first nor last time- and finally watching the climax of the film I’d missed earlier (slight spoiler: nothing great happens in the fuel station in the Highlands), my flatmate asked why the rug had moved. I told her I’d shifted it for some afternoon yoga, when in reality it was something far less wholesome.

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