True Sex Stories: Forced Orgasms, His Fingers Deep In My Cunt

True Sex Stories: Forced Orgasms, His Fingers Deep In My CuntAll those months of having to be in control were ripped out and turned on me, orgasm after orgasm after orgasm.

Why is it that one sort of stress is the answer to another sort of stress? I know that there is good stress and bad stress. I know that when James takes me through a high intensity scene – which is stress of one kind – then it results in me having less stress overall.

I’m guessing that it is because the scene stress is controlled and precisely applied. I’m guessing that it has to do with mixing the stress with pleasure. I’m guessing that it’s because that allows me to get out the not OK stress in a way that would not otherwise be possible.

It was an experiment. I’ve always tried to go along with our scenes and allow myself to just be; to respond however I respond. This time was different. This time we were trying to take my controlled self to the point of letting go. But it was getting my subconscious self to let go that was the trick. My intellectual, logical self knew that I could go into a scene and break down, but I wasn’t sure that it would reach that other part of me too.

I wanted to resist. I wanted to try staying in that controlled mode and be forcefully cracked open. It meant that I would be very bratty. It meant that the Bug Board would be there to protect James, rather than just for generally holding me still. It meant hanging myself out there in a no-win situation. It meant going to failure, emotionally and physically.

But the brat was held at bay until I was strapped down. I needed to rage. If I raged without restraint then one or both of us could have been hurt because I am strong and wiry and wilful. Despite him being twice my size I could still hurt us both. I didn’t want to; so once those straps were on it was much safer for both of us.

It was going to be a kind of catharsis play, but because we were trying to get my underlying control fiend to let go it couldn’t be straight out pain. Or perhaps he was just being kind by starting out with the Magic Wand on my clit…

Of course he didn’t let me come: he just got me revved up a bit before he mixed in some thigh slaps, pussy slaps, the nasty clothespegs on my nipples, clit flicking with fingers – and eventually the horrid bulldog clamps and slaps all over my body. He was going all out to wind me up. He was egging on the brat, and he succeeded.

He switched between pure ouchie meanness, then almost pleasure, then more meanness. I decided I wouldn’t come, just to spite him. (Muahaha said the brat in me.) But then he made me come: not once, but again and again. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!

All those months of having to be in control were ripped out and turned on me, orgasm after orgasm after orgasm. I tried anything to gain leverage, even for a second. If the Magic Wand cord came within reach then I went for it. If his thigh got too close to my hand then I pinched or scratched it. At one point he moved his face down near mine and I had to warn him to move away, otherwise I would have head-butted him.

The fucker bit my stomach. It was not particularly hard, but the flesh there is tender. Then the pussy slaps finally brought out my tears. We have usually stopped at that point, or taken a break. This time he held me close while I was still strapped down, got me a drink of water, and then carried on hurting me.

What happens after tears? What happens when I resist letting go, when it has to be forced or taken or broken from me?

There was part of me thinking Na na, I still have my safeword! and part of me that didn’t want to say it. But eventually those forced orgasms – the ones with his fingers deep in my cunt and the Magic Wand forcing me to come over and over again – changed to relentless pussy slaps.

“Please stop.”

“No.”

“Please please please stop, it hurts, it hurts, it HURTS!”

“No.”

Screaming “Please please please stop.”

More slaps.

“SAFEWORD!”

It stops.

I immediately regretted it. Why am I such a fucking wuss? It was only going to hurt for a while.

It was my point of failure: I couldn’t cope with any more. I asked for a break, but he decided that I needed more than that and he was right. It was an hour and half after we had started. (Where had the time gone?) He was unstrapping me, holding me, comforting me. It was time to wipe down our sweaty bodies and have a good cuddle.

He is a brave, brave man to go there. I had hated him, momentarily. I would have hurt him if I could. But at this point I clung to him helplessly. Yes, I had needed this.

He asked if I was up for a fuck.

“Yes please!”

You would think that after I don’t know how many forced orgasms I would be sated. Nope, at least not this time. I wanted the additional intimacy. There is something special about having him inside me, forcing his cock against my cervix so that it hurts, so that I whimper or cry out. It makes me come. Again.

Then he grabs my hips as I freeze in mid-orgasm, and he grinds me into the next one and the next. They blur with the slaps and the nipple squeezing. His hands and voice, his breath and brain, oh, and his cock, are implements of pleasure and pain as he chooses.

I love being his fuck toy. I love seeing him take pleasure in me in whatever way he wishes. There is a particular joy to realising that the movement which is such a curious mix of pain and pleasure for me also pleasures him, his cock and his mind.

He comes. Passionately.

I think about our wild lovemaking and I am in wonder at how it can be encompassing, yet freeing. Our intimacy is the best I have ever experienced. It is open and vibrant. It grows and it flows. It is not stagnant, nor is it set in concrete. It is alive. It is the riskiest, yet most secure relationship I have ever had.

Republished with permission from SapioSlut. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo via Device Bondage.