Go Ahead, Go Ahead, Love Me Deep, Until You Can’t

Trigger Warning: Consensual non-consent. Read on behind the cut:


Early morning. Too early, nearly late night.

I lean against his chest, in nothing but a big tee-shirt, nearly hanging to my knees, dwarfing me, and a pair of white, cotton panties. This is by design. I am tired and the shirt is soft and worn and warm from the dryer still and the panties cry “virginal” in a way that I know elicits a nearly feral response in him.

I nestle in beneath his chin and rest against his chest. He nuzzles me back. He runs his fingers through my hair and scratches at the nape of my neck. I wiggle and fidget from foot to foot and rub my flushed cheeks against his chest.

“Such a lil’ cutie,” he says.

I blush and hide my face and fidget some more. The rain drops pattering against the roof usually calm me… but not tonight. It’s freezing outside, and in the house, freezing in the dark, but my body is on fire, as it has been for days… disturbing my sleep and my sense of peace. I am exhausted but aroused.

“You seem fraught with nervous energy,” he remarks.

I tell him about the heat and my pent-up aggression and the “housewifey” binge I had on tumblr–my ensuing fantasies.

“Something we’ll need to play out?”

His lips curve into a smile in the dark and I shiver at the predatory gaze. 

“If you’re in the mood for my antics.”

“Oh… you know that I am.”

“I’ll dress sharper in the morning… I’m comfy now, in this,” I say.

He rubs the fabric of my worn out shirt between his thumb and forefinger. He lifts the shirt up and gooses my warm tummy, and hips, just above the white cotton panties, and the tender skin beneath my breasts and in between.

I suppress a yawn. I don’t suppress a whine. I paw at him helplessly. I fidget uselessly. My fingers slap and poke at his biceps.


He laughs and pokes my nose. My eyes cross and I blink rapidly. My eyes are sleepy. I growl at him–small, kittenish, non-threatening. He smirks again. Hungry


“Oh, just… resisting the urge to pin you down and do bad, bad things to you when you’re so sleepy.”

“Oh…” I whisper, breath caught in my throat, heart hammering in my chest.

I love sleepy ravishing. It blurs that line of consent into a fine haze, smokey, non-committal. And it turns me on… sooo much. I love to be woken with sex… with his fingers or his tongue or his lips or his cock… already on me/inside of me. I love that he doesn’t ask, he just takes… when I am at my most vulnerable, unable to consent or not, to express my desires or not. It hits all of my switches and makes me literally dizzy with lust.

He pushes me. Just forcefully enough to make me stumble back and away from him. He closes the gap and shoves me again, harder, hard enough to force me onto my ass on the bed. My heart skips a beat. He grabs my ankles and flips me onto my stomach. I reach for higher ground and try to wriggle away, further up the bed. His hands wrap around my toned calves, thumbs brushing against the tight muscle there and he yanks me back, reeling me in closer and closer.

He wrenches my shirt up, exposing the small of my back and smacks my ass hard enough to leave a hand print. A breath I didn’t know I’d been holding escapes me and I give a sad little cry. I turn my head to stare at him, I can feel my eyes widen at the look on his face. I splay my fingers over my ass, protecting soft and tender flesh. He shoves my hand away and works his pajama pants down his hips. I roll over onto my side, knees brought together tightly, curled so I can watch him. I yawn without meaning to.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

“What does it look like?” he mumbles.

He gives one last tug of his pants and his cock springs free; hard, thick. He forces me back onto my stomach, gives my ass another smack.

“Open your legs,” he grunts.

“Nooo, Daddy,” I whimper and try to caterpillar wiggle forward with my knees still clenched.

He yanks me back and viciously smacks the backs and sides of my thighs. I whine and cry, but don’t open my knees, even as he yanks and pulls at them.

The effort of keeping my legs together while he pries them apart, while he beats them, is a struggle of wills and a primal, base struggle, one as old as time: man versus woman, my inherent leg strength, my dancer’s history, my strong hips and thighs versus his toned and muscular arms, his brute upper body strength, so inherently male. My thighs shiver with the effort.

As he grows frustrated, his hands grow heavier against my skin.

“Open up,” he growls.

Each slap elicits a cry now and my strength wavers. He takes advantage and wrenches my legs apart and uses the momentum to yank me down to him, forcing his hips between the soft skin of my inner thighs. I can feel the line of his cock against my cunt, through my panties. He wastes no time. He peels the fabric away and forces himself inside of me.

The force surprises me. My back arches, my hips buck. I cry out and it’s halfway between a moan and a “no;” so indiscernible that I myself am not sure which I mean. Pleasure and fear mix in my brain, alerting my fight or flight mode. Though I know it’s Sir, that it’s… Daddy… the force and the need and instinctual panic make my heart pound in my chest, my adrenaline rushes, fighting through my sleepy haze. I try to scramble away and he slams his hand against the nape of my neck, pinning me to the mattress.

He groans like a man undone and grinds that thick cock into me. He is so big and so deep and my body is responding, gushing and pulsing and squeezing around him.

It’s like someone has turned the volume back on and I can hear myself, moaning… panting… the word “no” repeatedly slips from my lips, even as I spread my thighs wider and alternate grinding down against the bed and back into him. I feel like I could come now, right now, like it would rip through me if I would let it. I can’t stop panting and crying out for him. Every time the word “no” slips past my lips, and his hips pound against me harder, I grow slicker, I grow hotter. I can feel my muscles all tightening and flexing. My whole body is taut and my mind is wiped. I feel like nothing but a means for pleasure. I am nothing except for my warm, willing hole.

He’s losing his hard-won control, I can feel it in the way he thrusts and heaves his body against me.

“Little slut,” he groans. “All of that protesting and look at you now… soaking wet and moaning like a whore.”

I shake my head, as much as I can with his hand against my neck, holding me down.

“No, Daddy, noooo,” I moan urgently.

The very taste of the words on my tongue makes me lose it utterly. I force my hips back and writhe in tiny, tight circles against him. I am a woman gone and I am wild and I want more of him, I want all of him. I don’t have the words for what I need and I feel insane and my body is humming and I don’t think I can breathe.

His hand moves from my neck and he forces it under my body. He gets a firm, painful grip on my right breast and digs his fingers in.

And then he does it, what I need.

He leans down and presses the full weight and length of his body down over mine. I am tiny, and he traps me with his physical dominance. He is so deep inside of my head, I cannot fathom how he knew what I needed. The press of him, forcing me down, holding me, covering me does something for me that I have no words for. I writhe. I buck. I cry, real tears, sobbing, weeping, running down my cheeks. In this moment I am more his than I have ever been. He bites my tender earlobe and growls; it is a deep, inhuman sound. 

I answer it with a cry of my own, the only sound I can muster, the letter “o” drawn out to an immeasurable number of syllables. His growl turns into a groan and his hips move frantically against mine. My arms reach forward and dig into the mattress. His arm on the outside of mine holds me in the cocoon of his power, of his control. I need it. I need it more than I have ever needed it.

Not to come, but for him to come inside of my body, claiming me in that base and natural way, in a way that no other man is allowed.

“Please,” I pant.

“Please,” I moan.

“Inside,” I cry.

“Inside of my cunny,” I beg, drawing out the “y” to a sharp point that could shatter glass; I am only vowels, my language is lost to me.

He does. He rides my body through his orgasm. He fills me up, that empty void inside of my body, inside of my head, he spools himself into all of the corners, all of the dark places that must needs be filled. I am in sub space–I will realize much later. Deep, deep in that quiet, spiritual place where I float outside of my body.

My satisfaction is profound.

When he pulls out from me, he groans and pulls my panties back into place.

I wiggle my hips. I am a content little fool, lost in the stars, somewhere behind my eyes.

He pats my ass and pulls my shirt back down. My breathing becomes deep, tantric… rhythmic. I roll onto my side and curl into a loose fetal position, pulling an errant pillow between my thighs and wrapping my body around it. He sits up over me, watching me. I drift into a deep and dreamless sleep for the first time in days.


8 responses to “Go Ahead, Go Ahead, Love Me Deep, Until You Can’t

  1. I think I felt the thin line between consent and the lack of it.

    However, personally, I always wonder how that would play out, considering there is always consent from my side – and I don’t know how I’d even want to resist it. You know I have the fantasy, but the realisation of it is so..

    • He’s always got my consent. Always. Even when we’re pushing limits, even when I feel like maybe I cannot do what is being demanded of me.

      But, like you… I have the fantasy. :]

      If he does the right things, pushes the right buttons, flicks the right switches, my instinct to fight takes over… it’s thrilling and dangerous, and a little taboo, and it turns me into a complete puddle.

      As you’ve read. 😛

      xoxo and love ❤

    • I was glad to see the positive responses and that at least a few other people understood this. It’s a hazy line for some people, hence the trigger warning.

      But yes… my boxes were ticked as well.


  2. Salut Miss,
    I just realized that I have left this post open since yesterday. Oops!

    I was rereading my own blog and I read somewhere something like, ” I don’t practice the BDSM lifestyle, I have no urge to be bound or gagged…” And when I read that I thought to myself, ” I hope that doesn’t sound judgmental or condescending,” because I didn’t mean for it to be. I have never had these experiences so there is no way for me to say that I don’t (wouldn’t) like them. I have no urge to go trekking in Nepal either, although it might be an amazing trip.

    I always find pieces of myself in your words. I love the morning, I love being taken without consent when I am barely conscious. My lovemaking soundtrack is always alternating between, “No,” and “Yes,” no being the dominant plea. Something about the whole deal makes me cry, always. I don’t think it is sub-space but I experience a sort of shifting of planes of reality…

    I know that there is more that brings us together than separates us. 🙂

    So in case I inadvertently offended you or any other person, sorry about that.

    JTM Ma Belle Amie,

    • Sweetheart, I’ve never found your judgmental, of me or anyone else. I find pieces of myself, great and small in your writing as well.

      My love for you is unconditional and spans the ocean between us. :]

      xoxo JTMPT.

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