Girl on the Net

I ask: “please will you hurt me?” and he stares down into my face. In contrast to my own childish eagerness, I always find this particular guy disarmingly grown-up. When I ask him to hurt me he replies, simply: “How?”. It’s not confusion, it’s a flex. He knows there are many ways to hurt me, and this feels like a way to neatly work in consent – giving me the task of articulating my desires aloud. In the moment I can’t work out how – my mind is just a blur of want. For him specifically. His strong arms, powerful muscles. The dominant way he carries himself. Combined, these attributes give a tall woman like me that precious, rare feeling of being outgunned. So I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind: “Just… fight me for it.”

Note: this post involves a super hot fuck that hinges on consensual non-consent, i.e. me pretending I don’t want to get fucked when actually I really do. The man who features in it knows this, and would not play this way with me unless he was confident I could (and would) withdraw consent if it all got too much. This post is not a ‘how-to’ manual on kinky fucking, there’s a lot of background chat behind this kind of sex.

Can a man be said to ‘pounce’ if you invited him to? If so, that’s what he did. Straight in, grabbing and pushing and hurling me onto the bed. A blur so swift that I genuinely can’t remember at what point our clothes came off.

Fight me for it.

There’s no doubt that this is a fight I want to lose, but ‘eventually’ – not right now. Right now I twist and squirm and summon all the power in my arms to try and break the tight grip he has round both of my wrists.

But power won’t win this for me: it’s not a fair fight. He pins me easily, like I’m made of no more than paper. Crushing me so utterly that my resistance is instantly rendered futile. I resist anyway, though: that’s why it’s fun.

Fight me.

He flips me over, tilting me so my head hangs off the bed and he’s straddling my naked body with his thighs. Forces my arms behind my back so I’m angled downwards, all the blood in my torso rushing to my brain. I can feel the bedframe slowly branding one long, deep bruise across my chest and it hurts and it’s good and it’s scary, so I struggle and squirm a bit more.

I’m utterly vulnerable. Entirely defeated. Absurd and pathetic and so fucking weak.

Sometimes when I ride my bike across the city, carving a path through traffic or powering along the cycle superhighway, I savour the power in my limbs and I feel like a god. So then I act as if I am omnipotent…

…fucking fight me, man, come on is that all that you’ve got?…

…and it’s almost comical how quickly hubris takes me.

Pinned to the bed, face-down and panting, within less than two minutes of challenging him to fight. Appalling show.

My efforts are laughably pathetic, and I might have actually giggled if I didn’t have my pride, but it turns out that when it comes to strength I do. I wanted to give him the slip, just once. Feel like I was winning, however briefly, to make my cunt worth his eventual, inevitable conquest.

Fucking fight me for it.

I can’t remember if I said aloud the things that were running through my head: bastard, fuck. You’re just so fucking strong. Jesus Christ. Fuck you. I hope I did, and I hope that I sounded just as pathetic in that moment as I do when I write it down here. Just some flailing loser spitting impotent rage because she’s been so thoroughly trounced. A wretched brat whose ambitions were so clearly impossible dreams. Like a five-year-old picking a fight with a biker gang, or a flailing penguin caught in the jaws of a shark.

He’s still straddling my back, forcing me down and down until my head swims with the thump of too much blood, and my shoulders burn in their sockets and my biceps tense and release, tense and release, over and over and over. The harder I struggle, the more swiftly the hope dies in my heart as I realise that I never stood a chance.

I wonder if he can sense the moment when I almost give up. I wonder, too, if that makes his dick twitch.

Fight me for it.

He releases me then, just a little. A slight relaxing of his grip – enough for me to twist and slither out from beneath him. He knows and I know that he let me escape, but only to prolong the game. Like a cat freeing a bird just to bat it back and forth for sport before it’s eventually eaten.

I don’t care, I wanna get eaten. Crushed and devoured and ripped to fucking bits.

But not without a fight, so I fight.

On my back, I have power. My upper body strength is no match for his, but my thighs can do much more, so I close my legs and push my knees and shins against his stomach, then my feet. Careful not to kick, just shoving him away. Putting distance between us. Showing what little strength I have.

Pushing him up and back and grinning to try and taunt him. Like: ‘ha! Fuck you! I’m back now!’

Fight me.

He grins too. There is no way I can win. He’s far too powerful – leaning onto me and using his bodyweight to try and force my legs apart.

In the tangle of limbs and my panting resistance there’s a brief moment of discomfort where I wonder if it’s OK to objectify him like this. Harmful tropes about masculinity being synonymous with dominance and strength pair so neatly with tropes about my own inability to be delicate, petite or feminine.

But I do feel delicate right now, and I like that. I get off on it. The tighter his grip, the hornier I get for the moment when he’ll eventually choose to take me. Say ‘enough of this, you’re getting fucked’ and crush the last vestiges of my struggle by nailing me to the bed and plunging in.

He wants to earn it, like I want him to earn it. It’s no fun if I give up straight away. So we struggle like that for a while – a tangle of strong, long limbs, eager horn, and playful pretence that I might stand a chance.

Fuck the struggle right out of me.

Then suddenly, there’s this moment. A kind of release in itself. I’m on my back and I’m pushing with my thighs, twisting my body this way and that to try and move out from beneath him. He releases one of my wrists – not to let me go, just to pry my legs apart – and places one firm hand on the soft flesh of my inner thigh, crushing and almost bruising me there as he pins it to the bed. That gesture is too much for me to fight against.

Too hot for me to resist.

My cunt pulses with need even as the rest of my muscles give up. There’s a quick-release of tension in my body that he later tells me he sensed almost instantly: the moment when I flipped the switch from ‘struggle’ to ‘surrender.’

I give in.

And it’s that moment – the giving in – that makes his cock twitch harder. From ‘ready’ to ‘urgent’ and beyond. He grabs a condom, slips it on, and though I flutter a few token efforts to keep him off me, we both know he’s won now.

I am spent. Exhausted. Fucking vanquished.

He shoves himself inside me with delicious, conquering force, and I wrap my not-so-powerful thighs around him, all the better to savour every thrust.

Of him, and his win, and my loss which feels like victory.