Struggle-fucking: hold me tighter

Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor

When I was young, my best friend used to come and hug me from behind. He’d wrap his arms around my stomach, with his skinny forearms nestling just under my breasts. Ridiculously in love with him, I’d seize the opportunity to breathe in the smell of him, lean backwards into his chest and wonder: if I struggled, just a little … would he hold me tighter?

This blog post deals with struggling during sex, which is a huge kink of mine. Although we usually only struggle if we want to get away, I need you to know that it is not like that for me in this context: it’s more like the way you’d struggle with a duvet to wrap it tighter around your naked body. If it’s your kink, then obviously you need to discuss it with your partner rather than assuming that this will be OK in all contexts for everyone.

Play-fighting and the struggle to be touched

Some of my earliest sexy memories are of play fights. Tussling with boys on beds during pillow fights, or wrestling on the grass in the sunshine as we hang out with friends eating sweets and smoking the one cigarette someone stole from their mum. The way our limbs would tangle around each other. The struggle-that-wasn’t-a-struggle as I’d pretend to get away, desperately hoping that they’d cling on tighter.

Play-fighting is what I did just after I learned that boys weren’t gross, but before I learned I could fuck them.

Later, at University, I used to play-fight with another guy. Tall, skinny, at the time pigeonholed as the love of my life. We went bowling with friends and embarrassed them by chasing each other around the arcade – me squealing in the hope that he’d chase me, him laughing as each time I wriggled out of his grasp.

When our friends called a taxi he picked me up and slung me over his shoulder.

My knickers were wet all the way home.

Struggle-fucking

And so onto later, more adult applications of this: the play fight turns into the struggle-fuck. The desire to be held down so I can wriggle and wrestle against him. Smiling into the pillow even as my face is getting smothered with the wight of him on top of me. Challenging him to pin my arms and hold me still with the upper half of his body, but somehow keeping one of his hands free to wrench my knickers down just far enough to slip it in.

It doesn’t work with bondage – rope is too impersonal. I want the heat of his skin and I want to feel his muscles tense around me. I need to feel the tension as he holds me firmly. I want to hear the grunts of effort as he wrestles against my wriggling limbs.

Struggling sums up so many of my kinks. It has the playful lust that reminds me of when being young meant I had to find an excuse to get close to someone, because I thought if I was too bold and asked I’d be met with blank stares or horror. It has just enough challenge that both of us feel like we’re winning – we both get to show our strength as we writhe around with each other, switching from passive to active in a split second, as the power balance changes. It has the element of trust that comes from knowing you’re in a fight that can stop any second. It – for me at least – makes his dick a core focus. If my knickers are down and he slips it in me, I can struggle harder so he’ll push it in harder to pin me more securely to the bed.

Above all, struggle-fucking is intensely, deeply physical. Slipping and tangling and twitching and writhing as he does his best to hold me still – it leads to a fuck that truly exhausts us. To the moment when my muscles start to ache and I’m panting and every atom of my body is tense and bruised and ready to surrender. And at that moment I might sigh and give up. Give in and go limp, and let him grip me by my shoulders and restrain me with his big, wide arms. Finally getting easy access to my aching, desperate cunt.

From the first moment my best friend slipped his arms around my waist, I have always wanted to struggle. And with other lovers, I’ve always wanted to ask them to play along. Wrestle with me. Play with me. Fight me.

Not because I want to get away, but because I want you to hold me tighter.

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