Note, before we begin, that this post is going to describe a rape fantasy. I use the phrase ‘rape fantasy’ instead of something softer like ‘consensual non-consent scene’ because I think it’s more accurate. As with any fantasy, the fact that someone enjoys it in their head does not mean they’ll necessarily enjoy it in real life, and so my writing should on no account ever be taken as a justification to do anything like this with your partners. Nor even, if I’m the one you’re fucking, should you take it as permission to do it to me. If you fully understand this, and you’re not going to be freaked out by the idea of that, let’s talk about why ‘sorry’ is the hottest word you can say at the moment of climax.
I told a man this story, long ago, when we were discussing some of our more taboo fantasies, and the things we’d not yet done. While his involved sexual acts or group scenarios we hadn’t tried yet, most of mine were ones which featured the same old things we’d done before, but with a simple twist in tone: non-consent. My brain always wants sex to be darker, you see.
I’m a sucker for non-consent. If you’ve been reading for a while, you’ll probably have gleaned this from some of the stories I write. Most of my fantasies are, sorry to say, rape fantasies. It’s one of the reasons I don’t tend to watch much porn. On screen, if the scene’s rape-focused, the production values and credits and behind-the-scenes stuff tends to undercut the horn I’m feeling about what’s happening. But if you remove those bits I’m extremely uncomfortable. This is one of the easiest ways I can think of to demonstrate that this is – can only be – a fantasy. There is nothing sexy about rape in real life, so a scene produced with lots of care and caveats isn’t realistic enough to do it, but the more realistic it becomes, the more uncomfortable it makes me.
Hence, when I’m wanking, I prefer to visit my own depraved mind palace, and see where those filthy, cum-splattered corridors might lead. In my brain, things always get darker.
If you don’t shut up…
We’re talking, me and this guy, about fantasies. And he asks me for one of mine. At that precise moment in time, I’ve been thinking a lot about how difficult it is for him to fuck me in the ass, and how squirmy and squealy I’ve been when he’s tried. I feel annoyed with my body for not being able to take the kind of anal fuck I want to, because his cock’s too thick to do the things that happen in my head, as brutally as they happen in my head.
In my mind I can take it. In reality I cannot. And somewhere between fantasy and reality lies a possibility.
He’d often threaten me with anal, this guy. It was one of my favourite things.
“If you don’t shut up, it’s going in your ass.”
“Don’t make me put it in your ass.”
“Squeeze your cunt for me, there’s a good girl. If you can’t make me come like this…”
You get the idea.
Remember the note at the top, yeah? If you don’t like those three lines then you certainly won’t like the following. Please look away now, go read something wholesome instead. When he asks for my fantasy, here’s what I tell him. It’s all about him being ‘sorry.’
“I’m so sorry.”
I’m on all fours in front of you, face down ass up, taking the full length of your dick really hard and brutal. You’re high on the power of fucking me till I squeal, paying particular attention to the end of the stroke when you slam the head of your cock against my cervix and make me gasp with shock. I know you like those gasps of shock. I know you like the squeals. I can tell, when we’re fucking, that the noises you like aren’t just the ones which tell you I’m feeling pleasure but the ones you know are involuntary expressions of pain.
You like it when you hurt me with your dick, don’t you? Of course you do. Of course. I like that too.
So what I think about these days … when I’m alone at night and fucking myself raw … these days I think about you. Hard and urgent. The way you get towards the end of a fuck when you’ll pound away at me like my cunt is no more than a Fleshlight. When you get that faraway look in your eyes that tells me you barely care if I’m still having fun, your only priority is to get that fucking spunk out and into me.
I think about that, and I think about you threatening: “you’d better make me come soon, or it’s going in your ass.”
I imagine you telling me to do all the things I do to help make you come. Pull my ankles back as far as I can and squeeze my cunt so tightly, then gasp at the pain as your dick slams in good and deep. You telling me “squeeze tighter, that’s it, good girl” and “point your toes.” Because oh yeah, I like it when you tell me to do that. I like it when you instruct me on how to mould my body to please you.
And in real life, that usually works to tip you over the edge. But in my head, it doesn’t.
In my head, you fuck me so hard you’re dripping sweat into my mouth, which sits open and gasping at the shock of your dick thumping bruises deep into me, but still it doesn’t work.
Your determination to come turns to desperation, then frustration, and then anger.
It’s my fault, of course. My fault for not being good enough. My fault for not getting my cunt tight enough around the throbbing meat of your dick. My fault for not helping. My fault. Bad girl.
I know you aren’t this person, of course, and that’s why the next part is hotter. Because when you tell me to flip over and spread myself for you, you aren’t fucking me in the ass as punishment, you’re doing it because you cannot help yourself.
You don’t want to do this, you need to.
I can conjure the image of your face reflected in your bedroom mirror, looking down at my spit-lubed ass with a combination of eagerness and self-disgust. Are you really going to do this? We catch each other’s eyes in the reflection in the mirror, and I stuff a fistful of the duvet into my mouth to make sure I don’t scream. As you look at me, you tell me: “ssssh,” and I nod.
The solid, aching, pulsing reality of your dick presses tight up against my ass and I try so hard not to cry out. The fact that I fail makes you harder, and so maybe I make a few more of those noises because I know that the harder you are, the more this fuck will hurt. I squeal a little louder because I need you to come really quickly.
As you slide in, and I squirm, you give me a few more ‘sssh’s. Tell me “good girl” and “this won’t take long” and “stay still” and all the rest. I try my best to do it but it’s hard to stay quiet when you’re being stretched out and fucked. Slowly at first, and then faster, with that glorious urgency that denotes you’re finally close.
Hard. Then too hard – one slam so forceful that I squeal into the mouthful of duvet and look up at your reflection in the mirror, involuntary tears running down my face.
As you meet my eyes you know that if you asked me I’d say ‘stop.’ So you do not ask me.
You just tell me: “that’s it, good girl, stay still, this won’t take long.”
With a few hard thrusts, good and deep, till you feel yourself buried as far as your twitching cock will go, you meet my eyes again and I say: “please come now, please come. Pleaseplease.”
And you do. With one arm now wrapped tight around my neck to keep me still, your dick starts to pump cum thick and fast.
You look directly into my weeping face and I register the tortured guilt on yours. In the mirror I can see that you’re already horrified and disgusted with yourself at what you’ve done. That’s what this fantasy was building to. Not the deep strokes, or the anal, or the money shot, but this: your face plastered with shame, mouth open and panting, babbling “sorry, I’m just so fucking sorry,” as you empty yourself inside me.
Now please wash your brain, I’m sorry
As I say, I told a man that story once, and he said it was too much. He was probably right. It’s one thing having rape fantasies in my own little imagination, where their power exists only for me. But when you put that stuff out into the world, you have to be aware of the impact it will have. I fucked this up in my early days of blogging a lot – wrote rape fantasies without warnings and just assumed the reader would fill in the blanks that are clear and distinct in my own mind. This is fantasy, it isn’t real. If it were real it wouldn’t be hot, it’d be horrible. In video games we can play with guns, but in real life we’d never go near them.
So this post here is a video game. And the story I told him was similar. He said it was too much, and maybe he was right. But later that weekend, he fucked me in the ass, and while he did it I begged him to come oh-so-quickly.
To this day I still masturbate to the memory of his face in the mirror as he came. I don’t know whether the expression I’m conjuring is real, or if I’ve painted it in: that red-hot look of shame. Weaving my fantasy with memories of reality because my brain always wants things to be darker.
I’m just so fucking sorry.
It’s been ages since I published anything like this, I’m genuinely quite nervous so I’m gonna repeat the important point here: lots of people have rape fantasies inside their own heads. That doesn’t mean you should do this in real life. If you think I could have warned/contextualised this better I’m always up for feedback, and if you’d like me to unpack why I think I have so many of these fantasies I am totally up for doing that in a different blog post. Pls don’t shame me for having these thoughts though – they’re pretty common and not anything I’m gonna beat myself up over, there are way more fun things to beat myself up about.
Oh and also in real life you shouldn’t use spit for lube, I do not think I have ever done that with anal (it would hurt, and be impossible), so chalk that one up as ‘fantasy but never reality’ too.