We’re having a conversation about kinks. The fun things we’d like to try (or try again), and the ways in which we’d like to tear into each other. This is the kind of foreplay I really love: talking. Talking is my kink. Hearing someone tell me what they’re into – whether confident statements or shy suggestions – gets me hotter than anything else. So we’re having a conversation about kinks, and he tells me he wants to tear off my clothes.
Like, properly tear off my clothes, not just undress me quickly: rip buttons and fabric and shove a thumb through the delicate lace of a pair of knickers and yank them to pieces with his bare fists.
Unfortunately, clothes cost money, and I’m quite fond of a lot of mine. I mostly wear a uniform of the same pair of jeans and the same jumper, and I feel comfortable in this outfit. What’s more, bras are a problem because they’re expensive and finding one that fits nicely is a challenge: I’ve only just bought four new bras, because I can’t get away with the same ragged M&S ones I’ve been making do with for years, and I’m not yet ready to abandon my new ones to the sex gods. No matter how sexy those gods.
He tells me it’d be fun to come up with a system whereby I could let him know that the clothes I’m wearing are not precious. Some kind of signal, a bit like the handkerchief code, that I could use to tell him that right now I’m wearing trash that he has my permission to utterly fuck up.
So when I get home, I dig out an old bracelet that I rarely wear any more. And then I send him the photo above, and this email…
This bracelet means fuck me up
If I wear this bracelet it means you have permission to fuck me up however you like, in ways that include (but aren’t limited to): ripping my knickers off, cutting off any/all clothing, fucking up my hair/make-up/face/any other part of me.
The only limit is that if you want to smear make-up/slap me/fuck up my face, please take my glasses off first because glasses are expensive and a pain in the arse to replace. So my glasses are the only thing that cannot be destroyed – all the rest of me can be destroyed however you like.
Don’t feel like you have to do this stuff just cos I’m wearing the bracelet though: bracelet is permission, not pressure.
But yeah: the idea of this is incredibly hot, and has made me want to inventory my clothes for the ones that would be most appropriate/fun to rip/cut off me. Feel free to fuck me up.
Tear off my clothes
I knew it would be hot when he ripped off my shirt: that I could predict. The satisfying speed with which he gripped the lapels of it in each hand and yanked it wide apart, sending buttons flying all over the kitchen floor: that was a known fact. That I would grin eagerly when he did this: also known.
But what I didn’t predict – what I don’t think I could have properly imagined – was how filthy the sound of tearing denim would be. How, when he threw me onto the bed and attacked the hem of my jeans with bondage scissors, that was just the prelude to one of the sexiest images I could have hoped for. Looking down at him – broad shoulders, big hands, topless and crouched over me like he was ready to fight me for a fuck – as he gripped the denim in his bare fists and ripped it from ankle to crotch.
The sound of it, my God. The view, holy shit. The speed with which he got them torn off, unngh.
I barely had time to pause to appreciate how awesome it was to look down my almost-naked body at the strong, powerful shoulders of a hot guy ripping my jeans off before he got started on my knickers. These knickers were chosen not just for the fact that they were ready to be put out to pasture, but for the fact that they were made of delicate, tearable lace. He’s strong, but I worried for some reason that cotton ones would be harder to tear – that you’d need to start them off with scissors before you could get a decent rip.
Lace? No worries there. They were shredded in less than a second, and then he pounced. And all the while we were fucking, as I clung to his shoulders and buried my face in the smell of him… as he was banging me with all the strength of a man who can rip denim with his bare fists… I heard the echo of that first ‘rrrrip’ in my head, and it gave me that gutpunch of lust.
The best fucks don’t start when you get naked and end when you put your clothes on. The best fucks are ones that fizz around in your head for days and weeks afterwards. Every time I put my laundry away, I’m sorting clothes into ‘keep’ and ‘maybe good for the bracelet game’. Every time I see the bracelet sitting on the mantelpiece in my living room, I’m wondering when I should wear it next. Thinking it might be fun, when the plague’s over, to wear it to the pub – playing with it occasionally to remind him that it’s there, and to let him know that when we get home he can tear off whatever I’m wearing. I write Christmas erotica based on the idea of having one’s clothes cut off, because the thought of it loops round my head for long after the fucking is done. When I get dressed in another pair of jeans, I’m remembering the sound of that rip, and the sight of him kneeling at the edge of the bed, hunched and ready. To tear off my clothes with his bare fucking hands.
The bracelet game: you heard it here first.