The tighter you hold me, the harder I struggle

Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor

Is there any advice you could give your partner(s) that applies equally to your sexual life and your romantic life? As a general rule, my answer would be ‘no’, because in bed I want to be used and degraded but outside it I want support and kindness and equality. However, recently I realised there’s one broad rule that might apply to almost every aspect of interacting with me: the tighter you hold me, the harder I struggle.

This post features discussion of anxiety and also a real-life scene with elements of consensual non-consent. I know, right? I contain multitudes. If you like the idea of struggle-fucking as described in this post, know you’re gonna need to put the work in first: talk to your partner in detail about what you both want, and how you can withdraw consent if you want to. 

We’re on the sofa in his living room, and I’m feeling tired. I’m not massively up for sex right now, because sometimes when anxiety is flapping around in my head, it encroaches on the space my libido usually takes up. What I need, I think, is a rest. Time to stare at my phone and not have to think about conversation or life or anything else.

And he keeps trying to be nice to me. Argh.

He offers me bits of food, makes nice smalltalk-y conversation. Puts the kettle on. Pokes those anxious, flapping birds with a well-meaning stick, and my heart starts to race and I can feel my jaw tensing. My answers go from short sentences to single words.

“No thanks.” “Thankyou.” “No.”

I hate being like this. I hate the flicker of annoyance that crosses my face. I’m not annoyed really, I just can’t focus on these little bits of niceness when my head is full of other stuff. When I say “I’m an introvert” what I mean is “if I spend too much time in company, I am liable to become a sullen teenager.” More than 24 hours with one person, without breaks, is A Lot. But the grumpier I am, the harder he tries to cheer me up. And the more he tries, the grumpier I get.

The tighter he holds me, the harder I struggle.

The more he texts me during the week, the less responsive I become to his texts. The more often he reaches for me in bed, or whispers kind words to me across the pillows, the more desperate I am to slip out and onto my bike, disappearing into the darkness at 3 in the morning. The lovelier he is right now, the more tempting it becomes to just pack up my shit and go home.

The tighter he holds me…

On that particular day, we’ve got big plans for the evening: a huge party, with just the two of us, where we’ll drink and fuck and dance. And in order to be my best self for it, I need space. But he senses I’m anxious and instead of backing off, he fills that space with well-meaning gestures that make me feel claustrophobic and panicky.

He holds me so fucking tight.

I tell him a little bit about this feeling. Not everything, obviously. I rarely know everything myself until I sit down to write yet another fucking blog post process and understand my feelings. But I tell him I need a brief rest to be calm and quiet, read Twitter and stare blankly into the distance until the panic has stopped fluttering in my head. So he gives me time, and we rest, and I don’t have to speak and it’s bliss.

Then later, when I’m calmer, I crawl over to where he’s sitting on the sofa and offer him conciliatory kisses. Like an apology for being a grumpy twat, and a sign that I’m OK to interact now if he’s up for it.

And as we kiss, he grabs my wrists. Uses his strong hands to pull my own behind my back and clamp them together, so it’s harder to move.

The tighter he holds me, the harder…

I struggle.

Just a little. Gently. I twist and turn a bit and grin at him. He tightens his grip, kisses me harder, dares me to twist away. So I do.

I put a bit more force into my fight, all the while staring at him defiantly with a smirk that says ‘go on, fucking do it.’

So he does. Pushes me backwards so I’m lying down, wrists pinned above my head with one of his hands. He’s strong. So very strong. And his strength is excellent for struggling against.

One hand up my top, pinching and grabbing at me, pushing my bra out of the way, while the other has me restrained tight on the sofa. He’s kneeling on top of me, using his bodyweight to hold me down, and I squirm and wriggle and fight him with my own, only occasionally using my grin to reassure him this fight’s not real.

Maybe this tension is what makes it so hot – the delicate balance of using my body to try and escape while I’m using my filthy grin and eager noises to try and encourage him further.

Yes. Do it. Go on. Fucking keep me then. 

The tighter he holds me, the harder I struggle. And the more desperate I am to get fucked.

He manages to strip me – not completely, but partly – while holding on fast to my wrists. I’m panting and so’s he, and it’s frustrating and delicious and exactly what I want.

As he strips me, there are brief moments when he doesn’t have full control – cracks in his armour, which I might be able to wriggle through and escape.

I try to use my powerful thighs to kick myself out from under him, but no luck: lucky me.

Eventually the struggle reaches the stage where he has to take off his own clothes. There’s a moment of hesitation in his eyes as he lets go my wrists to deal with his own belt – a second of checking in and making sure. Raised eyebrows, a pause. He’s giving me this brief burst of freedom to escape if that’s what I want.

I use it to take off my socks.

Then he pounces: pinions me with his body weight and strong hands and deep strokes. Shoving his dick into me like that, too, is a way to pin me further to the sofa. To immobilise me. To give me something to fight against.

He fucks me really firmly, like the very act of fucking will nail me in place. My legs are spread open, with one of his hands roughly crushing my thigh, while the other keeps that solid grip on my wrists so I can’t squirm away.

Each deep stroke feels like vicious punishment. If there were any anxious thoughts left in my head, they’d have been crushed out by his strong hands and firm strokes and the look in his eyes that tells me he’s going to come quickly. The only thought that’s capable of pushing through the haze of fuckdrunken lust is something about how beautifully my skin will bruise tomorrow. Beyond that there’s nothing but joy and eagerness and the instinct to clench my cunt good and tight around his cock, to grip him as hard as he’s gripping my wrists and milk out the first squirts of spunk as he comes inside me.

He holds me so fucking tight.

So I struggle.

 

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