dirty stories, fiction

Brutal

This story contains some physical force, talk of ownership and dominance, the threat of choking, and somewhat forced orgasm.

I want to be brutal, but I want to be nice.

This is a constant conflict in my mind: I want to get that fire in my throat that comes when I see you wince and cringe and cry and beg, that thing that opens through the center of me and smiles when you hurt. And I want you to feel good, I want to touch you and for you to like it, I want to watch you come and give permission for pleasure and encourage you and embrace all the sensations of being in a body.

So maybe I don’t really want to “be nice:” what I want is for you to feel good. I want to be brutal, but I want you to feel good.

Sometimes you tell me that when I’m brutal is when you feel the best. That helps. But I also know that what feels “good” isn’t always loving, caressing touch; sometimes the rough, painful touch is an ordeal to conquer, an experience to withstand, and that too is pleasure.

Tonight, that’s the phrase that keeps coming up: I want to be brutal. I want to brutalize you. I feel afraid of my own desire for this, but I feel inspired by the lines of our contract and things that you’ve said and mantras that I’ve made going around in my head: “I want you to do whatever you want to me.” “I like it when it hurts.” “I want to cry for you.” “I want you to take it out on me.”

You’re working on your computer. I tell you to tell me when you are done, that I need you for something.

You come over to where I’m reading in the leather armchair. I have my reading glasses on and a little lamp next to me.

“Sir?”

“Mmm.” I don’t look up.

“I’m ready for you.”

I glance at you quickly. “Strip. Then kneel there.” I point. And I go back to my book.

It’s not a particularly good book, but it’s easy to read and I get engrossed. You slip off your jeans and tee shirt. You hesitate at your underwear, but I am not paying attention to you, so you don’t interrupt me to ask. You take it off. You kneel, there, with your hands behind your back and your eyes down, and you wait.

I turn pages. Mostly I am reading them, too. I’m waiting for the end of the chapter, but I already know I’m hard and wet and eager and starting to tremble at the sight of you I’m drinking in through my periphery vision. I never stop wanting you. It still feels like it did when we first got together and we had such limited time, that desire, that need to be inside you, to get so deep in you, to claim you, to own you. You press yourself up against me in the mornings with sleepy hellos or in the afternoon with frustrated work stress or in the evenings after coming home from out with friends, and when you kiss me, my desire for you stirs up and rises just like it always does. You are such a good kisser. Something about the softness of your lips and the way you use the sweet part on the inside and its slick and smooth but not too wet and it makes me shiver with pleasure. I want you. I feel embarrassed at how much you turn me on. I’m glad my hard-ons don’t show through my pants because you would know all the time how I just glance at you and it happens. My mouth waters and my cunt gets wet but you can’t see that.

I close the book. It makes a sharp, definitive noise. You were in a meditative state and you jump a little, your muscles tensing as you straighten up.

I stand next to you. I take a few steps around you. I see your chest rise as you breathe in.

I want to lavish praise on you, talk about how good you are and how well you serve me, and while it is true, it is also out of guilt. I want you to know how much I appreciate it when you can take the brutality I need to give, but that can happen after. I give too much praise. It softens the blow.

Tonight, I don’t want the blow to be soft.

I grab a fist full of your hair and I twist so you fall forward to your hands and knees, and pull you so you are crawling. I have some of your weight but mostly you are on your hands and knees. I drag you to the bedroom. I pull you up by your hair and throw you onto the bed with a shove.

“Sit up.” I whip the belt out of the loops of my jeans. You move slowly. You are so quiet, you get so quiet and still when I have you in my palm like this. You will do whatever I say. The noise is gone. There is only me and my commands, demands.

I pull the belt around your right forearm and thigh, binding them together. I grab another belt and do the same on the left.

I sit at the head of the bed, the pillows sweetly behind me, and pull you to sit in between my legs. I spread your legs open, pushing your feet to the outside of my knees. I grab the Magic Wand vibrator from its proper spot between the mattress and the wall and hold it to your cunt with my right hand, gripping your jaw with my left hand, with my mouth right next to your ear.

I turn on the vibrator and it rumbles. You whimper.

“This isn’t for you,” I growl quietly. I savor every shudder as your body starts to tremble and react. You’re so sensitive. I will overwhelm you quickly. That’s the point. “This is for me.”

I might kiss you, sometimes. My mouth is right there and your neck is so sweet and you moan and roll your head against me and I like that, so I might just kiss you again.

My hand covers both your mouth and nose. I take your air. I take your breath. I can have it if I want it. It’s mine.

“I take what I want.”

I let go and you inhale deep and you gasp and you moan when you exhale.

“Aren’t you lucky that you like this.”

I put my hand around your throat, but no pressure, just the touch. It makes you nervous, but there is no danger. Not yet.

“You may as well like it, I’m going to do it whether you want it or not.”

You are straining against the two leather belts. You are pressing back against me. I can feel your pulse in how you are shaking.

“I like to feel you all worked up like this.”

I kiss you again. Why not. You’ve earned it. Or you will.

“I like to remember all the things I can do to you, whenever I want to.”

Your voice is so soft I barely hear you, but you say, “Yes, Sir.”

My arms are in front of your shoulders, holding you back, holding your legs open. I put my fingers to your lips and you reach to have them in your mouth. I tease your mouth. I know how much you like to have your mouth filled, so I won’t give it to you. This torture is for me.

“I get so worked up. I just need to see you suffer. I need to remember my role, my purpose.”

You whisper yes, Sir again.

“It feels so good to see you this way.”

You whimper. You struggle and strain. I let you suck the tips of my fingers.

“It feeds me.”

My lips are on your ear, my voice quiet and low.

“You can do it for me. Go ahead and come when you’re ready. I’m just going to hold you right here and tease you and force you. You don’t have to ask. Just do it.”

You cry out and I let you have more of my fingers. They slip deep on your tongue. Your legs are shaking and you’re pulling against the leather belts, against me, kicking your feet, arching your back. I hold your jaw with my fingers in your mouth, I press the vibrator against you in pulses, softer then harder, feeling the thrust of your hips and the way you’re moving to get it to just the right spot, and I leave it there, and I wait, and I growl.

“Come for me, little toy.”

You do; you come hard, tensing everything, your stomach rippling, clenching your thighs and arms and toes and shaking until you collapse against me, still whimpering, almost crying, releasing.

I’m radiating. I’m giddy. I’m glowing. I’m so fucking deeply satisfied somewhere that I don’t know how to explain or how to touch but seems to only be sated when I force you to do hard things. And I’m so, so turned on. I will have you on your belly with my cock in your mouth next. I will fist your hair again and hold you against me until you can’t breathe. I will thrust my cunt up into you and fuck your mouth. I will come down your throat and you will drink it and swallow it and thank me for the privilege.

But first, I take the leather belts off of you, and you curl up in my arms, and I touch you with long soothing strokes, sweet and comforting, until I can be brutal again.

Published by Sinclair Sexsmith

Sinclair Sexsmith (they/them) is "the best-known butch erotica writer whose kinky, groundbreaking stories have turned on countless queer women" (AfterEllen), who "is in all the books, wins all the awards, speaks at all the panels and readings, knows all the stuff, and writes for all the places" (Autostraddle). ​Their short story collection, Sweet & Rough: Queer Kink Erotica, was a 2016 finalist for the Lambda Literary Award. They identify as a white non-binary butch dominant, a survivor, and an introvert.

7 thoughts on “Brutal”

  1. Leo says:

    ❤️🔥

  2. Susannah Clary says:

    I’ll be in my bunk….

  3. Tara Fraser says:

    Totally hot and wonderfully relatable!!! Thanks for sharing!!

  4. rife says:

    Mmm can we make this not fiction soon please?

  5. Dawn says:

    Dayum.

  6. Mimi says:

    This left me all a-quiver, and I wasn’t even in the room! Your writing is beautiful, powerful stuff.

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