Wicked Wednesday: ‘Nervous’
The prompt for this week’s Wicked Wednesday, which I think is the first time I have undertaken erotic writing for a Wednesday meme since the days of Wanton Wednesday, is ‘nervous‘.
Relating the word ‘nervous’ to sex, and in particular my own experiences and preferences in a sexual regard, my thoughts came to settle on breath play. It makes me nervous. Not as nervous as blood play; where the gleaming silver of knives and the deceptive slender needles seem erotic in Tumblr-style, grainy, black and white photography, but much more like cold, hard metal in the sometimes cruelly bright light of day. Then, it’s not as much ‘nervous’ as worry. Worry that I will push too hard, too deep. That I will unintentionally break a limit? Unforgivable. Plus the thought of him piercing me or drawing blood from my flesh is one that brings out no sense of pleasure, no matter how deeply I dredge my deviant soul.
No, nervous is a word for when he leaves me breathless. He can do that on many occasions, even outside the bedroom, it’s true. Watching him work his talents without any realisation of just how brilliant he is, leaves me flustered beyond belief. It’s incredibly arousing to watch years of experience and a specific skill set being put to purpose, by a craftsman dedicated to the job in hand, whatever that may be. But when he leaves me breathless in bed, or slammed against a cold, tiled wall or floor, the nervousness threatens to join his hands around my throat and lock in a suffocating silence.
Casting my mind through the spools of memories, images fast-forwarding through the tease, the foreplay, the physical punishment that comes before, I can precisely pin-point where I begin to feel nervous. He gets that (sometimes insufferable) gleam in his eye, the one that says, “you’re not going to like what I’m about to do, but I want to do it to you, and you’re going to let me, and that’s the bit you’re going to like.” I don’t even feel too nervous then, as he is usually toying with me in some other fashion, like glancing up at me from where he’s been lashing his tongue over my delighted clitoris, or fondling a breast interspersed with pinching playfully at the nipple. He might even have dipped a finger or two into my eagerly anticipating, yet highly impatient pussy, mercilessly teasing. But that’s ok, as I know he won’t let me suffer too long in that regard.
It’s when his hand, strong and yes, masculine, closes around my throat. It is all at once the most erotic and the most terrifying act I can imagine experiencing at that time. But somehow it’s ok to let him do it, and I want him to do it. I consent. At the start I have enough slack that I could say ‘red’ or safeword out of it, he gives fair and ample warning of his intention. Sometimes kinky and/or sexual activity is more erotic upon reflection, where the true depths of enjoyment become apparent. Your psychological needs have been tended to, and you realise this once your body stops its silent cries to the contrary.
Sometimes he may be on top of me, and from the outside of our close union it would almost look like a ‘normal’ sexual act. That missionary style pose, with the woman beneath on her back and him on top, between her legs, his head dipped close to hers, his hands embracing her. Looking closer any voyeurs would be intrigued as to just where his hands are, though. Perhaps a shocked realisation when they see the curled fingers around her neck, even as his other hand tangibly devours the rest of her naked, attempting-to-writhe form, her eyes locked into his, a trust bond remaining unbroken which sees all the emotion bound in that one look: consent, trust, loyalty, love, deviancy, need, sex.
At other times I am in the midst of being fucked like the animal I enjoying feeling I am, in that scene. Slut-fucking, where ‘slut’ holds only the right amount of shame, which is none, really at all, yet when he growls it into my ear with a bite of venom in his tone there is a shudder of a pride-humiliation mix that if you’ve never felt it, you won’t understand. Proud to be humiliated in front of him like the sex object he enjoys me being, that I enjoy being, for him. Proud to be his slut, that term of derisive loving perverted endearment; hearing him say that word only to me, only about me, his special slut, no-one else is his slut, only I.
On all fours, back arched proudly, bottom in the air, legs spread, pussy presented obediently and flicking my hair about to catch his interest like an animal in heat. The moans emitted upon his first touch, roaming up the inside of my thigh, resembling mews and low growls of my own, no human language or anything comprehensible beyond carnal want.
Teasing his hands over my body and enjoying the feel and view comes only moments before he places his tip at my doubtless slick entrance, ready-lubricated for his deliberately forceful invasion to the hilt.
Once we fit together in our couple-jigsaw, he wraps his hand around my waist length wild and tousled hair, wrapping it around his fist, using my own hair as a lead to yank my head back so he gets a better look at me even from the side. The warmth radiating from his body as he’s all the way inside me, surrounding my own body beneath him. His breath on my cheek, then I feel him turn to enjoy my squeezed-tight eyes and the mid-sex contortions of my face. The noises coming out of me: uncontrollable.
Uncontrollable noises, and yet… he controls them. With his free hand, he wraps his fingers around my neck and lets his weight bear down on me, fucking me with one hand clenched around my hair, the other holding my head facing forwards. Forcing me to look up. To keep him inside my back is arched and my breasts hang down, heavy and with nipples barely brushing the sheet below, agonisingly brutal in its sensitive torment.
He likes my movements when it gets to the point where I can’t breathe. He brings his hand up to cover my mouth. He cuts off my breath completely, using part of his hand to cover my nose as well as over my mouth.
Nervous? Fuck, yes. Aroused? So intensely I want to do it again right now.
Panic sets in after only a second or two. The natural and instinctive need to draw in air, overwhelming in its ferocious attack on my psyche and body. I buck under him, but he stays his hands in place. I’m his slut, he tells me. I must do what he says. Please him. I must be a good girl for him. I’m his, only his. He’s going to have me, it doesn’t matter what I do.
I try shaking my head. The tears come. They stream down, over my bottom lashes, some running in rivulets over cheeks and his fingers, the rest shaken free to the bed below.
Don’t tell me no, he says. I’ll just make it worse for you. I’m going to come in you now. But you already know that, don’t you.
The only way to get air is for him to come, helping him come is my attempting-to-buck body, the smallest movements of trying to shake his hand free from my face, my perverted need to be overpowered and playing into a rape fantasy hotter than hell.
Yes, he makes me nervous then. He fills me with nerves in that moment. Then he comes, and I come, and we come together and we tumble together afterwards in a post-climactic haze where nerves seem about as far away as the end of the world.
– Cara Sutra