and get off on the resistance you provide.
just so I can break you again.
He was bound flat on his back with his feet in the air. Thighs cuffed, ankles tied, he was spread wide, splayed open, stripped and exposed.
I hurt him a little, then sat between his knees, his legs suspended on either side of me. I stroked his cock and teased his hole until he whimpered, until he begged to be fucked.
I teased him until he was desperate, until it looked like he couldn’t stand it anymore.
And then I fucked him.
Nothing about it was new, or extreme, or even remotely forceful. It was more slow and sweet and gentle. There was kissing and friction and as much skin-on-skin contact as I could manage. It was a sweet, loving fuck.
When I had my fill of him and was satisfied he had his fill of me, I was ready for something different. Sadism often follows sweetness — it’s a lovely exercise of contrasts I enjoy. I stepped away to remove my harness, wash up, and consider my options for the boy still tied to my bed.
As I surveyed my equipment, I caught a glimpse of him behind me in the mirror. Something about him was simultaneously troubling and exciting. I attributed it to aesthetics — my own well-lit reflection against his. Mine, calm and clear. His, in the background, dark and blurry.
As I watched him, I couldn’t shake the feeling it was more than that. Something was wrong, or right, or different.
And then a thought flashed through my mind: he’s about to break.
I abandoned the toys and returned to him, unsure of my intuition. Something was different, but I wasn’t sure what, nor was I sure of what to do. He looked wild and simultaneously serene, both desperate and satisfied, about to either laugh or cry. It was troubling that I couldn’t read him in the moment.
I untied him and quickly removed the cuffs. I held him, pulling him back from whatever edge he was approaching and whatever lay beyond. I wasn’t even sure the edge existed or if I had imagined something that wasn’t there.
I held him and talked to him, gently prying to get a sense of what was happening, if there was anything happening at all. His responses were half apologies for his state and incoherent ovations of love and want and sweetness — beautiful, but less-than-helpful.
I whispered my own love and reassurance — there was nothing to apologize for.
After some time, he became familiar to me again and whatever dissonance I perceived faded away. He seemed fine, and so we eased back in to the evening’s activities.
The next morning, without my prompting, he offered an admission about which he assumed I was unaware. His words were tentative and sheepish, offered with the warning he wasn’t sure he could articulate his thoughts.
He explained that what had frightened me had frightened him, too. In that moment, he neared the edge. He was breaking. But instead of giving in or giving over, he pulled back. When he found himself unable to explain, he offered me apologies instead.
In the conversation that followed, he said he had wanted more, or needed more, he isn’t sure.
I’m not sure either.
I’m not sure of any of it.
Breaking — the idea of it — is heady and romantic, but I realize now I have little understanding of what it really means. I don’t know what it is and I can’t explain why I want it. I don’t know why he wants it. I don’t know what it feels like, I don’t know what it looks like, and I’m not sure I’ll recognize it if it happens.
If it does, I’m not sure I’ll know what to do.