What You Feel

[M4F] What You Feel [rape] [but probably not rape] [mdom] [fucked hard] [against the wall]
~700 words

(I suck at poetry, so I don’t try and write erotic poetry. BUT, this was written in a similar spirit and should probably be delivered in a vaguely similar way – soft, slow in parts, reflective. No dialogue tags because there’s no dialogue – this is more like narration or stream of consciousness.)




Sometimes, when I’m kissing you, I wonder what it must feel like.
We’re standing under the porch light of your flat, nothing but the still night around us and your lips on mine. You taste like the lemon sorbet I bought you, and like the smile I saw you give when I leaned down and brushed your hair aside. I’m kissing you, and that’s all I feel.
But your experience is different, isn’t it?
All night you’ve been looking up at me, blinking against the street lights and trying to read my face.
You’ve walked briskly, trying not to slow me down, when all I’d noticed was a casual, strolling pace.
My arm around your shoulder was light and casual, but it still bound you to me, directing you, controlling you.

Now I’ve bent down to kiss you, and I’m your whole world.
My arms are like arches above you, architecture that encloses you.
My hand is gentle on your hip, but now you can’t go left.
My other arm bounds you on the left, you’re pressed back against the wall of your flat behind you, and there’s nothing left to do but melt.

My beard scratches your chin.
My cologne fills your nostrils.
My hand runs up your side to your shoulder, your neck, and back down to caress your thigh. How flimsy your clothing feels now that it’s all that stand between us. How easy it would be to reach to the neck of your blouse and tear and bare you to me.
Running through your hair, my fingers catch a knot. It’s a sharp tug on your scalp, and you suck air in through your nose.

No escape, even if you wanted one.
No control, if you ever had any.

You shouldn’t have worn a skirt.
It’s been tempting me all night and it offers no defence, lifting up your pale legs and leaving you open, exposed. You worry about your neighbours seeing, you mumble caution and protest to my hungry lips, but it’s only token resistance.
You can offer no other kind.
For me, your legs seem to spread obediently, as easily as the path of my fingers beneath your panties.
Heat and slick desire. Fire and water at my fingertips, churning and channelling.
I am inside you, sounding your depths, making your hips twitch and your mind tremble.
I am above you, pinning your hands above your head with one casual hand.
I am all around you, my touch as caring as it is uncompromising.

I am working you, moulding you, making you beg for what I already want, what I could *take* no matter what.
And so you beg.

What comes next scares me only a little.
I lift you up by your thighs and you wrap your limbs around my chest like a frightened child. Carrying you through the threshold of your flat – it should be romantic, but it’s not. It’s like being carried away by a current, the shore so far away, the water warm and rushing in your veins and out between your legs.
Carried... away.
Only to slam against the wall before the door swings shut.

I penetrate you there and then, lifting your groin up to mine and thrusting deep inside you. You can’t touch the ground – your feet swing and kick, but you can’t touch the ground. I am the only solid, the only constant.
Even held up to my level, you can’t quite reach my lips on your own, and this time I don’t bend down. I’m pounding you, ramming you, hammering you against the wall to make the hung pictures shake.
This is what scares me just a little.

You’re so small, so beautiful, so tender and vulnerable and *mine*.
Can you take this?
Can your lithe frame stand to be slammed against the wall like this?
Can I squeeze my finger-tips into your thighs, squeeze your tits without care or caution, do everything I want to you without once hesitating?
Because I’m beyond hesitating.
I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m not going to stop.
Do you want me to stop?
Does what you want even matter anymore?
I want you to want this.
But I’m *not* going to stop.