Two weeks ago, in the early hours of the morning, I reminded the guy lying next to me in bed that he’d told me to fight him. What followed was a glorious struggle, which ended with me on top of him, breathless from the orgasm he’d given me with his fingers. Struggle-fucking and playing with elements of consenting non-consent feature prominently in my fantasies right now, hence my attempts at writing this.
“Is our little slut going to wake up and spread her legs for us, or are we going to have to force them open?”
The words pull me out of sleep, and shoot straight to my cunt. I make a sleepy noise and roll away from the voice, not letting on that I’m wet and awake.
“I think our little slut is trying to pretend that she isn’t desperate to get fucked.”
This voice comes from in front of me, and I know it as well as I do the first. I go to bury my head in the pillow, to pretend I’m still half-asleep and not incredibly turned on, but soft lips meet mine. I melt into her kisses, but don’t surrender fully. We’ve discussed this, with their filthy words settling over me like a gossamer film while we’re described fantasies and negotiated scenes. And now it was time to be a bad, bad girl so I could get fucked.
“She is desperate, isn’t she? Our greedy little slut…” I keep kissing her, but as I feel his breath on the back of my neck I tense. Before he can slip his arms around me and trap me, I spring. Kicking away duvet and blankets, I’m off the bed before they can grab me. I smile into the darkness.
“Our little slut thinks she can get away, does she?”
“She should know that running will only make things worse for her when we catch her.”
I hear them whisper. I tense, preparing to run. It’s a chase I know will end in my capture, but I’m still going to fight. Resisting always makes things more fun. It’s two against one though, so the struggle doesn’t last long. I dodge and duck in the darkness, but soon there are hands – hers – grabbing my boobs and I’m being pushed into the mirror, my boobs squishing against the cold glass. Strong hands – his – lay a series of hard spanks on my arse.
Then I’m spun around, one of his arms round my neck and one between my legs, holding me tightly as I thrash. She pinches my nipples hard. I kick and squirm, and for a second break free. My freedom only lasts a moment, though, and she’s pinning me down on to the bed. She fights with bites and kisses and scratches, but I feel like I could get away from her until she rolls me over and I realise he’s underneath me.
He grabs my wrists, and puts his legs between mine to spread them apart and hold them there. Even when he has captured me like this, I don’t stop fighting. I try to untwist my legs from his, to roll off him, to free my arms, but he holds me tightly. She’s between my legs, fingers teasing my labia and brushing my clit.
“She is so wet,” she tells him, and I moan and squirm. Why is them discussing me as though I’m not really here so hot?
Then suddenly her fingers are inside me and I’m no longer fighting so much as wriggling, trying to get her thumb on my clit and her fingers deeper inside me. She ignores my clit entirely, and I imagine she’s grinning into the darkness as she makes a ‘come hither’ motion and her fingers brush against my g-spot.
She pulls out her fingers, leaving me aching and empty.
“You fucking bastards,” I hiss, bucking against his hold.
“She’s so cute when she swears, isn’t she? Here, taste her.” She offers him her dripping fingers, and he makes an appreciative noise as he tastes me, and I try to make use of their momentary distraction to escape. It’s a hopeless endeavour: he is holding me tightly and her weight is on top of me too.
“So good,” he tells her – and he makes it clear that he’s sharing it with her, not complimenting me. “See what noises our little slut makes when you use your tongue.”
Her tongue flicks quick circles on my clit. I writhe and moan and all too quickly she’s gone again and she’s kissing him and I’m trapped between them. This time I try even harder to get free, especially when she climbs off me, but he pulls my legs wider apart and traps them there. My thigh muscles ache. He transfers both my wrists to the grip of one hand, but his hold is still vice-like, and now he has a hand free.
He brings that hand down hard on my cunt and I moan, pain with just a touch of pleasure curling through me.
“Want to keep fighting, little slut?”
There is a moment when I hesitate, wondering if it would be easier to give in, but the taunting note in his voice reminds me that I can’t give up yet. I squirm in his hold, trying to pull away from him, and hear him chuckle. He administers several more spanks of my vulva, then runs a finger up between my lips and pushes it into your mouth.
“You’re so wet. You like this, don’t you little slut? You like being spread open and forced. You were built to be fucked, little slut.”
My only response is a strangled cry around his fingers. The weight on the mattress shifts, and she’s kneeling between my legs again. I feel the hardness of her strap-on, the head of her dildo just pressing against the entrance of my cunt.
“Is our little slut going to be good now?”
His fingers in my mouth make it hard to talk, but I nod eagerly. I want her inside me. She kisses me, and once again I melt into her lips. His hold doesn’t loosen, and she fucks me with quick, hard thrusts, but this is exactly what I want. Their hands pluck my nipples and rub my clit, and I’m trapped in this endless pleasure in our darkened room.
“Such a good little slut.”
Image sourced through Pixabay.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.
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