I have the flu, and as a result, my mind went to slightly darker places than usual when writing this piece. I don’t want to fuck right now: I want to be used; I want to fight. Thus, today’s smut features struggle fucking, where partners who have discussed, negotiated and consented to this kind of scene ahead of time to play with coercion and force.
Content note for consensual non-consent and face slapping.
It’s dark when I wake, and for a moment I struggle to separate dream from reality. Am I really being pinned to my bed, someone’s full weight holding me down? Is the ache in my cunt real or just imagined? The fingers inside me twist, dancing along a line between pain and pleasure, and I force my eyes open.
“No,” I say, my voice half broken with sleep. “No, stop. I don’t want it.”
“Does it feel like I care?”
They’re balanced with their forearm on the mattress beside my head and their face only inches from mine.
“No. Please, no, get off me.”
“If you don’t want it, why are you so wet for it?”
“I’m not.” I buck my hips, hating how calm and in control they are, slowly fucking me with three thick fingers. It hurts and it feels so wrong and I can’t push them off me.
They pull their fingers from my cunt and force them into my mouth. I taste my own wetness, and flush with the shame that this turns me on. They position their cock against the entrance to my cunt and begin to push inside, eyes never leaving me. I thrash and writhe and they laugh.
“Struggle all you want. It makes my dick harder when you fight.”
“Fuck. You.” I pant, still trying to throw them off.
“That’s not very nice,” they tell me, “Girls who can’t say anything nice shouldn’t say anything at all.”
There’s a glimmer of sadistic pleasure in their voice before their hand clamps down over my mouth, muffling the breath I’m taking to cry for help.
“Try and scream now. Just you try and fucking scream.”
Their eyes are hard and cold and almost disinterested, as though they don’t believe I will put up a fight. As though using me isn’t even a challenge. Well, fuck that.
I bite the hand over my mouth.
They withdraw it instantly, but it comes down a second later to slap my face sharply. White hot pain stings my cheeks and tears prick my eyes. They continue fucking me with long, slow strokes as I bite my lip and try to centre myself again.
“Going to let me fuck you now, little bitch? It’s so cute when you try to fight me, and your cunt clenches delightfully around my cock when you try to resist.”
“Please,” I gasp, and break off to try and twist out from under them again.
“Aww, are you begging? Begging for mercy, you filthy bitch? Tough. Lie there and fucking take it.”
“Fuck you,” I say again, but this time my voice is a whisper and I’m crying.
I feel they start fucking me harder, even more ruthlessly, when they see the tears spilling down my cheeks. They keep fucking me, hissing filthy words at me as my body wavers between fight and surrender. It feels like I am coming undone underneath them, and I don’t realise until the pain of them slapping my face again that my body has reached a crescendo and their fingers are roughly playing with my clit and I’m coming, my orgasm overwhelming me.
Then they’re beside me, not above me, and pulling me into them. I curl into them, rubbing my face against their chest to dry my tears on their t-shirt. They hold me and let me remember how to breathe again before they speak.
“I got you.”
“Forgot for a minute it wasn’t real. ‘Twas scary.”
They’re stroking my hair. I feel boneless and floaty.
“Was good too. Feel safe now. Love you.”
They kiss my forehead.
“I love you too. You’re fucking incredible. Sleep now, my adorable little bitch.”
I do, glad they’re not making me put into words how much better I feel after we fight like that.
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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.