I will like it if you can be stunned into weakness for me, when I can shove you into a wall, a hand around your throat and threaten you and have you believe it (crossing that line between knowing that you can stop it any time you want and that tipping over point where the attack makes your brain stutter and your body go ‘wtf?!’). If I am aggressively fucking with you, I need to believe that you are in it with me, that when I slap you or bite you, you have some fear that I am going to lose it and rip the flesh from your bones. I want you to be afraid, and maybe it is a fear of doing or saying the wrong thing more than a physical fear, and that works too: I want to taste it, fear and confusion and desire.
If I can get there, this is my favourite, all messy and violent, and there will be bruises that don’t come from some careful wielding of a nicely crafted flogger. I will be rabid for wanting to get inside your skin, clawing at it like it’s in the way and kissing, your mouth will hurt from it, from me trying to rip your tongue from you and swallow it, from biting at your lips because they are mine and shouldn’t even be on your fucking face. Shoving your face into the floor and resisting the urge to smash it into the hardness over and over again, grinding relentlessly against parts of your body that are in my fucking way and stopping me from getting inside you. I can’t get enough, I know it already, but I will want to tear you apart trying.
Then at some point, I have to come back from that because it only goes so far, and when I come back from it, I want to see you bared, open and looking a little lost, reeling from it. Hard and desperate and put upon, and I will be melting from what you have given me under the onslaught, and from you being just a little bit broken. I want that lost boy who blinks up at me, vulnerable and open now, like everything inside has spilled out because his mind was so busy processing what was going on that it had to leave the reason-driven part of him behind.
And then I get to play with you, that wide-eyed boy, with gentleness and hints of hurt that now make you a little scared, that hit you hard because you think it is done now, because you are already sore and think you maybe can’t take any more: it makes me both protective and predatory. And I let you see how turned on this makes me, all of it. And maybe I blame you for that “See what you did?!” and slap you and maybe let you taste it. And maybe you get to lick me with the remnants of violence on us both, then it is more like sex with lots of kissing and teasing and denial and some sharpness just to remind you I am there, and maybe the strap-on and maybe cuffs and gags and blindfolds and licking and general fuckery.