In my travels through Kinksville, I've been all kinds of horny, but rarely angry at the same time. The closest I can remember is experiencing a pent up sexual frustration with Captain, about a year ago. That was a submissive need to be used, to be taken, to be fucked: to have an emptiness filled. This was almost precisely the reverse.
I was at a club, with Mannequin and a number of The Collective. We were very much in public and something in me had just snapped. I needed to use, to take, to fuck. To let all my frustration and annoyance boil over inside me and vent out into someone else's body. It wasn't passion, or sexual desire as such, it was about power. I absolutely needed to exert myself over her. Not play, certainly not my usual, planned, coolly methodical and detailed play.
Every single part of me was screaming out to do something violent. I was vaguely aware, through the heat of it, of an audience and could maintain a certain dark humour to the edge in my voice thanks to the role - I was taking the part of a military rakish cad, and she was my doxy. I barked for kit -for all the kit, any of the kit. And for my girl who was in easy reach, although her corset made me wish I'd bought it for her so I could just take a knife, cut the fiddly cords and throw the thing over my shoulder.
I pushed her down, hard against the bed, pulling off the rest of her clothes and unbuckling the thick leather belt from my waist, feeling the heavy weight of it against my hands. I hit her raised bottom with it, feeling her jerk back a little. That felt good. More than good. It felt right. There was something about the whole combination - my savage urges, her willingness to accept them. Even how we both looked enhanced the mood: her vulnerable and feminine in strips of lacy cotton, me strapped down and boyish in white vest, braces, big black boots. I looked and felt like an utter bastard and was relishing every moment.
A few blows with the belt and that was as close to foreplay as I got. Dildo went in the strap-on harness I'd fortunately had the presence of mind to put on before leaving the house. Lube. Condom. Her cunt. Fucking. Fucking until my legs were tired of fucking and I needed to drag her into an alcove and procure Boy Wonder to fuck her against the cold, dirty brick. Not til she was satisfied, but until I was.
Thinking back, there was nothing nice about what I did. Ringmaster turned around to me later and said "That wasn't for her. That was for you." He was right. It was about use. About what I wanted, and what I took. Like pounding the pavement on a hard run following a bad day, there's an exhilaration in getting it out, but also a self-centered-ness. Something you do for yourself.
It wasn't even about an urge to hurt her specifically - in the sort of mood I was in I'd have ripped or punched any soft target. Hurting her was better than hurting anyone else though. Safer and more satisfying. Not only because I knew my passion would fall on appreciative ground, but because she wasn't the cause of my frustration - she wasn't being punished. I was using her to make me feel better. And that was what we both wanted.
The day after, sated, tired. I lay in the sunshine on her lap and she fed me grapes. I've got an email in my inbox full of appreciation for what I did. The thrill of behaving like that and getting thanked for it.
I am a lucky bastard, and no mistake.
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