Vanilla Girl

Of course it would be possible to say that it was indeed abusive behaviour and from outward appearances it may seem that this is indeed the case, but only if you don't take into account the small silent details that belie such a simple analysis.
I didn't do anything, not really, nothing outrageous or risky.
She was telling me how her mother had made the cover for her sofa to hide the ugly Ikea design. Shield their tasteful sensibilities from its tackiness, unacceptable to educated people who have real paintings on the wall, understand art and appreciate the finer, the higher qualities of the human spirit. Her brother had found some cushions to match, how clever. She told me all of this with an enthusiastic naivety,
''Why the fuck are you telling me this" I think
"What makes you think I give a shit about your wholesome fucking family photo apple pie world"
I bite my tongue, she's quite sweet really, prattling on about this that and the other.
I tune her chattering out, focusing instead on watching her mouth, her neck, her hands, her breasts, as they move beneath the t shirt that she thinks obscures their voluptuousness. I reach out and lift it up….. lean over and briefly take her nipple in my mouth, She gasps
''what are you doing?"
Stupid question number ten thousand-and-one.
"What do you think I'm doing you silly cow? I didn't come here to hear about your mothers bloody sewing skills"
I practically bite my tongue off, and resist the urge to slap her face, she'd run a mile…. or she thinks she would, instead I push her backwards, she is unresisting.
I lick her stomach, feel the curve of her waist, the firm flesh of her torso, the rough slightly damp hair of her armpits. She just lies there as my tongue makes long wet strokes back and forth across until her belly and tits are slippery with my saliva. Her breath is no longer quiet, a small sound at the back of her throat responds to the pressure of my lips and then my teeth as I catch her nipples as I pass them, biting a little harder each time till eventually I can't resist it. They're so hard and just waiting for it so I keep one between my teeth slowly increasing the pressure. As I do, I gently take hold of her wrists and bring them together over her head. She doesn't stop me. I bite harder still, harder than I thought she would let me for longer than I had anticipated she would like. But she didn't stop me. Then when I release the bite and suck her into my mouth a deep guttural sigh slips from her lips, she pulls her arms free, and wraps them round me, pulling clumsily at my clothes, inelegantly trying to reach down the neck of my dress.
"Careful! It’s a Vivienne Westwood"
I don’t say it. She's still pawing ineffectively at my tits and the stitching is threatening to give. I pull her hands away and pin them by her sides, she shifts a little so as to be more comfortable in my grasp. I feel that its my moral duty to show her how to get someone's clothes off with a little finesse so I decide to undress the rest of her with my teeth. The buckle is a bastard. I probably scrape all the enamel off my front teeth. Whatever will I say to my dentist! Eventually I manage to get the bloody thing undone. Only to be faced with tightly buttoned jeans. I can’t get them off without using my hands. Oh yes I can! But can I really be bothered? My ego knows no limits.
I fucking hate jeans, why do dykes wear jeans? They've got to be the least erotic clothing available. Long skirts and no knickers is my preferred option, or short skirts.
I am on the verge of giving up but a sharp squeal she makes, when I accidentally
catch a bit of flesh against the annoying denim, encourages me. I succeed in getting the button halfway into the buttonhole so that I can pull at the waist band and loosen it, the zip opens as easily. I am deeply relieved, there are limits. They're not stretch jeans thank fuck, and a small amount of tugging gets them to where I can push them, and her knickers (Primark, beige), down with my foot.
Impressed that I have managed to get this far I am tempted to stop and have a cigarette. The thought amuses me but I think better of it.
Still holding her wrists I nuzzle her pussy with my nose, parting the hair, sniffing the slightly perfumed aroma, I recognise the smell, it's Dove, typical. She lifts her hips to my face, opening my mouth I cover the whole of her slit, lapping at the copious juices, pushing my tongue inside, pressing it against her as she begins to rock her hips and makes not a sound. My tongue wanders in and out of her cunt, traces the path between her lips that leads to her clit, now fat and swollen. I lift my head to look at her there. To look into the moist silky folds before I return to tasting when without warning she wrests her arms from my inattentive grip and covers her cunt with both hands.
"What?"
" I don't want you to look at me"
" What! Why not ?"
" I just don't"
Right, so I can break my jaw undressing you, I can restrain you and bury my face in your hole, but I'm not allowed to look at it. OK. What kind of bullshit is that? Of course that’s not what I say, I try not to be unpleasant, be reassuring, find out what the issue is.
"Don't be silly, you're beautiful blah blah blah" to no avail. I am about to loose my temper.
"Jesus H Christ, what is your fucking problem"
I almost scream at her but then I remember the belt.
" OK" I say,
I sit up and roll a cigarette, she just lies there. I smoke my cigarette and decide whether to leave or whether to tie her up with the belt and fuck her or possibly tie her up with the belt and leave. I decide to tie her up and then see how I feel.
Her jeans are hanging off the end of the sofa, she still has one foot on. I lean down and push it off pulling the belt free as I do so, careful not to make a noise with the buckle as I drop it carefully on top of the scrumpled jeans, which I notice, are sodden at the crotch. Turning round I pull her T-shirt down and take both her hands
"Come here"
I'm using my kindest most empathetic voice, she sits up and comes into my arms, I hold her and kiss her hair her face, she gazes at me, looks deep into my eyes as I kiss and kiss and stroke and hold her oh so tight while I manipulate her round the other way, the intention being that when I lie her down this time the belt will be within easy reach.
It works! I'm surprised. Too easy and the way she lets her arms fall over her head, wrists conveniently at the edge of the sofa leads me to believe that my initial assumptions, about her masochistic tendencies, however hotly denied, are correct.
So, what of consent? What about when no means yes? When “I would never” means “I really want to”? when “I hate it” means “I want it”? What of boundaries when they're wrapped up in pretending not to be going there, what of safe words when you are transversing a patter of lies. There's no point in asking, she can stop me if she likes, but she doesn't.
Utterly passive she is as I wrap the belt round her wrists push it through the buckle and loop it between her hands. If she keeps her eyes closed perhaps she can pretend that she isn't saying yes with every fibre of her being, that she isn't submitting to my no longer tender ministrations, that my probing pinching fingers,
my nipping teasing mouth aren't making her writhe and squeal.
I'm loosing interest but some perverse sense of honour makes me unable to stop till I've made her come.
I fuck her hard. Till my arm aches, watching her open her legs further for me, arching her back, mouth now open wide in a silent scream and as I pull on the leather with my free hand the tightening around her wrists finally pushes her over the edge unleashing a chaotic babble of cries gasps and rash statements. How she loves me how no one ever how she's never felt like this. I remain silent, enjoy the tilt of her head and the spread of her legs. As the orgasmic litany subsides her thighs shudder a little, withdrawing my fingers I press my hand against her, feel the hotness on my palm, her clit twitches a little, she sighs and smiles at me. I let the belt go. She doesn't free her hands.
Before rolling another fag I go to wipe my slimy right hand on the sofa
"Don't do that"
She protests, mildly. I ignore her.