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Power Surge

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I guess I didn’t know what I needed to set me free. When it finally came, it wasn’t really like being forced, or made to give in to his desires. In fact, the whole night was more like living out a dream; it was strange, a little scary, and always threatening to come apart, exposing itself either as false or worse, as real and inescapable. But, it was the most difficult sexual adventure we’ve ever taken together, and I think it’s what allows our marriage to work, as strange as that sounds.

I know this needs some explanation. I have a habit of starting in the middle, always forgetting to give the details, the backstory, what my uncle the reporter would call “the fucking human interest.” Perhaps it’s simplest to start with an understatement. I have a hard time trusting men. It’s getting better, but back when Mike and I started talking about getting married, all men still made me nervous. Worse, that included Mike, despite the eight years we’d already spent together.

Part of me just wanted barriers, and I found myself looking for excuses to be critical, even mean to him. I’d pick at him over little things, or question him about where he was when we weren’t together. Every time he seemed too happy, I was sure he’d been with someone else. If was unhappy, I was sure it was about me. It was ridiculous, and it made me feel awful, because I knew that I wasn’t the person I wanted to be, that my extreme reactions weren’t even normal, and that scared me even more than the possibility that he’d fulfill my worst expectations.

I was deeply in love with him, but that didn’t help. I was scared all the time that he’d do or say something horrible and unforgivable, that he’d hit me or cheat, that he’d leave. I know how this must sound. I know I sound neurotic, even crazy. And maybe I was, then. More than maybe, even.

Needless to say, my inability to trust took a toll on our relationship, especially in the bedroom. During those early years, the sex we had, while sometimes a little exotic, didn’t really satisfy me. Thinking back on it now, I doubt that it really satisfied him. He tried, though. He was always patient, tried to be understanding. He knew that sex hadn’t been exciting or fulfilling for me, and he tried to compensate with love, romance, patience, and kind, respectful attention to my body. Unfortunately, all of his effort just made me feel like a bigger failure; I felt inadequate, sexually undesirable.

As long as I could remember, I had been told that sex was wrong, that only sluts wanted it, that sex made women whores. My mom was so scarred by her traumatic childhood rape that she was completely turned off to sex, and was sure that only by teaching her daughters the same could she ensure our safety and happiness. As an adult, I started to doubt her claims, but they were such a part of me that I couldn’t just look past them. I wanted so badly to please him, to bring him the kind of pleasure that I was certain a real woman could, and instead I felt like the old cliche–damaged goods, return to sender.

None of this means that I didn’t make any progress during our first eight years, didn’t find any enjoyment in sex; I did. I slowly learned to experience the pleasure of loving his body: feeling the textures of his skin, finding the ridges and hollows of his naked length, enjoying the power and strange pride that comes from bringing another person something approaching bliss. In time, I stopped shying from his embraces, learning to take comfort in them. In fact, I came to enjoy all aspects of bringing his pleasure, relishing oral sex in particular for the rush of bringing him to orgasm, the trust it requires, the power over his most sensitive places that he willingly gave me.

My own sexual desires, however, remained a puzzling and upsetting mystery. Even as I grew to appreciate sex, my own capacity for lustful desire seemed stifled. I would get wet as I did the things I knew to pleasure him, feeling the desire for him well up within me. But, something always pushed the moment of orgasm away from me. I tried to hide that sad fact from Mike, tried to pretend that I had learned to move past the brink and let the moment spill over the dam of my fears and restraint. I don’t know how well I succeeded. I made it up as I went along, having no idea how it would sound or look to cum, much less how it would feel. In time, I learned to take my cues from porn actresses. Everyone seemed to believe them; hey, they’re the experts, right? That’s what I had to settle for, the imitation of life..

I thought it might happen for me someday, but I didn’t exactly expect it. More than anything, I wanted to be :”good” for Mike. So, I tried a lot of things.

I bought all manner of sex toys–anything that vibrated or promised realistic sensations, I experimented with privately, trying to see if I could figure out the unsolved mystery of my body’s responses. It didn’t work, although I did get one hell of a friction burn once. The aggravated itching from that particular escapade made sex a little more lively if nothing else. I don’t know what Mike thought was going on with me that night.

I tried studying sex, as if every night’s lovemaking was a pop quiz. I read books, watched porn movies and the soft-core Hollywood skin-flicks. I scanned the internet, the men’s magazines, even bathroom stalls for helpful tips. I read the Kama Sutra, learned new positions, took up Yoga and belly dancing so I’d be able to perform all the new tricks I read about or saw. I still didn’t cum, but I did get in shape and feel better about myself. Mike didn’t say much about all the studying, though he certainly noticed.

After the first time I deep throated his cock, he actively encouraged me, reminding me to return videos and suggesting trips to the adult bookstore. He started reading too, a fact that I probably paid too little attention to at the time. I was completely immersed in the search for his perfect orgasm, finding a new and deeper level of satisfaction in sex, despite the fact that my own body still hadn’t found completion. But for the first time, I felt like I could give him something no one else could, whether it was an exotic belly dance or an hour-long Tantric orgasm. I don’t know why I never realized how shallow my search was, how much I was denying him by not trying to reach my own orgasm as well. If I’d been smarter or more insightful somehow, I might have thought about the deep pleasure, satisfaction, even pride that I got from bringing Mike pleasure. I would have realized that I still hadn’t found a way to allow Mike the same joys.

Apparently, though, he noticed plenty for us both. I know it’s trite and cliche to suggest that one encounter, much less one moment, can change everything about our experience. That doesn’t mean that it isn’t true. One insignificant Tuesday night while we were casually making out in bed, he took my hand and pulled it down to his cock. He never said anything, just put me there, let me know what he wanted. I was always a little timid about initiating any sexual contact, afraid that I’d do something wrong, turn him off, or seem overeager and make him think less of me; I was thrilled to be relieved of that burden.

We continued kissing, and his kisses got more forceful, pushing his tongue into my mouth, leaving me little room to do anything but suck his tongue, allow him to explore as he wished. At the same time, he reached down, and put his hand over mine, directing my attentions to his penis. When our kiss broke, I pulled back slightly, bringing my hand back up to push my long hair behind my ear. He looked me in the eye, and with a wry smile shook his head. And then we crossed a bridge into a new kind of love for both of us.

“Oh, no you don’t, young lady,” he said in a mocking version of his sternest voice. “Don’t tease me and back away. Get over here and finish what you started.” His tone was getting more serious, less gentle and more chiding. I knew he wouldn’t hurt me, I felt sure that I could back away from the evolving scene, but I was still getting a little pissed. What did he think I was, his toy?

I hesitated for a minute, not sure yet how I was going to respond to Mike’s strange behavior.

“Stacy?” He sounded concerned, but also irritated. “Stacy, you aren’t listening to me.”

Now also sitting, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me over him, across his lap. As I hit his lap, he smacked my ass, hard enough to sting, but not really hurt me. I was too stunned to react at first. “Stacy, I can make this so easy for you. You don’t have to decide or be afraid, I can tell you what to do. Let me take the responsibility. Let me show you.” He hit on my touchiest subject, whether he knew it or not. I felt cheapened by sex, always feeling guilty for my fantasies, for wanting sex. I couldn’t handle feeling like I initiated it, like I was really in control, couldn’t handle the emotional consequences of admitting my desire. Tears welled in my eyes, and I started to pull away from him, attempting to maneuver out of the position I was in, haphazardly pulled across his outstretched legs.

“Don’t you like to touch me?” He sounded wounded. “Don’t you want me?”

I did, even if I couldn’t face it. He seemed to know this, although I couldn’t answer him. My mind was reeling, and I didn’t know what to do, how to fix the emotional mess I had created.

But he didn’t let me retreat, instead pushing his arm under my stomach and flipping me over onto my back. I sprawled on the bed ungracefully, but he didn’t give me a chance to move before he was over me, holding himself up on his hands as he hovered above me, his body stretched out and completely covering mine. He used his strength to keep from crushing me, at the same time that his weight and size kept me in place. When he looked in my eyes, his gaze was gentle, even though his words were hard. “If you want me to love you, why won’t you let me?” Oh God, how that hurt. I felt tears well up in my eyes, but they made me angry more than anything. The tears and hurt were real, but I also heard the truth in what he said. I held something back from him, kept him from seeing me in pleasure, fully living the moment our bodies touched.

But my bittersweet love for him had withdrawn in me. I was hiding deep within myself. All I was conscious of feeling was deeply pissed off.

“Goddamn you, Mike!” I started to struggle against his weight, trying to throw him off balance and wriggle away. I guess I expected him to let me. “Fuck you, you sonofabitch.” I was panting now, my struggles rendered all but useless when he grabbed my hands and held them over my head, still pinning me under his body. This just made me struggle harder; I was determined to get away from the manipulative shit. I think I was, anyway.

The bastard just smirked at me, watching my futile struggles against his far superior size and strength.

Now I was furious.

Still watching my face, he pulled himself up onto one locked arm. A one armed push-up, like I was just floor beneath him–silent background, trivial detail. With the other big paw, he held both of my wrists without even showing the strain, if there was any. I want to believe there was.

“Get OFF of me, you sick fuck.” Sweat started to form at my temples, and for some reason I was very conscious of it. Suddenly, I was very conscious of my body in general. His weight on me seemed enormous, unmovable. My wrists strained against his makeshift lock on me. It should have hurt, the friction alone should have been sending warning signals to my brain.

Instead, I felt my nipples getting hard. And I mean, I really felt it happening, a series of tiny explosions just beneath the skin of my breast, and I’d become a superconductor–just a relay of messages, exchanges of signals deep within, so powerful that they left my skin tingling in their wake. Electric current ran down my spine, sparking a fire every inch of the way down to my toes. The liquid warmth in my panties barely registered in my brain.

But my bodily response clearly registered on Mike. His smile grew wider and a harder look came into his eyes for the first time. “Kinky one, aren’t you?” The lousy prick was mocking me, laughing at my body’s responses. I wanted blood. He says he was giving me a chance to back out, but I only saw that the situation had gotten really weird really fast and Mike wouldn’t let it go without winning. It never occurred to me to wonder what in the hell winning meant, at this point is was all-out struggle, and I only knew that I wasn’t backing down. Screw the bastard.

Holding himself up, he pushed the weight of his body down onto me, concentrated his force at the point of my pinned wrists. Using this, I used my stomach muscles to struggle at the shoulders, gaining a slight bit of leverage. “Thank God for all those aerobics classes,” I thought, randomly. His grip slipped only marginally, then tightened down harder, pinching the delicate skin of my inner forearm and wrist. In the brief scuffle, my nightgown slipped around my right side. When Mike pressed down harder, regaining the firmly held advantage, much of the satin was trapped beneath me, stretching the left side past its breaking point and breaking the flimsy spaghetti strap.

“I tried to make it easy on you, babe. But you want it hard, don’t you?”

Our eyes locked. It sounded like a challenge, and even I know that I’m very competitive, but the implications of my response stunned even me. “You have no idea.” I glared at him, waiting for him to make the next move. Suddenly, this had become my game, and he didn’t move. It was up to me.

So, I fought.

I struggled against his weight again, surprising strength surging through me. While I was in pretty good shape, his size alone was more than I could surpass, and we both knew it. He barely registered a strain, though sweat slicked his body, running down his arm and dissolving on my own damp skin.

As I thrashed uselessly, he made one Herculean pull, repinning my wrists barely above me head, gaining a further leverage advantage. The new position freed his other hand for movement, and he immediately grabbed for my left thigh. I saw what he was after, but did little to stop it.

He yanked at the bunched material of my satin nightgown, pulling and ripping it to the waist, exposing my cotton panties. “Now, what’s this? You’re no innocent little girl. These will have to GO.” At the last word, he slipped his hand under the leg band, ripping them across the middle. I felt the elastic dig into my skin as he pulled, but the cool air on my flesh felt indescribably wonderful, and my exposed pussy thrummed with electric desire.

He moved to press his body between my legs, and I put up only a token show of resistance. But as he slid his body up, seeking to invade my slick folds with his throbbing erection, I tightened my thighs around him. He could get close enough to tease me with the head of his cock, but full penetration was impossible unless I relented. His frustration was palpable, but he made no overt moves of force. Instead, he seized the opportunity to tease me, forcing me to concentrate on holding him despite my clit’s increasingly desperate desire for stimulation.

My thighs were growing tired, numb from overuse, shaking with exertion. I felt myself beginning to relax, and Mike pressed his advantage. He seized the moment to resume his thrusting mission, finally finding my center. Our bodies slid across each other, path smoothed by our freely flowing sweat. The abrupt thrust that let his cock enter me also brought his hips up and somewhat under me, raising my stretched thighs to around his waist. The hand holding my wrists tugged, and my stiffened arms pulled me up slightly. The slightly different angle changed everything, giving me more room to move. I was too far gone to really notice.

As his questing dick brushed my cervix, finally striking home, our bodies completed the circuit. I threw my deadened arms around his back as that first full thrust sent a cycle of current from clit to cunt to cervix, reversing to return through his purple head and painfully engorged member. My whole body shook with the power of release, convulsions of ecstatic awakening. I have no idea how I looked or sounded. I didn’t care then, and I haven’t cared since.

Though his brain might not have, Mike’s body knew the real thing. My inner walls contracted and released, milking his seed from him whether he was ready for it or not. The power of my first orgasm demanded his body’s response. As I started to glide down from the peak, I felt his body tense as he thundered his own incoherent sounds of orgasm. He swelled within me, and my overstimulated body went with him in sympathetic reply. His cock exploded within me as he came, pulling me with him into my second true orgasm, a sweeter and more lingering glow that reached every part of me, leaving a gentle electric hum in its wake.

Before he could collapse, Mike hugged me to his chest, rolling onto his back to avoid crushing me under his unsupported weight. As his back hit the damp sheets, his arms settled onto me in an embrace of love and comfort, the same Mike I’d always known and loved. I clung to him, now stretched atop his fallen form. One hand came up to stroke my hair and he whispered, “I love you. I love you. I love you, ” in a chanting rhythm.

I clung to him all the tighter as tears sprang to my eyes. My body’s overload surprised me, its method shocked me, and I was at a loss for words. He continued to hold me and stroke my hair as I cried out my pain, all the years of repressed desires and unfulfilled expectations, the fear of judgment in the aftermath.

When the tears began to dry, leaving me with the hiccuping after effects, I tried to explain. “Mike, I…god…I”

He tightened the arm around my back, crushing me to him. “It’s okay. I don’t have to understand everything, and neither do you. We love each other right?”

My mind was still reeling with unanswered questions and unformulated explanations. “Yeah, I guess but…”

“Then there’s always tomorrow.”

I giggled a bit at this, the sentimentality of the statement so completely failed to fit what we’d just experienced.

“Hey, smartass. What are you laughing at?” His strong voice and self-mocking response to my laughter aroused me in a new way, with a newly and wonderfully complicated love.

“Nothing, baby. I’m just picturing tomorrow.”

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