My first boyfriend– we dated for a long time. He was, looking back, far more tame sexually than I was. We were still innocent, untested sexually. He was the first boy I could, essentially, feel that lust of want come over my body and reflect on my facial expression. I pushed his boundaries. Made him do things to me he had never done before, things I have never done before. He always, albeit hesitantly, obliged.

He was the first man to pull my hair while fucking. As I sat atop of him, I guided his hand to the back of my neck into my locks, I whispered in his ear, “pull my hair.” His lips on my neck, reaching up pulling me back by my strands as I drove onto his cock, we both came together. That pain lust felt good to me. I wanted more.

I made him fuck me with all sorts of inanimate objects. Produce items, candle sticks, the tip to his saxophone, tubes of lube, drum sticks, paint brush handles, squirt guns, kitchen utensils, whatever we could find. I had this small whip, really only for show, I think I used it as part of a costume, but I asked him to fuck me with the handle. I could sense his acute hesitation, but he always did what I asked. As he moved it in and out of me, my lips opening, soaking the handle and his hand, I could see the look of uncertainty exit from his eyes and turn to lust and control, grabbing the back of my hair, he began to fuck me harder with the leather wrapped wooden handle, more solid than he ever did with his dick. It teetered on violent. It was hot. Words of filth and loathing came forth from his mouth; things he would never say to me in everyday circumstance flew with ease past his lips.

When I felt I was about to come out of nowhere the words slipped out of my mouth, “hit me.” We both looked at each other slightly shocked, but without faltering, his hand went up and came forth with a sharp strike to my cheek, my jaw dropped in salacious depravity, his hand and the handle continuing to fuck me, then he did it again. The drawing back of his palm, our eyes locked, slap, across the jaw. I came in long jerking spasms, the kind where my body writhes for a moment before resuming to neutral. He collapsed on top of me, exhausted from what he had done, what he thought he was incapable of. Stroking my blushed red cheek, he released his grip from my hair, slowly pulled out the handle and we both fell asleep almost instantaneously. When we woke up in the middle of the night, still tangled together as when we dropped–we had sweet slow, passionate spooning sex. Diametrically the extreme from the hours prior.