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He texted me frequently, not so much that it was annoying but enough that I knew he was thinking of me throughout the day.
It had started out with a picture of him and his family around the dinner table selfie-style, with a text that read, ‘Everybody says thank you! For saving dad, not for letting me fuck your brains out ;p’ and I really wish I hadn’t found that charming. I’d responded that I’d be happy to help again if they ever needed me—or if he ever did. He sent back a cartoon image of a man clutching his heart as it beat out of his chest.
Trying to reconcile the goofball with the sex beast was an interesting journey, to say the least. I quickly realized I enjoyed the puzzle.
That morning, I’d finally gotten the text I’d been hoping for: Want to go out with me tonight? Repeat performance of the other night is optional ;)
I had bitten my lip and kicked my feet a little, feeling like a besotted schoolgirl with a crush, but it was a fun feeling, so why fight it?
I’d played it cool, teased him a little, and made him wait. I’d realized how very much I enjoyed toying with him, the push and pull game that had come naturally from our first conversation, so I opened the message to show I’d read it and then put my phone down on my desk. It was only 10:30, I could make him squirm for a few hours while I got some work done.
I finished my lunch at 1 and decided that I’d left him hanging long enough. It was all just a game, after all—we were toying with each other, not causing petty fights. I didn’t want to leave it too long and ruin that balance.
Except, unfortunately, when I pulled out my phone I was met with a dead screen.
Ah, shit. Did I not plug it in last night? Or maybe it came unplugged because I put it on the bed with me again instead of putting it on the nightstand.
Regardless of why, my phone was out of juice, and Richard was sitting somewhere waiting for an answer. I chewed my lip. I hoped he didn’t take the lack of response as some kind of snub, not that he seemed the type, but at least I had I read the message.
I rooted around in my desk drawer in hopes of finding a charger, but no luck. Dammit.
I resolved to plug it in as soon as I got home and hoped that Richard would accept my explanation.
The rest of the day went by without incident, and I pulled my tennis shoes out of my work bag. It was a two-block walk to the subway station and another three blocks from my home station to my actual apartment building, and no heels were comfortable enough for a walk that long. I swapped shoes, left my heels under my desk to put on the next day, and packed up.
The ride home was uneventful, if perhaps a little extra boring because I didn’t have my phone to distract me.
Instead, I just had to stare out the window and daydream. Normally that was one of my least favorite things, but last night Richard and I had sexted—actually sexted, like a couple of horny teens—and it had been on my mind all day. Of course, it had.
It hadn’t just been hot, it had been kinky.
I’d told him my guilty fantasy, and he’d hit the ground running with it.
Obviously, I couldn’t remember the exact words, but the thrill of it still burned through my veins.
I had a rather, um, unconventional kink, and it was one that a lot of people misinterpreted. I’d only ever shared it with one boyfriend after we’d been dating for two years, and his reaction had been horrible.
My ex was a kinky guy, so I thought for sure he’d at least be willing to listen and try to understand what I wanted even if he wasn’t interested in being part of the roleplay, but I’d been wrong.
I’d told him, all shy and nervous, that there was this thing I really liked the idea of, and had he ever heard of rape roleplay? I would never forget the way his face immediately twisted.
“Are you fucking insane?” my ex had asked. “I’m not going to fucking rape you, what is wrong with you?” I felt my heart break a little because he was the first person I’d ever imagined some kind of future with, and the total and immediate vitriol was so unlike his generally accepting nature.
I’d tried to keep from tearing up too much, tried to explain to him that I would never, never want that, that it was a fantasy and nothing more, but he wouldn’t listen.
I mentioned the questionableroleplays he'd requested, such as doctor/patient or teacher/student, but he argued these were different. I agreed, but sought to point out the common links. If a doctor ever placed his patient in stirrups and fingerfucked her till she wept, he would be a rapist. If a teacher forced a student to bounce on his cock in exchange for a passing mark, he would be a rapist. I wanted the same thing but without thedress-up.
He stormed out, calling me sick, and I wept myself to sleep. He'd return the next day, calmer, regretful for his reaction, but still upset and disturbed, and claimed he wanted to talk about it. I broke up with him.
It wasn’t about him not wanting to try the kink. He never had to try something he didn’t want to.
What hurt me was the things he said to me, how he broke my trust and lashed out, and even as young as I was, I knew I would never be able to look at him quite the same again.
I’d struggled with the morality of my own desires for years and years, and I’d finally gotten to a place where I didn’t hate myself for it, only to have him tear me back down.
I’d never told anyone again, except for Jen once when I was really drunk, and Richard last night. And Richard had been thrilled.
The text roleplay, and the orgasm that followed had chemically altered my brain.
