Force from Two Angles

1. Words

'Now force him,' she says. 'I know him, and you can trust me. He'll curse you blue hell, but that's how we play. Don't believe a word he says. I'm watching. It's okay. Do as I say.'

He is tied, on his elbows and knees, on the bed. He glares at her silently.

And I approach the table. I pick it up, feel it. It's thick. Did she really mean I could choose anything laid out here? I hesitate. This one's too big. She can't mean that I could actually use it on him. I should choose something smaller. But I can't seem to put it down.

'No you fucking don't,' he says. 'Bitch, I know how you are, and you know how I feel about that.'

'Not a word. Not a single word,' she says to me. She smiles when she sees what I'm holding. 'Perfect,' she says.

'Oh you bitch,' he says.

I can't do this, I think. But I want to, desperately, want to believe her. I decide that I won't move. I'll just slide the juice around, stroke him down, just set the tip against him, just make the connection. Nothing more. I don't want this controversy, this responsibility.

She trails a finger down his spine and he arches further.

'What do you want?' she purrs. His wrists pull tight. His ankles widen as far as the bonds allow. A stream of curses. I can't believe this is a good idea.

But I approach, and as I slick him up he moans, between curses.

'Don't you fucking touch me... oh god, o yeah... you bitch, keep that goddamn thing away from... o fuck yeah.'

He arches toward me, nearly slides back onto my fingers, presses back into me... All the while this back and forth: 'Fucking bitch, don't you... fuck yeah, more... Deeper...' I use two fingers on him, slide slowly in.

'Yeah, just like that... Get the fuck away from me. I swear I'll break this rope and... o good, o that's good.'

And then I press the thick tip of the cock against him and he goes wild. All I do is hold it and he begins to slide back, back onto it, hips bucking, humming and moaning. Completely different now, the message, but still an angry growl, a curse. 'Don't stop. Deeper. Give it to me, don't you fucking stop moving. Do it, bitch. Harder. Do it.'

'And you,' he says to her. 'Suck me, bitch. You owe me that.'

'Thought you'd never ask,' she says, and slides underneath him, and he slams his cock deep into her mouth, over and over, and all I'm doing is holding the wand steady, he's actually the one who is moving, rocking back onto it, and deep into her mouth, and back onto the wand. Deeper and faster, manic, howling.

'O goddamn, that's right,' he says to me. 'Don't you fucking stop. I don't give a shit if your arm falls off. Just like that. God yeah, do it. Faster, bitch. And deeper. Give it to me. Don't you dare. Fucking. Stop.'

She's moaning now, around his bursting cock. She reaches back and strokes my pussy with her fingertips, and I'm so close already I start to whine, and I pump the toy in rhythm with them, and then I come. Hard, my whole body in it, pulsing. I empty it into him, shaking and pounding. He growls, arches, goes into his rage, whole body vibrating, and he slams his climax down her throat.

'There, see?' she says to me as we curl together. 'Told you not to listen to him.'

'Fuck you,' he says. And smiles.

2. Actions

"I'm not gay," he says, angrily.

"Of course you're not gay," I say. "I think you've pretty much proved that, don't you think?"

He almost relaxes, for a minute. He almost smiles. But doesn't. He wants to put this on me and I won't fucking let him. Not this one. Not this time. I've had enough of taking this particular responsibility.

"You're trying to make me gay," he says, fierce, glaring. I try very hard not to laugh, since I know it would piss him off, but I can't help snorting.

"What possible use," I say, very slowly, hoping he'll actually back up the tape and listen to himself, "would I have for you if you were gay? Where's my goddamn motivation?"

Okay. He relaxes for a minute, realizing the absurdity of that. He actually smiles. It's a door, and I take it. Sort of. There's no point in reminding him that it was his idea. There's no point in reminding him of how much he gets off on it. It would only make him defensive again. I have to placate.

"You never want to go there again? Fine. We never go there again. I'll throw the damn thing away. It cost, what, eight bucks? Throw it away yourself." I don't mean it. And I know he won't do it. He knows too. "I don't have that much attachment to it anyway. I can give that up." That one hurt. It was a lie, completely a lie. I fucking love that particular moment, when he just forgets everything and howls, and whines, and calls me God...

"What do you want?" I say. "I can only tell you the truth. You're quite normal. You're completely average. You're straight. Liking this doesn't mean you like men, or even real live cocks." That last is quiet, because we are in a restaurant. "It doesn't mean any of those things. It means there's a sensation that you get off on. That's fucking all it means. Am I a lesbian because I like it when you go down on me?"

"No," he says slowly, "but..."

"This is different how?" I ask. I'm trying very hard not to lose my temper. I can't let my impatience creep into this. It's so stupid, this whole issue, and I've faced it more than once. I'm the girl they trust, the girl they'll Go There with, and then suddenly, when they freak out about it, I'm the Girl Who Forced Them To Do That. I've learned, the hard way, and I'm not going to be put there again.

"It's just different," he says, and slumps back in the booth, knowing he's wrong.

"Okay, it's different," I'm trying so hard not to sound sarcastic and it's still there, a little. Maybe he won't notice. I barrel on, carefully editing all of the extras out of the actual sentence: "Okay (you liar), you're not into it, you don't like it (or so you say but I've heard some very different words come out of you at times) so we'll just give that up. Look (you bastard, go ahead and be in denial, but you're not blaming this on me). I'm not (fucking) interested in making you do anything you don't actually want to do. I don't get off on that. If you're not into it (and you are, and you fucking know it), don't ask for it and I won't do it. In fact, how about this: I will never suggest it. If you don't get the toy out of the drawer, I won't pick it up."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Okay then."

We finish dessert. Then we drive back to his place.

I'm no psychic. But I know men. Now he's thinking about it. He has been, non-stop, since dinner. His mind is going berserk, balancing between his anger, his fear, and his awareness that he could just let go, not care, trust me, ask for what he wants, get off the ways he likes to get off. He could own the playground, make it his. If he'll just get his bastard brothers and the whole high school boys' locker room out of his head.

Banish them, I think loudly at him. Send them to hell. Find your own way to the Juice, and don't let anyone tell you what you should love, or how. I do not say these things. I hope them, like a prayer, like I'm saving his soul. I am quiet, but I think them with my whole brain, loud, just in case he can hear me. Maybe his cock can hear me.

"My" toy is bigger than his. It's a straight dildo and doesn't look like a cock. It just looks like a missile, smooth, purple. The one we bought for him is much smaller. Non-intimidating. He said he wanted it; I'm the one that actually went to the shop and bought it. That night was sweet. Hot. Ridiculously hot. The gleam of it, the aftershocks, lasted for what seemed like days. And I knew he would panic, later; I knew he'd do exactly this. I just don't have the patience for it any more. I've been through this, before him. And I'm tired of getting blamed.

"His" toy is small, but it looks like a penis. It's got a head, ridges. It's anatomically correct, if rather miniature.

There's the inevitable moment. I know it's coming but I'm not going to say anything. Fuck him; this time he has to own it himself. I'm sucking his cock. I'm making him insane. I'm deliberately keeping my hands completely forward, fronts of his thighs, his belly, his nipples. And I know exactly where his mind is.

"Do it," he gasps. "I don't care. Do me."

Fuck you. I'm playing stupid. "What do you want?" I say, slipping my mouth off of his cock, twisting the head under my palm, making him writhe. "What do you want?" Is it hungry? Does the skin on your ass like the way my hands pull you, open, open just a bit, grip you for a moment and then leave you, hungrily, alone? Own it, you bastard.

"Get the toy. Use it. Use it on me."

"Ask me again. Ask me three times," I say, bending down again, taking him to the root. His hips lurch up, desperate, insane, slamming into my mouth.

"Gggggnnnn. Ffffffuck. I want you.... to get...." I'm grinding down onto him, and my hands move toward his ass, pulling his thighs open, reminding him. Figure it out, please. Just fucking own it, and take your body back from the bastards. He tries again. "Get... the toy... Jeeeeeesus. Get the toy and use it... unghh... on me. Do me. I want that. Do it."

His mind is snapping. He can't figure out if he's asked me three times or not. He settles on the oldest lesson from childhood: "Please," he says. "Please..."

It's a twist in me. It's the anger from all those other times. It's not his fault, but he's the one here while I'm working through all those times, all those moments when I was younger and would go ahead and take the blame, take the bullshit. I can't, somehow, quite let him off the hook yet.

"The big one, or the small one?" I say. It's cruel. I know it's cruel and I can't fucking help it. I slam my mouth down onto him again, circling, driving him higher. I sweep my hand over the head of his cock, that move that can't possibly make him come but makes him lose his goddamn mind. "Which one do you want?" It's a risk, even, since he's never even talked about "my" toy before. But I know men. And I know him. "Which one?" I lick him, balls to tip, and then slide my mouth all the way to his root, and then I pull back and slap him, just like he likes, slap, twice, back and forth, and the rage comes up into his eyes, the way it does.

"The... fffffuck.... the big. The big one. God! Goddamn."

Really, my mind says. I raise my eyebrows, but he doesn't see me. Really? I didn't actually think he'd go there.

Well then. I get up. I reach toward the dresser for the purple one. The big one. And then.

I make him pay for everything and everyone. And he is fine with that.