THE FRAMEWORK OF FANTASY

Sonni de Soto

Are you ready?”

Nerves churn in my stomach but my gaze never falters.

“Ready.”

I tell you no; you do it anyway.

I shove you; you push back.

I try to scream; you seal my lips with yours, swallowing the sound.

Your fingers are unrelenting inside me. Each thrust of your rough hand pounds against my soft sex, reverberating through my whole body.

I raise my leg to strike, power surging as I bend my knee. But, when I kick, you catch my sole in your palm.

My body jerks. I bite back a shrieking laugh. “Yellow.” The sound squeaks out as my ticklish foot, trapped by your fingers, recoils.

“Sorry.” You let go, wincing at the break in scene.

I give a small shake of my head, hoping to hold it together. “Green.”

You nod, a relieved smile flashing before it’s replaced by yet another finger driving deeper within me. Stretching me farther, you claim more space as your own, leaving me gasping at the loss of my body, bit by bit, to you.

“So, even though you’ll tell me to stop, I shouldn’t stop.” You look at me like my words—like I—don’t make sense. Like I’m crazy.

I know.

I’m sorry.

Sitting next to you on the couch, I shake my head. “If I say ‘stop,’ it’s just part of the scene.”

Frustrated, you shake your head. “Then how will I know if you, you know, actually want me to stop?”

I touch your knee. “That’s what the safewords are for.” I know this is hard for you. That I’m asking a lot of you.

I bet, when you’d asked me about my greatest fantasy, you were hoping it was anal or swinging or exhibitionism.

Sometimes, I wish it were too.

My voice cracks as I say, “Stop.”

I feel your hand against my face. “Color?” Your voice is quiet, unsure.

I turn my face with a slight shake, my scent still strong as it clings to your fingers. “Green.” I struggle beneath you while your semi-hard length smacks limply against my thighs. I push you; I don’t need your softness. “Green.”

Nostrils flaring, you grunt and nod. Your hand snakes around my wrist, my arousal slicking the twist of skin.

I sink my teeth into my lips, biting back the urge to beg you to stop. I want to scream it, but the muffled sound groans low in my throat.

You won’t stop.

My mind centers on that thought, my other hand straining against the hard plane of your chest.

I just know it.

“I don’t think I can do this.” You pace our kitchen, from silverware to canned goods. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I just don’t see how this is going to work.” Pausing, you lean against the sink. “One of the best parts of sex is watching you get off.”

I turn the stove down to a low simmer before facing you. “I’ll still be getting off.” That’s the point.

“But it won’t look like it.” You shift your weight from foot to foot. “Will it?”

I purse my lips thoughtfully before sitting us down at the dinner table. “That depends.” We’ve been together for a year and a half now. “You know my body.” Better than anyone else. “You know, without words, how my breath hitches and my toes curl when I’m about to come. You know how my hands clench and my hips hitch. You know how hot—how wet—I can get at your touch.”

Your gaze traces my body, remembering every hint and sign of my arousal. Desire sparks in your eyes before you shut them and shake your head. “I’m just not sure.”

I cover your hand with mine. “So, we’ll wait until you are.”

My fantasy is to feel the force of your body on mine, but I never want to force that on you. “We’ll wait.”

I choke on a breath. The scent of your sweat, your skin, mixes with mine, infusing the room. It fills my nose, my lungs. I feel you in my pores, seeping into my blood.

Your thick length grinds along the lips of my sex, hardening with each pressing pass. You grip your shaft between us to plant it at my opening. I inhale sharply and wait for your thrust.

“Green?”

“Green.”

My breath heaves out at your fullness surging into me, the sound helpless and inevitable in my ears. With each buck, you overtake me. My body. My senses. My thoughts. You plunge and push until I’m more aware of you than me, my receptive body a ripple raging against the brunt of yours. Lost to instinct, I cling to you and cry out, losing myself in the crashing swell of you.

You’ve been staring at me through the bathroom door while I floss my teeth. “Why this?”

Sighing, I toss the string in the trash. We’ve been having this conversation for weeks now.

Not that I mind, I remind myself.

Of course I don’t.

This is how fantasy becomes reality. As awkward and uncomfortable as this is, it’s what will make the experience, when it finally happens—if it happens—all the better.

So, I join you on the edge of our bed.

Look, I know I shouldn’t like this.

Consensual non-consent.

Rape play.

It’s so wrong. Disturbing and probably disrespectful. God knows I would never actually want to be raped. Would never wish that kind of violation on anyone.

Yet.

I frown, shaking my head and shrugging. “There’s something about someone taking control of me, taking control from me. Someone forcing me out of myself and making me feel.” I close my eyes and let the words I’ve guarded inside pour out. “I want someone’s desire to overpower me, to be so big it consumes me. I want it to be so strong it reaches inside me and forces some unseen side of my desire out.”

“And our regular sex doesn’t do that for you?”

My eyes open at the sad tone in your voice. No. That’s not what I mean. “Our sex is wonderful.” Always. “This is just…” I shrug. “A fantasy.” One I would only trust to someone like you. Someone who loves me and understands that, even within a fantasy that plays with erasing my pleasure, this is all about my desire. All about transcendentally finding myself by getting lost in you.

But, at the end of the day… “I don’t need this.” Not if you don’t want it. “I need you.”

“But you want this?” You say it as if the words are an endless echo in your brain. “You want this.”

I shrug. “I’d like to see what this fantasy is like. With you.”

Furrowing your brow, you look down at the bed. You’re so quiet, but I can almost hear every conversation we’ve ever had about this replay in your head. Our whole history spreads out silently between us.

Under the weight of all those words, I worry.

Then you look up, your face set. “Are you ready?”

I blink blankly. Slowly, almost disbelieving, I grin and nod. Even though nerves churn in my stomach, my gaze never falters. “Ready.”