Mutuals | “1994”: fanfic inspired erotica episode 2

I haven’t written like this in over two years, but this story is NSFW.
And for when you re (to be on the super safe side) 18 years old or older.
Or “You re welcome.”

The heat wave is finally over.
Not that that ever stopped me and Bear from having sex, but it was almost like this time it did.
My notes from the last time we made love are still untouched. They’re a curse: I know he won’t call until I process them.
After receiving the fan fiction, the dozens of copies of handwritten pages, sent to me together with a Bon Jovi VHS, it made me realize how important it is to start writing about my sex life again.
That I can’t just let 1994 go by, the way I did with 1993, and to a lesser degree even 1992. I can’t just hope and pray our sex life will magically pick up, and become the debauchery it used to be. When I know perfectly well which part I used to put in (not punned) that I stopped doing (not punned either).
My diary was the sacred place where I shared that the meeting with Bear went well, in December 1989. He had agreed to be the one I would lose my virginity with.
And that the cuddling, the oral sex, the getting to know each other was just as pleasant as with Jonathan, even though I was definitely less in love with Bear.
(or was I?)
That I had planned my deflowering, but that he was the one who had smoothly led us through it.
Afterwards I started crying, while he was still inside of me. I was so relieved I had finally gotten what I wanted. It made him slightly disgruntled, as it still does every time I cry. He knows it’s not a bad thing, but he’s clearly uncomfortable with it.
Anyway, it’s such a strange idea that in my entire life, my pussy only had his dick in there. Yet I don’t feel like a woman who’s been with only man. Perhaps because he has been with other women?
There were girls before me, girls during, and there will women or girls after, if there actually ever comes a time when we stop doing this.
I m still not sure what to wish for really.
But I do know that those first years I wrote in my diary about our adventures and all the things he learned me, or did “to me”, were the best. And that me quitting writing about our sex life, went hand in hand with it getting a lot tamer, and his visits less frequent.
Hand in hand with worry.
A nauseous sickening feeling, right beneath the surface that I just don’t want to think about because it stands for everything I don’t want to happen.
And for everything that I don’t want our relationship to be about.
If we’re growing apart, catalyzed by me finding a job (I didn’t do any job hunting during the heat wave), and the spark goes out, then so be it.
But I don’t want it to be because I am too embarrassed to put pen to paper, afraid that my diaries will be found. It’s almost as if it required the unbearable stress of having all these sex stories inside of me, before the consequences no longer intimidated me, and I wrote them down.
When our encounters became less frequent and less bold, I didn’t need my diary anymore. There was plenty of time to digest in between dates. And there wasn’t really that much to digest to begin with.
Maybe I did let the flame die out.
The fan fiction stories I received in the mail – male/male pornographic stories  – reminded me of what we used to have, and of the dreams and fantasies we never fulfilled.
They reminded me I want back what we have lost. And more.
During the ten day heatwave I spent a lot of time thinking why I like reading about men having sex with each other. I just knew there was something about me, a trait, a preference, that was revealed simply by the fact that I liked reading about two men having sex.
What could it be?
What I ve deducted so far is that for me reading about two men having sex, is how I like to see myself. That underneath my submissiveness, my love for pain, especially during fucking – Oh god, who can resist that excruciating blow of pain when his dick hits something deep inside, especially in doggy style – I like to think that Bear and me are completely equal.
I am that other man.
Male-male porn is not burdened by a history of sexual oppression of women, and allows for fantasies about dominance and non-consensual sex.
Which are my favorite.
But I feel exposed because of it.
Other men than Bear scare me, yet sometimes I long for a new lover.
The more extreme chapters of the fan fiction, made that clear to me. They were about a dominant Nikki Sixx. His dark, threatening sexuality excites me.
I m ready for more.
Yet my fear of being seen as “easy” because I am submissive, is holding me back.
Having said that: Bear, my current lover, may already be the man I m looking for.
He has always matched me, always given me what I was ready to experience. If I want more he may want to give it to me.
The second reason I like the male-male fan fiction is that at the heart of it, is love. It’s never about hookup sex, not even when it’s a one-time thing.
And the stories which were too violent to my liking, had moments when the dominant made sure the other one was alright.
Exactly the way Bear used to do when he play raped me, or when we played a more subtle form of abuse, where I had to spread my legs and let him do whatever it was he wanted.
Which is how our first time consent-play happened.
The first time all my buttons were pushed, and the core of my sexuality became known.
It was all shortly after we had my first time. I was no longer a virgin and Bear was shaving off all my pubic hair.
It started out as a mutual thing, something we had both wanted. Or at least I wanted it, and he played along. I never know if a fantasy is his, or if it becomes his because he knows it’s my fantasy.
I also wonder if it even matters.
It’s not that I worry that he’s doing things he doesn’t want to do (I don’t) but it’s more that I m curious.
Because if these are my fantasies, then what are his?
Considering how much shame I feel, for wanting to be dominated, then how must he feel if he thinks about dominating women?
Assuming his mind is full of unspeakable things, does make it easier for me to share my fantasies.
The pubic hair shaving, was the first.
It started out as two teenagers experimenting, but soon turned dark and delicious. Lying on my back, with my knees pulled up as if I was at the doctor’s office, was pretty charged in itself. But I also had to lie still, because of the shaving.
And I think the idea of cutting me, must have made him snippy. I liked the roughness in his voice, lying there completely vulnerable.
I wasn’t allowed to move.
Between strokes he would clean the knife in a bowl of water. The cool air between my legs, water dripping on the towel under my hips. The occasional swipe of a washcloth.
I had my eyes closed.
Then instead of putting the razor back onto me, I felt his fingers slipping inside of me. It took my breath away. Before I had decided if I wanted to open my eyes, I heard his voice.
It was not the harsh voice, it was soft. If I had looked into his eyes they would have been compassionate.
I know that now.
“You’re wet,” the whisper said.
I smiled, I was no longer scared. He was normal again, the bubble had burst and the fingers between my legs suddenly felt unpleasant.
“Do you want to go on?”
Of course I did. But I felt like crying for already having lost that special thing. It had been there for the first time since playing doctor in my childhood. Before I recognized it, it was already gone.
“It feels nice,” I said.
There was a pause I did not expect. He cleared his throat. And he spoke again, neutrally.
“If you want to stop, just say it,” he said.
I didn’t understand what he was making such a fuss about, and hoped my closed eyes hid my tears for the lost fantasy.
The fingers slid out of me, and he said still in his everyday voice, matter-of-factly: “I m going to sit between your legs.”
I couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. The position I was in, with him on the edge of the bed, and me in patient-mode, had been the last element that had made it special. Well, and that he was still fully clothed.
I didn’t want him on the bed.
He ignored my disgruntled look as I watched him moving the bowl of water onto the bed, the razor between my legs, and my body shifted from his weight coming onto the mattress.
“I m not done yet,” he said.
He shot me a glance with his piercing blue eyes and then picked up the razor. “You can cry all you want, doesn’t make any difference. Do you understand?”
I nodded, trying to find him. Just one sign of recognition. He didn’t even blink.
“I may have to do things you don’t like.”
Now I really felt like crying, but this time it was for the right reasons and my hips inadvertently wiggled. Hot tears started running down my cheeks.
“Please don’t,” I sobbed.
He completely ignored it, and gently pushed two fingers inside of me. Concentrated face, staring between my legs.
He completed the shave, methodically working from the outside, to the middle.
Every time I heard him clean the razor in the bowl, I knew he would start by fingering me.
Sometimes he waited before he went in, and then my protesting moans were clearly more directed at getting more, than at him stopping. But in general I managed to make my No convincing enough for myself to get a kick out of it. And as he worked towards the labia it got more intense. Having his fingers there, on the outside, pulling the skin tight, stretching it:
It was uncomfortable, humiliating, and terribly hot.
He must have understood, way before I did, what it meant for me to be this passive. That this passivity, was not only fully intertwined with my sexuality:
It was something that didn’t have a place in real life.
I was taken somewhere I had not been since childhood, and he was there with me. This was what would bind us, we must have felt it. Although to this day I do not exclude the possibility that he has something similar with other women.
After all, he was the one who knew how to make this work.
A caress over my knee, my leg. A squeeze.
When I opened my eyes he was looking at me with a friendly face. His fingers buried inside of me, stroking slowly.
“Would you like me to touch you from behind?” he asked.
I was scared he’d reject me. I said No.
I don’t really no what happened after. The shaving was done, he must have fingered me some more. And I know that just like the earlier interruption, it took a while before I felt the vibe of it again.
I guess it was just so hard for me to believe that he actually got this. That even if he stepped out of it, he would go back and pick up our play. That I didn’t have to fear he’d leave me, or reject me mid-sex. But that will always be my thing I guess. At every sign of him wanting to stop, I get this urge to pretend I want to stop too. Or that it didn’t happen.
I can’t remember how we got back into it, just that at one point he got a mirror.
“Look. You’re done.”
My pussy was cleanly shaven, the lips swollen, the entrance wet, lips wet. Again, I felt embarrassed with my legs spread like this, and the mirror between them. I wanted to break the spell, but before I could, he took over.
“Lie down,” he said briskly.
I did what he said. Happy that he was so decisive and that he had snapped me out of my embarrassment. He started fingering me again, and this time he did it in a blunt, greedy way.
“I m going to fuck you hard and deep. You got that?”
I nodded. Maybe it was the burn from the shaving cream, and the tenderness of the skin that had been shaved for the first time. Or the rough, unkind way he had filled me up with God knows how many fingers.
But I literally felt on fire down there.
Not to mention that I had loved the bald, shaven, pussy.
I had lost my virginity a few weeks prior to that, but this felt like my real initiation. I was now a real adult, ready to be taken.
Hard and deep, just like he said.
He didn’t bother to take of his clothes, which excited me because it added to the aura of superiority. And to my status as the one who would be victimized.
He put on a condom, climbed on top of me, and entered me in a simple missionary. It was otherworldly experience. I wonder if I ve ever been that wet since. If the buildup has ever been that long.
I must have cursed, begged, wrapped my legs around him. He kept his cool, his dominance, I remember that much.
And then my fantasies and reality start melting together. From back then, to current day, to everything I hope we ll start doing again. Damn, I ve got tears in my eyes, just from thinking about everything we may have lost.
But maybe it’s not too late.
I m taking my notes, wait… I want to make this right. And don’t want this to end with the realization that we’re over, and that I need Nikki Sixx to beat me back to life. I can’t accept that.
I’ve read my notes.
Our last time was a promising, intense experience. I knew that, but because I never wrote them out, I was starting to believe something was wrong with it.
Nothing was wrong.
This is what my notes said.
It was a really hot day and we cuddled on the couch. Ate ice lollies. We suggested putting one in my vagina, notes don’t say why we didn’t.
Perhaps I refused because of the stickiness of the sugar.
We didn’t discuss the sensations. The pain of the freeze, or how we were going to handle that. We acted as if it was all fun and games. But the real appeal to me, and the reason I was kind of sorry we didn’t pursue, was because it would not be a nice feeling at all.
And he would do it to me.
I verbalized that I found his body so attractive. That there was something about it that just makes me want to eat him. The longer we re together, the more I start to believe this may be love, but that it’s definitely a physical thing too.
Or maybe “an energetic thing” is a better way to put it.
It’s like his entire body is this huge fridge filled with my favorite food.
He’s exactly right.
He mentioned something about women who have children, and I asked him, if he had been with women who have children.
I d already heard rumors that he’d moved from the familiar pond of our peers, to women older than us. But when he said that he had, it was still a surprise. Also because we rarely ever talk about his other lovers.
But to hear him say it, was so mature.
“You ve had sex with women who ve had children?” I repeated.
I still couldn’t believe my luck.
Bear laughed it off. “It’s not that big of a deal. It’s quite normal for women to have children, you know.”
I couldn’t let go and must have been staring at him with a permanent jaw drop.
He said:
“You want to watch some time?”
I wanted to say No. It would be awkward to be with another woman there. But as I opened my mouth to decline, I felt a rush of heat going to my loins.
He shook his head in disbelief.
“And then what?”
As if it was a question that didn’t need answering.
And maybe it didn’t.
Our foreplay, right after eating the ice lollies, was so hot. We were fully clothed, rubbing our bodies together but it was as if our genitals were talking to each other through our clothes.
It was insane. Our bodies liked each other so very much.
I was so grateful that he was on my couch, see also the paragraph about his body being so juicy. And I said something about that, but I can’t make up from my notes how it all went exactly.
However the rock group Rockbitch came up, and that they trow a golden condom into the audience and whomever catches is, can have sex with a band member on stage.
I said to Bear I was so happy with him, and grateful for any way he wanted to share himself with me. And he said:
“Even if I tossed a golden condom and you had to fuck me on stage?”
“Any way you want to,” I confirmed.
We kissed deeply, and that must have been about the time we went to the bedroom.
Our sex was insanely simply and insanely hot. Just two positions, starting with me on top. I lowered myself onto him, and almost immediately climaxed. 
My body was so high-strung, it was as if it could break at the first thrust.
Naturally Bear didn’t thrust. He gave me time to adjust, catch my breath.
Does every penis have this?
Does every penis fit exactly right, as if your inside and his outside, are based on the same blueprint?
I started to move, and almost immediately collapsed onto his neck, chest, in despair, pleasure, grief. I have difficulty to put a word to it, in all likeliness it was all of those things. We talked (oh, I like the talking sooo much) mostly fantasizing about what we would do if we’d be living together.
Not that we have any plans to, since I just got my own rented apartment, and Bear is happy where he is, until he can buy an apartment.
But we fantasized about having sex all day, every day.
And he asked: “Anal too?”
Which drew an: “Oh God yes.” from my lips.
Adding to the already intoxicating mix of my body in permanent stage of climaxing, talking with Bear and his husky voice, and my emotions being all over the place.
It was far too much, and I took it to full orgasm at least two times. But I also remember being so overwhelmed by sensations and emotions, that I stopped an equal number of times.
“It’s so much, it’s so much,” I said, as I leaned forward, and let myself be hugged.
I was the one who asked it to be switched around to doggy style, with which I have an ambiguous relationship. Physically, it’s a nightmare. Bear can hurt me so easily. The way around it is to penetrate me shallowly, but we hardly ever stick with that.
I don’t have bad memories of Bear hurting me when I wasn’t ready for it, and if he did, it must have been by accident so that explains why I forgot.
But the problem is, that I choose doggy when I want it to hurt.
And Bear knows that.
I had already climbed off of him, and he was getting up to his knees, when another fantasy came into play.
I didn’t introduce or explained, but just said:
“I had way too much pleasure on top. You’re not paying me for that.”
We kissed so deeply, and the pleasurable hell that was doggy style awaited me.
I turned around on hands and knees, he pushed and instructed me further down. I protested but lowered, face and hands buried into the pillow.
It was unclear what excited me more:
The sitting on top, being in full control of what happened and having so much pleasure I had to stop and be comforted because of everything that brought up.
Or being face down in the pillow, knowing that the only thing what awaited me was to be fucked, in a painful, demeaning manner.
He slid in smoothly, but I was expecting it to hurt so much, that it only made it worse that I couldn’t immediately feel what I knew would happen.
He started fucking me, slowly building it up. Talking to me – got to hand it to him, he knows how to take the sharpest edges off – and then when he did hurt me and I groaned in pain, it wasn’t because I wanted him to stop.  
He’s always careful not to give too much.
Even when we both know we’re in doggy because I want it to hurt, he doesn’t pound away. I get enough time for the sharp pain to fade, while he’s fucking me more gently.
Maybe I was crying again, all I know is that I had this strong sense of arousal, of wanting more, or wanting my limits pushed.
I reached back to the hand on my hip, his thumb was pressing into my flesh already. At the first touch of my fingertips reaching his hand, he withdrew, taking his hand to the small of my back.
I followed it, touched it again,and this time I pushed it back where it came from, just closer to my ass. As I was doing it, I remember I was moved he had been so quick to respond by backing down.
He couldn’t know that I wanted the exact opposite.
When I took my hand back, grabbing the pillow under my face with both hands, I could feel his thumb sliding in smoothly.
And I groaned, with pleasure this time.

It’s tempting to stop the story here. A real erotica story should have. Because I don’t have any more notes. There’s no real anal sex, or anything. This really is as far as we dare to took it the last time we were together. And it was the first time in a long time, we actually did that.
Our final year has been so straining. We seemed both weary not to break what we had and ended up largely avoiding each other.
Our time abroad for our internships and the stress of our theses wore us out, but we suffered alone. Connecting based on everyday things is not our style.
But our stress played out in the bedroom, and I m still unsure if by blaming it all on our studies, I m not missing more clues on what was wrong.
And maybe still is.
But what I want to share at the end of this story, is a paragraph in my notes, written in the third person.
I had forgotten I had written it, but it is such a clear description of what I feel. Regardless of the doubt that sometimes gets to me, with regard to his other women, our future, and the option that maybe I should find a Nikki Sixx and reboot this sex thing at a whole new level.
This paragraph explains why my deepest desire is still to be with Bear. Regardless of how incomprehensible or even fucked up our relationship might seem to the outside world. Or how strange it is that I ve only been with one man.
This is what I wrote:
“She could feel how everything had shifted, and that there wouldn’t be an end to what it was they could do together.
That this was the man she wanted to make love to, for the rest of her life.
The thought of how many sexual adventures they could be sharing was overwhelming.”
Maybe that is the whole thing with this fan fiction thing: It’s not about the sex, regardless of how twisted it all seems. Or how ruthless.
That in the end all those stories are romantic in nature.

And so am I.

An unexamined life is not worth living

For more on Lauren’s fan fiction story, her sexually troubled teens,
and her love for Jon Bon Jovi, read part 1
“A letter from a stranger”

Where Lauren meets a potential lover who looks like Slash
“Think about you” 

subscribe to YouTube for My Life in Bon Jovi songs.

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Mutuals | “1994”: fanfic inspired erotica
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7-figure Rock Star Writer part 5: “1994”: fanfic inspired erotica

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