The Time I Learned Kink Could Be Therapy [MF] (Trigger Warning)

**TRIGGER WARNING:** This story contains elements of CNC play. (If you don’t know what that means, Google it before continuing.)

*This is an old experience I’ve only recently memorialized. I’ve debated posting it for some time, since it’s way more intense than my other ones. I’m grateful to my friend for writing the “Her” portion — not only did it refresh my memory, it didn’t feel right to tell this without her perspective. As always, thanks to my followers for supporting these posts. And to the new readers, I hope you’ll check out some of my past stories.*
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**HIM**

A while back, I received a DM from a self-identified sub: “This is the first time I’ve messaged a Dom first. But I like everything about your profile so I thought I’d say so.” I poked around her page for a bit. She was stunning – with dirty blonde hair, sun-kissed skin and a mischievous smile – and her “About Me” section suggested a mindfulness and intelligence that drew me in. We exchanged messages, then arranged to meet the next time she was in my area. But then… she disappeared. Texts weren’t returned. When she finally reappeared, all she said was: “I can’t go through with it. You remind me too much of my ex.”

Months went by, then one day she came to mind. I reached out. She was happy, said she’d been thinking about me. Said she still wanted to meet me IRL. I said I still looked like her ex. Still tall, with dark hair. Still had the same five o’clock shadow, the same sartorial style. We both spoke French.

“I know,” she said. “That’s why I need to see you.”

We made a list of the things she wanted to do during my visit — all the ways she wanted to play… DD/lg, discipline, etc — but she hesitated when it came to one in particular. It’s okay, I said. I won’t judge. She took a breath and asked: Would you be okay with CNC?

I’d done it in the past, I said, but it’s hard for me. Beyond the trust required, there’s an inherent violence to it that isn’t in my nature. Going there messes me up. Especially if the partner commits to the scene and starts throwing it back in my direction — “Why are you doing this?” “Denouemxnt, you’re scaring me…”
What she said next changed my mind:

“Do you remember when I said you looked like my ex?” I said I did. She said: “He hurt me.”

Turns out he was abusive. Kind and gentle at times, but prone to fits of anger. And when he got angry, he’d force himself on her. The fact that I looked so much like him had worried her. It had triggered so many painful memories. But now she realized she could use it to her advantage.

She wanted to move past the hurt. She wanted to recreate the most unpleasant of moments she’d had with him. She wanted me to commit to being him, then turn it around mid-scene and go back to being myself. To hijack the memory and build a new experience from it. She wouldn’t tell me when to go into it. I was to surprise her. Catch her off guard. The way he had. Exposure therapy, she called it.

I said yes.

**HER**

I pulled up to the train station and spotted him immediately. With me being so nervous, and him being so handsome, eye contact was difficult. A graceful kiss “hello”? Impossible. His words were sweet and comforting in the car, but it wasn’t until he picked me up and threw me on the hotel bed that I was actually able to breathe and grin freely.

Finally, the man I’d pictured for almost a year was here and letting me feel his power in a physical way. I looked up at him from the bed and knew I was already dropping into sub space. In between our wild kisses and groping he told me just what to do, and me being the good girl that I am, listened eagerly.

“Take off your clothes.”

“Sit on my lap.”

“Lay on the bed.”

“Squirt for Daddy.”

As soon as his hands were on my pussy and tummy, I was gushing. It had never happened so quickly—we were making puddles in seconds. As I convulsed and pulsed beneath his dark stare all I could say was, “Thank you Daddy! God, thank you!”

“Good girl,” I heard him say, and slipped into bliss.

**HIM**

The next day, we left the hotel and went to the place she was housesitting at. It was a big and spacious home near the water. Open-concept, but with a dozen too-many nautical embellishments. We drank and played: I collared her and forced her to try and fit me in her throat. [She took to the leather quickly, as if it had been wrapped around her skin her entire life.](https://www.erome.com/a/se9JObdQ) I finished all over her face, then led her around the house; she crawled, her face painted in cum.

The hours went by and we lounged on the sofa, talking about art and travel and rock climbing. The night was growing thin; the chance to help her slipping away. It was now or never. I followed her into the bedroom, then launched into the scene.

“Where the fuck are you going?” I said.

I grabbed her and threw her onto the bed. She landed on her back and had her legs pressed tightly together, ankles crossed.

“No, no,” she said. “Please don’t.”

I climbed onto the bed and put my hand around her throat. Squeezed. Tightly. I channeled her ex as I cursed at her in French for the way she walked around in public earlier in the day, the way she smiled at other men, making me jealous.

Her face reddened. She gasped for air. I could smell her sweat starting to bead.

Adrenaline and fear.

With the other hand, I pulled at her legs.

Spread your fucking legs, I growled in French.

Show me that whore cunt of yours.

The one you’re dying to show off.

She squeezed her legs tighter.

I pinned her hands above her head.

Slapped her face.

She kept fighting.

Finally I put a hand over her mouth and nose and as she struggled to breath, her legs went slack and I saw my opening. I took my place between them, pulled her underwear to the side and forced myself inside her.

I could feel her pulse racing against my chest.

She whimpered.

I told her that I didn’t care.

**HER**

The harder he pulled at my legs, the more I squeezed them closed, and the wetter my inner thighs became. I pushed against his strong chest and shoulders until he grabbed my wrists and held them above my head with one hand. With the other hand he gripped then slapped my face.

“You belong to me, bebe,” he said. “You’re mine now and I can fuck you however I want.”

His cock was pressing against the teeny gap between my pussy and legs. I was squirming, muscles clenched, cooing, giddy while my body surged with adrenaline from anticipation and fear.

“Don’t let him in,” I thought.

“Whatever you do, don’t let him in.”

He forced his way. It was thick; he had to really shove it. I was full and pushing him out from the inside. I felt my G-spot swell and push push push while he told me awful things that made wince. “Don’t. Don’t. Don’t” I whispered between deep moans.

“I own you. You’re mine. Shut up and take it, you fucking slut.”

He put his big hand over my mouth and fucked me hard. I checked out mentally. It was too much stimulation to take in. He palmed the side of my face and pressed it into the bed. My brain and body were buzzing in thoughtless primal rapture. I was in his grip. He’d topped me and I submitted. His hand went to my throat, pressing the sides and fucking my mind. Could I trust him?

**HIM**

The tears began to well in her eyes. She looked up at me, confused. Why was I hurting her if I cared so much? The salt water ran down her skin, to her ears.

She was deep in the moment.

I wasn’t me anymore. I was him.

She was deep in the moment, and if this was going to work, I was going to have to reach down into her emotional abyss and pull her out.

It’s the reason we were doing this.

Hey, I said, switching to English.

I’m here.

I licked away her tears.

Kissed her lips.

Then held her.

Wrapped her tight in my arms.

We stayed like that for a moment. Residual tears flowing. Hearts beating against our chests. For a few moments, the world was still and nothing existed outside of us. She was safe.

We went back to playing.

Only now it wasn’t a scene anymore.

We were ourselves.

Out of the pain came something wholly and completely new.

**HER**

I let my body relax. He released my hands and throat. As I got to touch his chest and abs, I transformed. I embraced the feeling of him being deep inside of me and allowed myself to enjoy it. I stopped trying to push him out of my pussy. Started pulling him in deeper, gripping him with it instead. I wrapped my legs around his hips, thrusting on his amazing cock until my pussy was pulsing and splashing all over him.

He smiled as he came. My sweet and scary Dom.

Rinsing off in the shower I was higher than I’d ever been before. Oxytocin swirled through all of me. He made it possible to face terrifying memories and rescript them into a blissful experience. I purred sincere, wistful thank you’s over and over.

**HIM**

I’d been skeptical about the whole therapy thing, but by this point I was a believer. The change in her disposition had been immediate and visceral. What had started as abusive and non-consensual had morphed into a tender and passionate experience.

In the end, she felt like she could let that guy go because she’d been able to build a new, positive experience with a similar partner who could remind her that her ex was a douche.

But above all else, it helped her see that other people, and the future, still had good things to offer.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/d3ztwv/the_time_i_learned_kink_could_be_therapy_mf