Quick note: I wrote this for a new partner a few days after our first date (!) as our messaging revealed she was interested in getting closer to this kind of fantasy but didn’t know how to start thinking about it.
The story arc is pretty conventional, I think? But hopefully you enjoy it anyway.
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Imagine you’ve decided to line up a Tinder date with somebody new for Friday, and we match. On paper, I check all the right boxes for you, and you’re excited to see if the chemistry is there.
Our messaging goes really well — you like how I think and talk, so we start trading pictures. You love how into you and your sexuality I am, how much I seem to want to please you. And the pictures I send you… you like what you see. You’re excited to see how it all plays out in person. By Wednesday, you can feel yourself getting turned on by the thought of being with me, how my broad shoulders would make you feel so petite, how wrapping your arms around my back to pull me deeper inside you would bring you such ecstatic pleasure. You spend a fair bit of time Wednesday and Thursday getting yourself off in hot, mad anticipation…
On Friday, you ask about a plan for where to meet and I surprise you: “What if I just come over to your place?”
You write back: “Lol I mean I definitely want you but let’s at least get to know each other a little bit to be sure the chemistry is there”
What I say next makes you a little uncomfortable.
“Chemistry is great, but pussy is pussy and dick is dick and they go great together. I want to make sure this is really happening.”
You stop dead in your tracks. You can’t quite tell what I mean by “this”: Am I trying to get you to guarantee you’ll fuck me? Or just to guarantee you want to and we’re just checking the box to make sure there are no surprise dealbreakers? Slowly, against your better judgement, thinking about my pictures and my other messages and how good I made you feel the days leading up today — without even seeing you in person — you talk yourself into thinking it’s the latter.
“I’m sure it will ;)”
Even as you type it, you wonder why you’d take any risk that I’d see you as a guaranteed fuck, but something about me, some animal energy you can almost taste, makes you feel a little bit insecure in a way you haven’t since you were a teenager. You find yourself wondering why you need me to need you so bad, but then even that vulnerability gets your heart racing.
Later on, we meet at a restaurant near your place as planned. I’m already there when you arrive, and two things happen: First, as I stand up, you see my shoulders in person, my rough stubble, and feel a little blood rush to your pussy. You can tell that if the chemistry *is* there, I’ll do for you exactly what you’d hoped.
Second, you notice something about my smile — it looks a little more devious in person, less innocent or demure, like I’m smiling about you, not smiling at you. It makes you a little nervous, but you like that energy, the uncertainty of playing with a new toy.
When we hug hello, I grab the back of your neck and kiss you deeply, pressing your face against mine while I push your lips open with my tongue. Ordinarily, you’d think I was being way too forward — and on some level, you do — but I smell nice and my stubble feels good against your skin and my hands are strong and so you think, *What’s one kiss?* And push your tongue back against mine.
We sit down, order drinks, and our conversation goes well. You’re on the fence about the chemistry being there — you like me, but I’m surprisingly abrupt in spots, and a little pushy: pouring you a little more wine that you said you wanted each time, impatiently refocusing the conversation on sexual matters like how your tits look, taking your hand under the table and pressing it firmly against my semi-hard cock through my pants. Even when you try to take it away, I don’t quite let go when you expect me to. You don’t love it, but you think maybe it’s just a timing issue, something you can easily work out in private.
As the evening goes on, you feel yourself getting a little more buzzed than you’d wanted, and you’re definitely still not sure you want to go further with me. There’s a lot that does work, but also more of those subtle issues that, ordinarily, would totally turn you off. And they do, a little bit; here and there, you do feel more uncomfortable than you’d tolerate. But between the wine, all the buildup throughout the week, and my constant insistence that fucking you will make us both feel incredible, you just don’t want to give up yet.
And then, as we finish dessert, I ask you if I can come over. Or actually, I don’t quite ask: As I wave for the check, not even looking at you, I say in a way that seems designed to stall, “I think it’ll be much more convenient if I just follow you home, rather than getting your address and putting it in my phone. You know how GPS can be…”
By the time I’m done talking, the server is at our table asking how everthing was, so you don’t even really have a chance to respond. Any other night, you think, given the one strange part of our vibe, you’d say you weren’t ready for that with me, or make up some excuse. But you find yourself doubting your intuition and wanting more than anything to see what happens, so you don’t say anything. You just take my hand, after I sign the bill, and lead me out.
On the drive to your place, you realize you should be driving. But at least it’s not far. You find yourself thinking, well, I’m still not sure, but I’ll just offer him another drink or some water and we can talk a little more and I can see how it feels. I can always kick him out.
As you pull in to the garage, you see me park on the street as you requested and walk up to your car. I wait at the front door for you to let me in.
When you open the door, there’s a look on my face you haven’t seen before. I’m a little red, no smile — devious or otherwise — to be found. You actually ask if I’m okay, and I just say, “Sure, I’m good.”
I come in and you close the door behind me. Before you even turn around, you feel my chest bump hard into your back and my hands grabbing your hands. You fall forward into the closed door, turning your head just in time to avoid hitting your nose, but still hitting your face pretty hard.
“Ow!” you say. “Hold on cowboy! Let’s get some water and talk some more.” You’re trying to laugh it off, because you can’t see my face behind you to know what’s going on, but now you’re more worried than before.
“Hold on?” I half-growl into your ear. “What is there to wait for? I fucking told you I wanted to be sure this was really happening. And you said it was.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” you say. “I was just turned on and being polite but I still need to get to know you—”
Before you can finish, I say, “No. Your part of the night is over. Now it’s my part.”
“What? No, what does that mean?” you ask. You’re genuinely afraid now. You can feel how strong I am as you struggle to pull your arms free but can’t move them an inch.
“I think you already know.”
Before you know it, I’ve pulled you away from the door and down to the ground, where I’m on top of you, between your legs. I start to kiss your neck feverishly, and I let one of your hands free so I can grab at your tits.
“No, stop,” you say loudly. “Please stop.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I promise you’ll like it by the end. Everybody does.”
You’re terrified, still struggling, but also aware of another feeling spreading through your whole body. My hand grabbing at your tits and my other hand now sliding down to squeeze your ass, my face burrowed in your next, my hips pinning yours to the ground… It’s exactly the kind of thing you wanted to happen, and even though you really aren’t ready in your mind, your body is reacting very positively. You can feel your pussy getting wet and that freaks you out.
*I don’t want this*, you think. *I don’t.* And you start to try to push me off. But it doesn’t work. I’m not really being violent, but I’m not letting you move, either. And as much as that scares you, it’s also starting to turn you on even more. You start to wonder: *What* am *I in this equation? Am I a romantic partner? A sex partner? Just a toy?* And then the last point on that spectrum comes to the foreground: *A victim?!*
When you hear that word echo in your mind, you panic. You start to shout: “No, no! Get off me!”
But I don’t. And the more you shout, the less it works, the wetter you get. It’s confusing and arousing and terrifying all at once.
By now, my hand is down your pants and you can’t believe how good it feels, despite how scared you are. You grab my wrist and try to pull it away, but your hands can barely grip my muscled forearm and I’m too strong even if they could.
Moments later, I take my hand out, and you feel a sense of relief that quickly turns into fear as you realize what’s happening: I’m roughly pulling your pants down around your ankles and ultimately all the way off.
I grab your body and flip you over so quickly you almost feel thrown, and you do land hard on your knees and elbows. You’re scared, but still so wet. You feel my fingers move in you from behind while my other hand pulls hard on your hair to keep you from getting away. It feels too good, so good it makes you ashamed. You can’t believe your body being turned on so totally overrode your judgement and what you thought you wanted. You feel dirty — but that turns your body on even more.
You feel my fingers slide out of you and hear my belt and zipper coming off, hear me panting as I kneel between your legs behind you. You think to try to scramble to your feet, but you’re tired of fighting, and ultimately less scared now that resigning. You look back and see my cock in my free hand. *Oh fuck*, you think. *It’s fucking huge.*
“Please,” you say. “I have condoms.”
“I don’t care,” I whisper back, pulling you towards me.
“Oh god. Okay. Please go slow, you’re so—”
But before you can finish the sentence, I’m deep inside you. You were too wet, your pussy offered no resistance at all. *You little slut*, you think, as if talking to your own hot, slippery cunt, and almost laugh to yourself about it. But then the huge dick inside you pulls you back into the moment.
It hurts at first — it *definitely* hurts — but as I start driving in and out of you from behind, one hand still tangled in your hair, you start to realize how good it’s going to feel to cum all over me.
You can’t believe what you hear next, your own voice, whispering, “Harder.”
And you get what you want: I let your hair go and grab your waist with my hands, making you feel small just how you’d hoped, and pulling you towards and away from me faster and harder, animalistically, like I’m just using your whole body to jack myself off.
As my groans get louder you realize that I’m probably getting close, but you’re way too fucking turned on not to cum. You reach one hand down to your clit and rub it hard, urgently, desperate to finish before me.
And that’s when it all hits you: You were never in control of what happened tonight. It *was* a sure thing, just the way I’d wanted, because I was always going to make it happen no matter what. That powerlessness puts you over the edge. Your pussy throbs, tightening hard on my fat cock while you have an orgasm that takes all your strength away. You fall from your hands and knees to lying flat on the floor, and I fall on top of you, staying in your the whole time.
At just the moment I land on you, I thrust all the way inside you and let out a loud groan. You can feel me shooting everything I have deep inside you, flooding your pussy the way your orgasm flooded your whole body. I jerk gently in and out of you while my dick keeps throbbing, the hardest, biggest thing you’ve ever felt, you think.
As I pull out, I kiss you on the cheek from behind you. I dribble our juices on your ass as I stand up.
“See you soon,” I say, stepping into my pants.
You ask, “When?”
———
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/d62rmc/the_guarantee_mfnonconsensual