If he was being honest, he had always been different in a lot of ways. Sex was just another one of the ways in which he was different. As a result of several very hard lessons, learned the very hard way, very early on, he was very disciplined about a great many things. Sex was one of those as well. He had also learned just how different he was.
He was insatiable as a young man. For awhile, after his first heartbreak, it was a nasty, vindictive kind of lust. He fucked as a form of revenge. Then, simply put, he was exhausted by it. He was tired of trying to get back at someone who would never know they were getting got, by using people just as fucked up as he was. It was like smashing your own possessions when you were angry. All it did was double the mess, and leave you empty.
Then, for awhile (a short while) he was like a monk. He lived on the mountain. He punished his body for its impure desires. He longed for the cold, clear, unobtainable serenity of the monastic order, or the hermit. Sure, he loved skiing, but in the end, every day on the mountain was done for lust, and love.
When he was as close to the empty soul he sought, was when he was found again. It was not where he expected, with the sweet, unassuming, rather too sensitive girl who had been sharing his bed in moments of weakness. Instead, he was groomed. Maybe singled out would be a more accurate description.
She was a Teaching Assistant in his Social Constructions of Human Sexuality class. She was 26 to his 19. She came across as sophisticated in that special, unique way that only teenage boys can perceive an older woman. Whatever she was, she was trained, and she was looking.
When reflecting on it later, and after having seduced his share of nubile, young women, he came to the somewhat humbling realization that she saw in him the requisite qualities from the very first day in class. On that day, he had approached her, and told her that he did not intend to come to every session. If that was a problem for her, he needed to know, because he could still drop the class. She made him a deal; if he set the A on the first test, he could come and go as he pleased. String number one was firmly attached.
He set the A, but he still attended every class. She would find excuses to belittle him, and take joy in watching the slow burn she ignited in him. She would deliberately stand close to his desk, innocently bumping his hand with her ass, or her hip on the days in which the class viewed pornography in the name of higher learning. After he handed in the anonymous final, she just took what she wanted.
Whatever her motives, she unleashed a lifetime of pent up aggression, desire, and yearning. At the same time, she was able to talk him through the shame his desires evoked. The first time he had physically restrained her, shoved her face into the seat, and fucked her without regard for her comfort, pleasure, or pain, he had nearly cried afterward. She assured him that she had provoked him in order to obtain exactly such a response.
The entire day, she had been edging him. Teasing him by appearing to change direction suddenly, so his pelvis would collide with her hips. Both painful and pleasurable all at the same time. She was dressed in a tight skirt, and loose blouse. He did not need to resort to memory to know what was hidden. She had touched his face, his neck, his back, casually, as they walked. She had given every indication that she was going to fuck him, like she had been doing for a month now.
Then, she took him to a party. It was full of people he didn't know, crammed into a small house, with sticky floors. As soon as they walked through the door, she disappeared. He tried to play cool, but he was young in this crowd, and his clean-cut, jock physique stood out amongst the smoking, intellectual crowd. The entire scene put him on edge.
When he found her, she was sitting on some skinny hippie, with a jewfro. They weren't quite making out, and he and the TA weren't quite together, but the whole day of teasing, couple with the abandonment at the party, on top of this pissant touching her was too much. He did what he had been trained to do since he was young; he walked way.
She followed. She taunted him the whole way out. She danced around him the whole way to the car. "Aww, you jealous, little boy? What are you gonna do about it?" she drawled, as he simmered. When he got to the car, and unlocked the door, she inserted herself between him, and the seat. She put one high-heal boot covered foot up on the door-frame, and cocked her eyebrow in a sinister, taunting way.
This was too much. She was not letting him walk away. She was clearly not scared of him, and she was deliberately mocking his teenage angst. Before he even knew what he was doing, he had her by the throat, and dragged her from the front seat. He started to fling her away from him, but she clung on, and dug her nails into his shoulder as hard as he could. This cooled him some, and he looked in horror at what he was doing, until he saw her eyes. They were still taunting, but now, there was a deeper smoulder, shadowed with desire.
From there, the rest was easy. It was a training, and a pleasure. A task, and a joy. Whips. Chains. Gags. Paddles. Crosses. Ropes. And, more and more often, just his bare hands. She taught him everything. At first, he was the pupil. She would subjugate him to her will. Break him, like a horse being trained. Whip him until he gave her what she wanted. Turned out though, what she wanted was for him to take the whip.
In the end, they both moved on. The relationship was not built on anything deeper than both being initiates of a dark, and secret art. But, her lessons remained, safe and secure. Brought out only in the most secure environment, with no risk taken. He had learned his lesson about control. He was the master now, and it was his to be disciplined.
It never was easy, being touched, after that. Her casual insinuations stuck with him. The easy, seemingly accidental way in which her hips brushed his hands at his desk lingered. Made him avoid contact. His radar was broken. As a result, he cultivated the platonic. He hid and repressed the desire even more after a couple of misinterpretations lead to heartache, rumors, and insinuations.
It served him well, his discipline. He advanced, and got along. He was closed to all, but not secretive. Long ago, the art of self-deprecation had become his friend. A casual wall of humble anecdotes to fill every occasion. To avoid letting anyone see the animal. It had become almost second nature to him, when she walked into his life.
He had met her years before at a casual gathering of friends. She was noticeable because of her dark hair, and green eyes that immediately suggested irreverence, but also a reserve. Damaged, but not broken, and independent, but not wanting to be alone. The moment he saw her, he knew she could be very, very dangerous. As such, he set about to make her hate him slightly.
For the most part, he ignored her, and paid more attention to the other women at the table. He knew she saw the same connection he did; the depth behind the casually smiling eyes. He couldn't let her in though. Far too dangerous. He was successful at the first meeting, and it was quite some time until they were in contact again.
Years later, and several more run-ins, chance had it that they wound up working very closely together. By this point, he thought his reputation with her as platonic ice had been cemented. It was a fatal mistake.
The longer he worked with her, the closer they became. He realized, much to his growing fear, that she was just every bit as genuine as those eyes suggested. It was problematic, but nothing he couldn't handle. He could handle the stray thoughts about how fabulous her ass looked in the tight riding pants she occasionally wore. Or, how the knee high boots would look with nothing else on above them. That, he could handle.
He was always very careful never to tough her either. He would keep his distance. Stay with his reserve, and made it clear that he was not the hugging or touching type. All he wanted to do was get his hands on her. To grab her hips and pull her towards him. To wrap her long, dark hair, with all its frizz, around his hand, and use it to control her, to pull her head back so he could see the look on her face as he entered her.
No, all of that he could repress. Until the day she handed him the whip. This fucking green riding crop. It was thin, used for dressage. Flexible. Supple. And it was in her car.
She had handed it to him without really thinking anything of it, but as soon as it touched his hands, with her in the claustrophobic confines of her small sedan, he was consumed. The animal was off the leash, and all he wanted was her flesh. He wanted her under him, with his hands on her, pinning her to the floor. He wanted her tied up, with arms strapped to his St. Andrew's Cross. He wanted her ass exposed, all round and muscled from riding horses.
Most of all, he wanted her. He wanted to possess her. He wanted to take her for his own. To let her know she was in his control, subject to his whim, and that, as a result, she was perfectly safe in every way. That she was his.
It was a very long car ride, and he was sure he was noticed. More importantly though, he didn't really care.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/35v67n/the_animal_within_part_2_str8bdsmmf