When The Sex Is SO Bad That The Right To Have It Should Be Revoked

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When The Sex Is So Bad

Whoever introduced him to the art of dominance was a horrible teacher.

"If you touch my tits again, I'll cut you." It wasn't a joke as much as a legitimate threat against the man whose solitary purpose was to ensure his own pleasure at my expense. Lying on his side behind me and with a hand gripping my throat, he whispered, "You like that, don't you?" into my ear as he dry-humped my ass with his semi-hard three-and-a-half inch penis.

"Sure" was all I could muster from my crushed larynx while I wondered when this mild mannered typically lazy lover had turned into a sadist.

Eight years prior, we had met on eHarmony. I was feeling lonely and the holidays were quickly approaching. Dr. Neil Clark Warren was everywhere touting that eHarmony was the "#1 trusted online dating site for singles." They even claimed a bajillion marriages to their credit.

To date, I had tried just about every other site known to man with no luck other than learning how to put on a condom with no hands (a talent I could have easily acquired by watching HBO). When it came to finding a significant other, I still had a lot to learn. I paid the steep membership fee and went to town filling out their ridiculous and extensive Christian-based questionnaire, knowing full well my seat downstairs was already reserved.

We engaged in the typical courting process prior to meeting and found we got along quite well. We had a similar sense of humor, similar upbringings and the same tastes in BBQ. When we finally did meet in person, despite his hair being a little thinner and his figure being a little fuller, I didn't find it premature at all to be planning our nuptials.

We didn't sleep together right away. I wanted to take things slow and marry him first. When that didn't happen by the second date, I figured, "What the hell?" At 6'1" and pushing 300 lbs. I knew there may be a few challenges but I wasn't too concerned. I'm far from petite, and at 5'9" I'm usually taller than most men who contact me.

"Just because you're here doesn't mean we're going to have sex," I said.

"Oh yes, we are. Get your ass over here."

He was nothing if not assertive and I found his confidence amusing. The look on his face was that of sheer mischief. There was no point in me playing coy. We both knew the game. We'd played it before.

From the get-go, it was clear he was one of those "Get on top so I can see you" type of guys, which, in this case, was code for "Get on top so you can do all the work." He was lazy, and due to his size he was hard to ride, leaving me to straddle him by balancing from knee to knee. 

He may have thought I had skills when in reality I just knew how to balance. I'd been to the gym once and could hold my own on a stability ball.

While the burn in my thighs deepened and with my hands on his hairy chest, I looked deeply into his eyes trying to hide the fact I was mere seconds away from a leg cramp. He held my gaze and for a moment and I thought we had made a real connection.

After what little clothing I had worn to bed had been pulled off, I was fearful my guest would try and mount me missionary style. It wasn't that I didn't like missionary; I just didn't like the idea of all our weight being on one side of the bed. I didn't have a death wish.

"Use me like a Shake N' Bake bag!"

With those eight words, our "real connection" came to a screeching halt.

"Excuse me?" I was hoping against hope that my aging ears had deceived me.

"Use me like a Shake N' Bake bag."

Nope, they hadn't.

I was pulling off the balancing act of the century and big boy was thinking about food. (Not that I could blame him. Shake N' Bake is some decent stuff and ideal for those of us who can't really cook, but I digress.) I searched his face for any sign of jest but there was none. He'd been genuine in his request. A request I was unable to manage without putting a plastic bag over his head.

So much for those wedding plans.

Now spooning in the middle (and safest) part of my bed, my guest started to grab and paw at me as though he were trying to hold onto a cloud. Once he had me safely captive between his thighs and arms, he started to poke at my face. First, it was his middle finger. "Suck," he said.

With little else to do but acquiesce to his demand, I began to suck on his finger. This seemed to excite him and he began to grind against my ass in what can only be considered his attempt at trying to overcompensate for slight whiskey dick.

I reached between us to give him a hand but was met with limited success. However, this didn't stop him from stabbing my mouth with his freeway finger. When that wasn't enough, he began the all-out assault on my breasts. I was overwhelmed with relief when he ceased his dental exam and pulled his finger out of my mouth only to be met with a certain discomfort when his hand found its way around my neck.

My guest had apparently received an education in manhandling. Gone were the innuendos about food and mediocre cowgirl. I was left to ponder, "Who was this person and who had he been dating that showed him this sh*t?" F*ck those girls. Whoever introduced him to the art of dominance was a horrible teacher.

But I'm a team player and a good sport. I've experienced and experimented my way through adulthood to a place where I'm not surprised by much. If you want to stick your finger in my mouth and pull my hair, let's roll. You want to be a little rough, bring it on. Two can play at that game. You want to rip my nipples off while you choke me? All bets are off.

In the end, thanks to the Jim Beam, he didn't get off. And thanks to my bruised tits, I didn't either. I plan on seeing Jim Beam again. But my guest is never welcome again.


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