Suffering For Love

I've mentioned it before, about Chris and his athletic prowess...he was the star quarterback of the high school football team; he wrestled, played rugby and soccer in college...His body was like a well oiled machine that could perform in any situation that called for stamina and strength.

He also enjoyed using his athletic ability to dominate, to be the alpha male in sexual situations...but more than that, he enjoyed a good fight. OK, to be blunt, he loved to work his partner over as a prelude to sex. My time with Chris resulted in a lot of things, including a dislocated shoulder, a sprained ankle and several black eyes ... as well as a healthy enjoyment for S & M style erotic undertakings. Don't get me wrong, he could take it as well, and many was the time after a coupling with me that he'd emerge with a split lip or black and blue torso ... yes ,with us, love hurt and it was a lot of give and take...

I suffered for love from this man, and it was worth every bit of it ... i learned to endure as well as dish out punishment, I learned to be tough, I learned to hide my emotions, I learned about the pleasure that hides behind the mask of excruciating discomfort, I learned that a man can endure and grow, I learned that a bloody nose is sometimes as endearing as a kiss ... fighting and fucking, I also learned, are acts of passion...

When we wrestled, and we did this often, he'd try to crush me with his legs; my thighs in a human vice, his body tensed and every muscle as hard as steel.

When he had me by the hair, in a corner, crotch pressed up against my face, fist clenched ready to pummel me into submission; I knew that this was not only a savage act of cruel domination, it was also an act of love.

When he kicked me when I was down and verbally tormented me, I would grow hard and insane with love.

When i sometimes got the upper hand and put him in full nelson and made him scream in pain, I knew he was screaming that he loved me.

When he bested me and stood over me flexing, like a Greek god, I knew that I would worship him; I knew that his crotch, that always seemed ready to burst with the promise of sex, would be communion that I would readily take in homage to my personal deity.

When he yanked me up to his crotch and shoved my face to his bulge and yelled out humiliating things to me, I knew that this was the price I had to pay for loving a man such as this...I knew that I would, and could, return this favor, that I would be the one on top and that I would be the one shoving his crotch on to the face of the defeated ... but when it was me on the receiving end, I gladly took what was being served ... when I was the fallen, I'd give in and embrace the defeat and the pain and the humiliation ... that's what love was for us.

When I managed to get the upper hand and reach for his nipples and pinch and pull on them and realize that his cocky demeanor was fading, I'd grow even harder imagining that somehow, someway, I'd made this Olympian my slave, and then I'd reach for his balls and squeeze them until he begged for mercy, and I'd show him as much mercy as he showed me earlier by yanking on them even harder and more severely until he might collapse under me and for a time I'd be the dominator and he was the punk ... and later, after we were through he'd tell me how much that had turned him on, and that he wanted me to put up a fight and that he enjoyed me inflicting some pain on him, as much has he enjoyed doing the same to me...

Eventually we'd tire of brawling and sex would follow ... and it was always good. When he fucked me, he'd do it with as much tenacity as he did when he was working me over, he'd ask me if I liked it, he'd ask me if I loved it, he'd ask me if it hurt ... and I'd curse him out and tell him that I wanted to him to go faster, harder, deeper, and he'd oblige and I'd imagine that this is what it must have felt like to be had by Zeus...and sometimes, I'd be on top, fucking him and slapping his muscular ass, maybe pulling him by his hair at the same time and he'd swear revenge on me but at the same time he'd be urging me on telling me to make him hurt, make him feel it...

And when it was all over, when we finished, when we had our orgasms, we'd revert to this quiet, sensual mode. We'd hug and kiss and he'd tell me how proud he was of me, how he loved me, how he knew I was the ONE for him ... and if I was the victor, I'd tell him that it was the best sex I'd ever had ... and yet, and yet, and yet... as much as I did, I never, ever told him that I loved him...