This is the first in a series of Consent Culture Sex Stories: explicit posts describing real sex, including the communication around what happened, how we got what we wanted, things that didn’t go right and how we adapted. Their purpose is to make clear and enthusiastic consent more than an abstract idea discussed by sex nerds–to show how this actually works in real life, and that it’s hot.
I was having a let’s-see-if-our-interests-are-compatible conversation with someone I’d met a few times but didn’t know well. We chatted a little about vanilla things before cautiously getting into the more personal stuff: D/s, petplay, strapons, impact. I told him about some specific memories I enjoyed, including one of tackling someone onto a bed, biting his neck, and having him instantly recognize it out loud as the alpha-dog gesture it was.
“I like being tackled,” he agreed.
There was a pause. We were sitting across from each other on my big nest of a bed, he reclining against some pillows and I cross-legged, and had been discussing things that turned us on for a while now.
“Can I tackle you?” I asked.
“ … you’re already lying down.”
He sat up, obligingly. I shoved him back down and pinned his chest under my body weight. My forearms were over his shoulders, our faces a breath apart. The fine hairs on my cheek stood up.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, and several minutes later I was straddling him and breathless. I asked how far he was comfortable going.
“I wasn’t expecting to have sex today,” he admitted, “but I would be okay with that.”
I had been thinking roughly the same thing. Without moving from my position on top of him, I told him how recently I’d been tested and what my risk factors were; he shared the same information, and told me clearly that he wanted to use “stop” or “no” or anything similar to that as a safeword–in other words, that he wouldn’t be saying any of those things unless he meant it. Since we now had a good idea of how far we wanted to go and what precautions we’d be taking, I could move a bit faster. I pulled his shirt off and brought my teeth down to his shoulder.
“How are you about marks?”
“I like them, but I’d want to check with my primary partner first.”
“Mmkay.” I still bit down, hard enough to make him moan, but without the suction that would leave a bruise.
“I’m going to struggle a little bit,” he warned me a little while later. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
I grinned delightedly and noted that while a verbal “no” from him was genuine, physical resistance was play. “Okay.” When he pushed up against me, I grabbed him and held him down. Given clearly-defined boundaries, I was confident enough to slip into the power fantasy. “Nope,” I informed him cheerfully as he tried to escape. “Mine. You know why?”
“‘Cause I’m bigger than you are.”
His eyes widened, and his body language shifted to show me a hint of trapped prey animal. I smiled to myself at having read him correctly and gave his neck another nip.
There wasn’t a lot of explicit asking after that. I just watched his responses and tried to do more of the things that made him sigh and squirm and go wide-eyed, less of the things that produced no reaction. It was very first-time-with-this-person sex: exciting and exploratory, but a little awkward due to the unfamiliar terrain. We had fun, though, and parted on good terms.
Over the next several days, we traded some email to check in with each other. He was having some strange feelings about sleeping with someone other than his primary partner; while their relationship was open and healthy, he hadn’t done that in years, and something about it didn’t feel right. I felt a little selfish disappointment, and told him so–there were things I had been looking forward to trying again with him–but also let him know that of course that was fine. Amicably, we left it there for now.