Work Text:
Content Warning: This text contains explicit sexual content and addresses trauma, anxiety, and healing. It is written as a consensual fantasy and personal trauma work, and does not depict assault or abuse. All actions in this text occur with the full consent and trust of those involved.
The text may evoke intense feelings or memories, especially for readers with experiences of sexual violence or trauma. Please take care of yourself while reading.
It aims to show how trust, communication, and mindful intimacy can help process traumatic experiences.
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I sit on the bed, patiently waiting for you. Over the past weeks, we’ve discussed this from time to time, and you are the right person for me, the one who can help change things, help me feel more comfortable again.
Yet precisely because you are the right person, you show empathy, care for me, love me, and want to protect me from harm. I remember how willingly you spoke about this topic, and now it seems stuck in your throat.
And I want it to be enjoyable for you. I even wish for it to be enjoyable for me. I wish that you can talk to me and not carry the feeling in your chest that a wrong word or description could shake my world.
But how could it not? It happens so often when we watch movies. It overwhelms me, uncontrollable, everything tenses in me. My throat becomes a single knot of pain, while thoughts whirl and images flash through me, bringing me to tears.
You are there for me, every single time. I remember the pain, I suffer, yet I seek you in these moments, your warmth, your support. Without you, it would be much harder to endure.
And surely you imagine that you might be the reason it happens, that I recoil instead of seeking your closeness, that all good and beautiful things break. Perhaps you even hate yourself for ever enjoying it, or now only associate this act with pain.
But my body belongs to me, my will counts, and I refuse to let this limit me. It feels as though this aspect has been stolen from me, as if the person who hurt me so deeply is still part of me, like a poisonous, rotten piece that sickens and torments me.
I want to sever this piece, to allow that person no longer any part of my life. I want to think of it or see it and instead think of you, a beautiful moment, something that awakens desire rather than destroys me.
Then the door opens, yanking me out of my thoughts. You smile, but your eyes appear uncertain. You approach, and I take your hands in mine, stroking them. “I know this can be risky, but also a chance. Please trust me and be the support you always are.”
You take a deep breath and begin speaking softly, something you, unfortunately, do too often: taking responsibility for everything, feeling guilty, apologizing. I gently lift your T-shirt and kiss your stomach. “Please, don’t apologize.”
I breathe deeply. You could lie down too; in principle, but this way it’s make it more intense—or effective. I don’t know for sure. But I stay with it and ask cautiously, “May I undress you and do what we talked about?”
You give me a clear “Yes,” and I start undoing your belt, unbuttoning your pants, and pulling down the zipper. My fingers slip under your boxers, and with a bold tug, I reveal your lower body.
There it is. Not erect, but close to my face. I wonder if in these moments, it’s more likely that you could barely wait. I’m inexperienced, but I suspect you are still tense.
I look up at you. “May I… touch… lick…?” The last part I wish to say doesn’t come out of my mouth, and you nod. Carefully, I lean forward, inhaling its scent, feeling its warmth, my heart racing.
Hoping not to do anything wrong, I let my tongue trace it along its length. I try again, feeling as if I’m attempting a revival, but either I do something wrong or it’s too challenging for you.
I kiss it along its length in small intervals and feel relief as it responds. The patient lives again. Yet the new size and appearance frighten me, enough to respect it, but not enough to stop. I lick gently over the tip.
With my hands, I pull back the foreskin, trying to calm my heart with controlled breathing, giving small kisses repeatedly. Noticing even small positive reactions from you gives me a warm feeling. I say, “I’m doing my best. If anything hurts or feels uncomfortable, tell me. If something feels good, show me too, okay?”
You nod, shyly adding, “If you… you know… should do it, please keep the foreskin over. It gives friction, but not as intense as without. It’s more manageable.” I nod, glad you are slowly engaging.
I slide your foreskin forward, inhale deeply. My feelings are so ambivalent, yet I do not stop. This is beautiful. Body, do you hear me?
I open my mouth, taking a small part of your penis in. Remember to breathe. I struggle not to touch you with my teeth, slowly working my way with you inside, then pulling my head back slightly to stimulate you gently.
I’m grateful your hands stay on you, unmoving. I trust you, and even as I enjoy your slight panting, a mental image explodes in my mind. I withdraw carefully, not hurting you. Breathing heavily, fighting tears.
Internally, I boil with anger, screaming in thought: I belong to myself, to no one else. A glance at you shows worry and a desire to stop, but I am stubborn beyond my own good and whisper, “May I try again? Please.”
You nod uncertainly, and though the feeling is not fully overcome, I guide you back in. I focus on my breathing, occupy my mind with questions about what pleases you, how I should act, keeping myself engaged.
I speed up, letting my tongue wander lightly, hearing louder and more intense sounds from you. Eventually, you pant: “I’m close. You should stop if you don’t want to experience this.”
But I want to, especially since I’ve never felt it like this. Perhaps it makes a difference. You whimper a bit, your penis contracts, and a gush hits my tongue. The bitter taste isn’t pleasant, but manageable.
I swallow to get rid of the taste before removing my mouth. Exhausted, breathing heavily, I look at you, feeling you ready to apologize. “Please, don’t,” I whisper.
Then I crawl onto the bed at pillow height and pat beside me. You didn’t apologize, obediently follow after getting dressed. You seem joyfully flustered, almost ashamed at how much you liked it, though it’s hard for me.
I kiss you, curious: “Did you enjoy it?” You respond, flustered: “Probably far too much. How are you? Do you need anything? Can I do something for you?”
I nod: “Hold me, keep me close, give me warmth and closeness, all your love that you usually give me. Accompany me on this journey. Today, we took a big step. Thank you for being here for me.”