Safe Word: Taxi

Every story about V involved her fucking someone, usually a stranger, often in an odd location. Firemen, cops, several married men, a female stripper in the middle of a club, an honest-to-God ninja.

V’s call came almost immediately after my girlfriend of four years and I broke up. I knew her casually, a friend of a friend, and she heard I was newly single.

She liked to be slapped. To have her hair pulled. To be choked when she was coming. Then she told me she had a rape fantasy.

She thought it would be hot if someone busted in, tied her up, smacked her around, and forced her at knifepoint to have sex. If I’m anything, it’s a giving lover.

She also revealed her safety word – “Taxi.” And that she’d never used it.

Later that week, I showed up at her place with the bag I’d prepared. I burst through the door, in character now and brandishing a six-inch bayonet. “Keep your mouth shut or I’ll kill you,” I hissed, fighting back laughter. I cuffed her, tied her legs together, and cut her clothing off. She fought me.

“Stop it, bitch,” I growled, and slapped her so hard her head snapped back. She smiled, then gritted her teeth and fought. We wrestled, both getting carpet burns. I bent her over the sofa and we went at it.

Despite her protestations, V quickly got off. After five minutes fighting her, I was exhausted. I went into the other room, drank some water, and tried as hard as I could not to puke into her bathtub. I freed her from the restraints, so out of breath, I didn’t care that I didn’t come.

I learned something that day. Rape is hard work. Too hard for me. All you’d have to do is put up a fight for a couple of minutes and I’d pass out. The only people who should fear being raped by me are attractive coma patients. If Keira Knightley suffers a traumatic head injury, she’d better look out. Everyone else is in the clear.