‘Life is impoverished, it loses in interest, when the highest stake in the game of living, life itself, may not be risked.’
– Sigmund Freud, The Letters of Sigmund Freud and Otto Rank: Inside Psychoanalysis
‘Did you want a tour?’
My parent’s house is compact and there isn’t much to see, but that’s not the reason I offered. I want to be alone with him.
So I show him around, taking in the garden, the living room, the upstairs gallery…my bedroom. My childhood room where boys were never allowed. The doors are open; I can see down the stairs, I can hear my parents in the kitchen and my sisters in the living room.
But when he draws me into him, I don’t resist. When he pushes me down, I even drop eagerly to my knees and open his jeans to take his cock into my mouth. Soon he pulls me to my feet, lifting my dress in full view of the stairs and yanks down my knickers. I tremble with fear and lust and an almost impossible need to keep quiet, fighting the moan that is caught in my throat. I bite my lip, I bury my face in the mattress as he bends me over my old bed and easily slides into my soaking cunt; but I don’t tell him to stop. I want to fuck him more than I’m afraid of being caught, but I am terrified.
I know how easily we could get caught, how the stairs don’t have a helpful warning creak and often family members just pop upstairs, and I cannot bear to think of the consequences of being seen, but I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop. Not only does it feel unbelievably good to be bent over and used in this way, but the fear of discovery, the risk that we are taking, is just fucking intoxicating. The blood in my veins is thick with adrenaline and it rushes around my body at an unnatural speed, leaving me dizzy and lightheaded.
Fucking him here, now, in this place is a risk but, damn, it’s a risk worth taking!
And it’s one I’m happy to take over and over. Fucking in the kitchen when my housemate was in her room next door; going out without underwear to make it easier for him to touch me when we’re out for dinner; sucking his cock while we’re alone for just a few minutes; hand-jobs in the car…the risk is exhilarating and I love it.
And yet I am surprised that I enjoy this risk so much. I would never describe myself as a risk taker. In most areas of my life, I am frankly over cautious! I don’t take risks with my heart or with relationships, missing potential opportunities because I wasn’t brave enough . I’ve never smoked or taken drugs as I’m convinced I’ll be the headline with the horrific outcome. At work, I have to balance the risks and benefits to my patients with every decision that I make, giving them all the information alongside my recommendations so that they can make an informed choice. I would never suggest a treatment that I wouldn’t take myself or if I felt the chance of harm was too high; my professional persona is very risk averse. Such is the strength of this side of me that I was not expecting any aspect of my character to deviate so markedly from it.
Except that maybe that explains it. Maybe the fact that I am so cautious with so much of my life means that I need to find that excitement elsewhere.
That ‘elsewhere’ used to be speeding. Living in the country, I had no real option but to learn to drive pretty promptly, and was soon tearing off around the lanes. Moving to the city didn’t exactly slow me down – my absolute speed may have been lower but the sensation of going too fast was the same. And I knew that it was a risk. When I inevitably attended a speed awareness course, I was astounded by how many people just didn’t know the rules. They were speeding out of ignorance; I was deliberately breaking the laws because it felt good. But two speeding tickets and a minor accident in six months put paid to the fun and I don’t do that so much anymore. The electric thrill was tarnished, which is probably for the best!
I heard a theory once that everyone needs to experience a certain level of risk to feel fulfilled and that being protected just encourages us to look for risks elsewhere. This idea has been put into practice by Dutch engineer Hans Monderman in an attempt to improve road safety:
‘Freedom to assess risk for ourselves is what makes us safer. Rules, controls, signs, traffic lights all reduce our awareness of our surroundings and thus our sense of danger.’
When the signs and road markings are taken away, drivers have to concentrate on what they’re actually doing, not just about following the rules. The innate, collective risk is higher so the personal risks we are willing to take drop significantly. Delightfully called ‘naked’ roads, they seem successful so far – any Londoners who have wandered up Exhibition Road (just the perfect first choice for a naked road!) will have found a easy mix of parked cars, drivers and pedestrians, looking out for each other and existing safely side by side.
When it comes to sex, risk is a complex issue as there are so many different risks to take, from paying inadequate attention to sexual health needs and, if relevant, contraception to the actual sexual practice itself. Breath play and other types of edge play can be very risky in the wrong hands, although the tantalisingly close contact with danger and trust necessary to continue is much of the appeal. Sadly the persisting rape culture means that meeting a stranger in a dark alley remains a risk. Meeting new people and not letting friends know where you’re going is still a risk. But sometimes that’s the point; sometimes that’s the buzz, the excitement, the thrill.
I live a very risk adverse life. I am professionally cautious, I have no interest in drugs or mind-altering substances other than alcohol, I don’t even speed anymore so I’ve looked to other areas to take my risks, and I’ve found that in sex. I only take sexual risks with a partner that I trust explicitly, but those risks are fucking fantastic.
Touch me in a bar when we’re surrounded by people, fuck me in public when we could *so* easily get caught, tell me to be quiet so your parents can’t hear and, damn, I will melt into a massive puddle of lust…
This is post #1 of a planned 6 for Smutathon 2017.
See my other posts in the Smutathon category, don’t forget to donate, and click the hashtag #Smutathon2017 to see what the other writes have created in these fantastic, filthy 12 hours…
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