"You know, the scene where Clark Gable carries Vivian Leigh up the stairs."
They were at dinner, discussing everything from work to politics. Now it was movies. The conversation had just taken an interesting turn.
"I'm not sure which one you mean."
"You know," she said. "If you've seen the movie, you know. Rhett carries Scarlett up the stairs after they've quarreled. Rhett had gotten drunk earlier. He threatens her, then he carries her up the stairs. The next time you see Scarlett she's waking up, stretching, with a smile on her face."
"I remember now," he said. "Wasn't that more like rape?"
"Can't rape the willing."
"She didn't seem willing. If I remember correctly, she was fighting him all the way up the stairs."
"Yes, but she ends up enjoying it."
"But he couldn't have known she would enjoy it. In his mind it was a rape."
"It wasn't rape," she exclaimed, exasperated. "Like most men, you just don't get it."
He could see she was getting frustrated with his arguments. They had been dating for about a month. They'd had sex on the second date, and every date since. She always wanted to, she was even a little demanding about it sometimes. It was never that satisfying to him, though. She seemed to enjoy it, and she had orgasms, but she always seemed a little irritated somehow, even when she came. Maybe he was just being insecure. He was, after all, trying to please her.
"Are you saying you would like a man to force himself on you like that?"
"I think every woman has those kind of fantasies."
"That's unresponsive. I asked if you would like it."
"I'd like it if Clark Gable carried me up the stairs."
"What do you think he'd do to you after he got you up there?"
"That's the point. He'd do whatever he wanted to do."
"What if he did something you didn't like"
"Like what?"
"Like, for instance, anal sex?"
"Why do you have to go there?" she asked. "Why would he necessarily want that?"
They had discussed anal sex. She declared it to be disgusting. He had once lightly run his finger across her anus while they were making love, but she had flinched and he quickly withdrew his hand.
"He wouldn't, necessarily. But if he were forcing himself on you, with only his desires in mind, he might choose to do that.
"I don't think Clark Gable would."
"Look," he interrupted, "What I guess I'm really asking is if you would want a real person, a man you know, if you would want him to do that."
"Slow down, cowboy. I'm talking about a fantasy. Besides," she said. "You're not the type."
"What type am I?"
"You're my big gentle teddy bear." She said, smiling.
He motioned for the waiter. "Another bourbon," he said. "A double."
His heart was pounding in his chest as they walked up his drive. He couldn't believe what he was planning to do. His hands fumbled a little as he slipped the key into the lock. When they got inside, he helped her with her coat, as he always did, but instead of hanging it up, he casually tossed it on the floor.
"Hey!" she started, but before she could say anything else, he grabbed her hair, yanked her head back roughly, and forced his mouth on hers. It couldn't even be called a kiss, because before she could kiss back, his mouth was pressed on hers, his tongue forcefully exploring her mouth. Just as she started to respond, he withdrew, though he still held her head bent backwards.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Get on your knees."
"What? What did you..." she started.
"Get on your fucking knees." He pulled down on her hair, forcing her down to her knees next to the sofa. From there, he pushed forward on her head, forcing her face into the cushion. Still holding her hair, pressing downward, he leaned forward and whispered in her ear. "I'm not really sure what we've been doing before, but tonight I promise you one thing. I'm going to fuck you. That's all I know. By the end of tonight you're going to know you've been fucked. In any way I want to fuck you." He released her hair with his right hand and placed his left on the back of her neck holding her firmly. With his right, he pulled her skirt up around her waist. He felt, found the waistband of her hose and tore down roughly. He pulled down hard, pulling past her knees, pulling until her shoes came off with the torn hose. He reached around her, hooked his right hand on the neck of her blouse and jerked down, sending buttons flying everywhere. He quickly unfastened her bra, which clasped in the front.
"You're scaring me. Please stop," she said, half a whimper, half a reproach. "Why are you doing this, why are you so angry with me?"
He paused for a moment, stricken. Had he drank too much whiskey at dinner? Was this crazy? He shook his head to himself. He was sure this was right. He felt it.
He relaxed his grip on her neck and leaned close, whispering "Baby, listen. I'm not angry with you, but I'm glad you're scared. I want you focused on me. You're going to do what I want, what pleases me. Do you understand?" He stroked her hair. "Do you understand?" he asked again, this time with an edge to his voice. She nodded.
He ran his hand over her right breast, squeezing it roughly; more roughly than he'd ever touched her before. He pinched her nipple and she gave a little gasp.
He reached behind her and felt between her legs. His fingers found her opening. She was incredibly wet. Usually it took twice as long to get her half as wet. She was soaking. She felt like a warm pool. Without warning he slid two fingers into her, then a third. He began stroking in and out, not gently. He was rewarded by her immediate intake of breath. Her chest began heaving, as she took in and exhaled air in huge gulps. He'd never seen her like this.
