Content: slut, slapping, consensual non-consent, degradation, crying after sex, unhealthy relationship, force, sadism
If they knew what they wanted, it would make this so much easier. But then again, maybe the only reason I am buzzing their buzzer at 3:15am on a Wednesday is because this isn’t easy. When they let me in and I stumble up the stairs, I have no way of knowing which way this night will go. Maybe they’ll sit me on the couch and feed me snacks and talk my ear off until I’m sober enough to understand this is a bad idea. Maybe they’ll be sullen tonight, quiet, put a movie on or a record until I fall asleep and they nudge me awake with their foot, telling me it’s time to get out. Maybe they’ll have someone else there, and they let me up just so I can hear them through the door. It’s never happened, but I could see them doing something just like that.
Or maybe it will be one of those nights they answer in a silky robe, cigarette held in hand because they know the cherry pucker of their lips on the end drives me mad, that the taste of tobacco and tar on their tongue is the closest I have ever come to addiction. Maybe it’s a night they preen and pose, strutting around so their robe gapes open over their pretty boy flat chest and their brand-new body hair, daring me to stare, daring me to be ogle, until they finally lean forward to spit in my face.
“What, I thought you liked sluts?”
And that makes me all villain, all bully, all mean, grabbing them by their hair and dragging them down, down. They gasp and whine their way onto the floor, on to their knees. I make them kneel on bathroom tile right where the lines of grout cross, and when they wince I slap them, hard, making their cheek bloom red. They just look up at me again, eyes defiant, and whine even louder, their bright red mouth gaping filthily, so far from the cherry pucker they seduced me with. I unclasp my belt, undo my fly, and shove my cock into their taunting mouth. The sound of them choking, their arms flailing, their eyes watering – I smile down at them with immense satisfaction.
I do like sluts, very much so, but only like this.
Only bent over the bed with their robe stripped away, facing the full length mirror across the room. They’re a pervert, they like to watch, and I like to make it hard for them to. I wear my biggest cock, the one that stretches them too tight, the one that makes them bleed if I don’t lube it right. And they tell me no but I ignore it, because they don’t mean it and they’ve told me so. I grab their skinny boy hips and their pretty round ass and I shove it in all the way to the base so they scream in a way that could concern the neighbours.
“Tell me you’re sorry,” I say.
They could be apologizing for anything. For being a slut. For being a brat. For making me violent. For dragging me out here on a rainy weekday night, though really they never ask me to come, I bring myself here. Their sin is irrelevant because we are both just here for the punishment.
They don’t say it, and the omission is permission. I thrust again, harder, and their voice breaks as they cry out.
“No, stop,” they say.
“Say you’re sorry,” I reply.
They don’t, so I sink my nails into their hips.
“Aren’t you going to say you’re fucking sorry?” I demand, thrusting as I do. I pause on the last thrust, dick pulled almost all the way out, watching their face in the mirror. They open their eyes briefly, look at me, and shake their head no.
Every time I think they’ve found the darkest part of me, they reach in deeper.
Over and over I slam into them, relentlessly. I watch tears stream down their face as my dick pounds their hole, I am certain they’ll feel this all day tomorrow. I grab a fistful of their pretty black curls, make them arch back towards me.
“You deserve this,” I tell them. “Do you understand? You fucking deserve this.”
They’re sobbing with their whole body now, howls of ecstatic pain.
“Tell me what you are,” I say, testing if they can talk.
“Yours,” they gasp. “I’m your pathetic slut.”
“I’m your pathetic slut.”
“I’m a pathetic slut.”
“I’m—” their voice breaks, and then it all comes out in a rush. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
The apologies continue in a never ending stream as I pull out and release my grip on their hips. This is when they finally break, this is when they stop their defiance, their poses, their disregard. This is when they finally want me, need me, curling in my arms sobbing, apologizing, and it might not be for anything outside of this room, but I can pretend it is. I can take them in my arms and stroke their pretty messed up curls and kiss the tears from their cheeks. I can pretend the salt water on my lips is more than just catharsis, I can pretend this means something. Maybe these dark parts of yourself can only belong in the bedrooms of people you do not love. Or maybe this is love and we are both too scared to name it, too broken to hold it.
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