Ice Cream

He promises to buy her ice cream if she lets him fuck her arse. And, while he’s fucking her arse, she finds that she cannot stop thinking about that, about the hint of patronising mockery in his voice as he made the offer. About the way it made her feel, quite unexpectedly: small and slutty and simple and wrong.

It’s all the things it implies: that she’s a dim-witted creature whose favour can be bought with something sugary and cheap. That ice cream is an adequate recompense for the pain and the indignity of his cock in her arse. That she isn’t expected to enjoy being fucked – only to endure it in the hopes of some basic reward.

He’s gentle at first. Then less so. By the end he’s pounding into her from behind while she grips a pillow. She feels small, so small. And he feels big. Her eyes water. She bites down on a mouthful of fabric to keep from screaming.

She thinks about ice cream. He comes, his dick twitching inside her. Afterwards, curled up on the bed, her arse burning, she feels like she’s been properly used for the first time in months. She feels deliciously, sluttily taken advantage of.

It’s a feeling she loves, when it comes from him.

Later, they do go out for ice cream. They sit in a booth in an empty dessert shop on a quiet street. It’s late. She can hear the lights buzzing. Her arse hurts, still, like he just finished fucking her. She cuddles up to him and devours the ice cream slowly – no bites, just licks.

For a few minutes, sitting there in perfect silence, she allows herself to be the simple creature, the dumb slut, the girl who can be coerced with something as simple as an ice cream cone. She eats the ice cream cone. And it is sweet, and cold, and satiny, and perfect, every last bit.