Frustration

She likes to fight him whenever they go to bed together. She wriggles. She squirms. She clamps her legs together, or kicks and struggles like a wildcat. Rakes him with her fingernails – lightly, but not too lightly. There’s a balance to it. She doesn’t want to hurt him, no. She wants to frustrate him. Deny him for as long as she can so that when he does take her, he’ll take her with violence.

It’s scary, but scary in a good way. Like a rollercoaster – up and up and up, you go, and for every inch you climb you know there’ll be a corresponding fall, sudden and terrifying. You know it’s coming. She knows it’s coming. She can see it in his eyes, which are bright and focussed and filled with something which, as she continues to fight and wriggle and disobey him, comes to look more and more like anger.

She’ll say things, if she can think of things to say. Rude things. “Get fucked,” she says, when he tries to kiss her. She pulls away. “Limp dick,” she says. “If you were a real man you’d be in me already.” And if, even for a moment, he pulls back from her, “That’s all you’ve got? Pathetic. Pa-thet-ic.”

When it comes, the moment, the crest of the rollercoaster, the explosion, the fall… she regrets these taunts. Regrets everything, if only for a moment. There’s a terror to it, an uncontrolled, gut-wrenching moment of oh fuck what have I done. And then, following that moment, there’s nothing, because his hands will be on her, and he will be in her, and she will have lost the ability, more or less, to think of anything at all.

In his hands, then, she’ll be a pliable, abject little animal. Grabbed and thrust down, face down into the pillows. Arms pinned, keening. Head wrenched back by the hair. Sloppily face-fucked. Cunt filled. Face slapped one and twice and again and again until she’s limp and sobbing and his full weight on top of her. Words gone. Resistance gone. With that anger, he fucks it all out of her. Leaves her disassembled, softened.

Afterwards it’s easier, suddenly, not to fight. It’s easy to curl herself into him. Find that soft place inside her she cannot access any other way. When she finds her voice again she speaks in whispers, into his collarbone. She nuzzles him. He’s soft too, his frustration vented.

“Get fucked,” she whispers, gentle, teasing. Words like kisses. She’s telling him she loves him. Murmured. “That’s all you’ve got? Get fucked. Get fucked, get fucked, get fucked.”