Storm In Februari

"You want me to fuck you?" He asks in a mocking voice. "I can make you regret that."

"No, stop it", I say. "Let me go, seriously."

I tug at his tight grip. He acts like he doesn't hear me.

His hand travels down my body. Not to tease, not lingering anywhere, just heading straight for my crotch.

"Let's see how much of a slut you are..." he mutters under his breath.

He hoists my skirt up, pushes my legs apart. I protest, try to close them again.

"Not like this! Let me go, I don't want it like this!"

Ignoring me, he pushes my legs apart again, this time more forcefully. He slides between them, making my kicking knees powerless. I curse. His hand roughly rubs my panties as he looks at me intently, raises his eyebrows.

Oh god, they're wet.

Slowly, he brings his face close to mine, full of disdain. His fingers unceremoniously pull the fabric of my panties aside, rubs his palm over my wet, swollen lips. Exposed to the air, I now feel how wet my pussy really is, how much my body has betrayed me.

"Your cunt tells the truth, I see," he says. "It shows who you really are. Doesn't it?"

Roughly, he pushes his fingers inside of me. My face contorts, by body squirms. Trying to get away has no effect whatsoever, those fingers are knuckle deep inside of me. I don't want to feel pleasure, but I do. And he is right on top of it, observing as closely as possible. It's all I can do not to moan. I hate my guts. I don't, don't want to like this.

"I've been trying to get you to act respectable. All that training to make you obedient. I thought I was the boss here. I deserve some respect. But, you know, something is not right."

He pauses a second, works his fingers inside of me like it's a chore. Why, god why does that turn me on?

"I am paying for things so you will let me fuck you... Do you realize what that makes you?"

A snarl escapes his twisted mouth:

"You are a whore."

That... that hurt. He has never called me that before.

Indignant, want to bark something back, but he pulls his fingers out of my pussy and covers my mouth with his sticky hand, muffling my words.

"You are a filthy whore," he says, drawing out the words, staring into my eyes, taking in the hurt that shows in them. "And you get off on this."

I want to shake my head, but he has me in a tight grip. His one hand on my mouth, his other hand on my wrists. It's enough to make my head swim with all the previous times we've ended up like this. The sweating and moaning that followed. This time, it's different though. Whatever he says, I do not, not get off on this.

"Can you taste yourself on my hand?" He asks. I don't answer.

"Lick my hand", he orders. I don't want to.

"Lick my hand, or you'll regret it", he says, as his fingers dig in my cheeks. His eyes shoot fire. I honestly fear what he would do. Softly, my tongue licks at his palm, tasting myself on him.

"God, you are filthy. This is too easy", he says, with a slight disappointment in this voice. "Enough."

He wipes the wetness from his hand on my unwilling face and reaches down. He frees his cock from his pants, holds my panties out of the way. Arousal mixes with a sense of how wrong this all is. I remember I didn't want this, at all. I didn't smash a couple of plates against the wall to end up like this! I twist, try to get my knees between us. For a moment, I collect all my strength to push him off me.

And it works....

It works!

But I'm not prepared for the rage that follows. Not prepared at all.

He is on top of me in no time, and slaps me in the face, hard.

I scream, shocked...

My breath is ragged, shakey. Tears fill my eyes, but he is between my legs again, pushing his cock in me. Deep. Again. And again.

He languidly fights my hands grabbing at his clothes, calmly keeps pushing my knees apart, as he fucks me, ignoring me. Every way I want to protect myself, he breaks, everything I want to cover, he exposes. I feel horrible, lying here, my skirt around my waist, my shirt half open, showing a nipple. It's not even sexy. But he fucks me like he doesn't even care I'm there. Hard, deep, rythmically.

Softly, I whimper as he assaults me. I feel myself slipping, wanting to give in, but I'm proud. Something inside of me desperately tries to hold on to the anger, the indignation, to save... save what?

"Be good for once and stop that", he says, his face slowly turning red. "I'm just taking what I paid for."

He's just fucking to get off now. Grunting, using my pussy like it could be anyone's. Like he owns it. Maybe... he does, in a way.

"You know I'm right," he says.

The thoughts mill around in my head, pulling at the last things I have to hold on to. It's like a roof in a storm about to be blown off.

This pious wife thing, the thing that disgusts me the most, it's an exchange. It's it's trading financial security for obedience. Money... for sex.

Something in my body is building up. His obscene grunting on top of me is doing something. Why have I stopped fighting? Why has my whimpering turned into moaning? I'm not getting off on this... I can't be getting off on this.

And then he grabs me, his fingers dig in my cheek. His face is red. He is about to cum. Oh god, I am about to cum. He breathes heavily in my ear as he fucks me hard, fast. Please no, don't push me. Don't...

"Whore."

No! Fuck. Yes...

Fuck, yes.

There it is. It rips me apart. I am cumming. I hate him. I am cumming hard. So hard. I hate, hate him. It's a blow in the stomach. It's scattering my brain. He makes me cum, he makes me sick. I'm everywhere, I'm falling apart. I want to scream. My ears ring. I will break... something breaks... I'm a... I'm a whore... A whore...

I want to cry, I have to cry. Tears - shaking - tears, crying. Crying is so good. So, so satisfied. So satisfied.

So satisfied.

So sad.

This night the sky has cleared. The morning is a spotless blue, like brand new china.

Thoughts come up and float around in my head. About exchanging money for sex. About the arrangements the women in my life had made. About pious wives and strict husbands. About him hitting me in the face... twice. About the real me. But none of them stick. They are drifting clouds against a clear sky.

When I enter the living room of the apartment, I notice a star of cracks in the glass door to the balcony. Something - or someone - has damaged it, without breaking the glass.

I stare to where the sea meets the sky, through the cracks.

He walks up behind me, softly, tentatively puts his arms around me. I sigh. Caress his hand. Don't look over my shoulder.

"You didn't safeword," he says.

I don't know whether to nod or shake my head. Carefully, I trace the cracks in the glass.

"I know," I say.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"It's O.K.," I whisper back.

I am empty. My insides are blown out. I don't know if these weekends will be the same, or how things will go from here. I think about returning home in a couple of hours. Of being able to walk past those staring windows and not feel guilty. I won't feel guilty. And I won't feel disdain. None of these thoughts will stick, clouds will drift, storms will pass. I feel sad but clean. Spotless and blue. Maybe it's really O.K..

I am ready for spring.

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