Fighting It

She wondered where these feelings came from; the feeling of wanting to rip things apart, to throw things, to break things. She could feel it, a crushing, tight sensation in her chest. Her breathing was choppy and uneven. Her hands curled into fists, the long nails digging into her palms, and she took several long, deep breaths. It didn't help.

She knew he was coming over soon. She both wanted him there and wanted to be alone. She knew that she would not be able to hide the way she felt. He knew her so well. He could gauge her emotions so easily, sometimes with just a quick glance at her face.

As she paced around the living room, she could feel her body heating up. Her thoughts were racing, and she was trying to sort through the myriad of emotions surging inside herself. She felt angry, frustrated, lonely, and a deep sense of not having any control over her own life. Friends made plans, then broke them. The harder she worked at her job, the busier it got. Some of her friends were married, and unavailable at a moment's notice due to family obligations. She felt at the whim of everyone else in the world, that nothing was her decision, that nothing ever happened at her desire or need.

Suddenly remembering a conversation he and she had once, about a Dom ripping or cutting his sub's clothing off with a knife. It was a symbol of a new beginning, a way for her to let go of old baggage. She dashed into the bedroom and pulled out an old dress that had seen better days, the colors faded and washed out. She dug through her underwear drawer, found an old pair, and a bra. She threw off her clothes, and put the others on. She hoped he would remember the conversation when he realized what she was wearing.

Just as she slid the dress over her head and smoothed it down, she heard his car drive up. She went and stood in the living room, her feet and legs bare, and tried to steady herself. She wanted so much right then; so much it was like a fever burning inside her.

He came in the door, his eyes traveling over her body, finally settling on her face. She could almost hear his thoughts clicking rapidly. She watched him studying her. She knew the exact second he understood, and they stared at each other for a long moment. She felt her hands curling into fists again, her body preparing itself.

"Are you sure?" he asked quietly.

Taking a deep breath, she said, "Yes."

She started to back away from him, suddenly unsure, but he gave her no opportunity to run. Quickly, he came across the few feet separating them, and grasped the front of the dress in his big hand. His other hand gripped her hair, and he held her there, staring into her eyes.

"So, you want to fight, my little pet?" he asked her.

She could only nod helplessly, his hands holding her body captive. He knew what she wanted. She wanted to kick, and claw, and scream, and vent her frustration at the world. He understood her frustration, her anger, her deep need for reassurance and love, her need to feel beautiful and desired. But underneath it all, he knew that she wanted to be shown that he was stronger than her, that he could control her.

He gripped her hair tighter, and moved his mouth next to her ear. "Go ahead, girl."

Her response was explosive. She tried to jerk away, her hands slapping, then wrapping around his wrist. He released her dress, and quickly bent her over, pushing her head down with the hand wrapped in her hair. He held her body against his, and smacked her ass, hard. She yelped, and struggled to get away. He spanked her ass several times, each blow with a calm, almost brutal strength. She squirmed and squealed and shoved against him.

Releasing her hair, he grabbed her wrist, pinning her arm behind her. He moved her a few steps, and bent her over the living room chair. Again, he smacked her ass several times. "You can't win, pet," he said softly.

It infuriated her that he was right, but it didn't stop her from trying. He continued to spank her with hard, swift strokes. She started kicking her feet and struggling harder, but it only slid her body further over the top of the chair, raising her ass up higher. His hand was like iron around her wrist. She grunted and wiggled and groaned, but it was impossible to get away from his grip.

Holding her down with his upper body, his free hand slid the dress up over her hips. He took the knife he always carried out of his pocket, and flipped it open. "Hold still," he snapped. She froze, and then felt the cold steel of the blade on her thigh. He slid the knife under the panties, and cut them slightly. Returning the knife to his pocket, he ripped the panties from her. The sound of the tearing fabric was loud in the quiet room. She shuddered.

Sliding his hand over her bare bottom, he relaxed his grip on her wrist. Suddenly, she raised her upper body and twisted away from him. Reaching out with his hand, he grabbed the dress and tugged her back. With both hands, he tore the dress from her shoulders, the buttons flying. He pressed her up against the wall, his muscular thigh sliding between hers. His hands molded around her breasts, squeezing them roughly. Their eyes locked.

"Had enough?" he asked. She shook her head. She was panting, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Reaching again for the knife, he cut through the bra, the cold blade skimming over her cleavage. Pulling it away from her breasts, his hands again mauled her flesh. Her hands came up to grip his wrists, trying to pull his hands away. He pulled her body slightly away from the wall, then slammed her back against it, his big body trapping her there.

Flicking his thumbs roughly across her nipples, he bent his head and began to nibble, then bite her neck. She groaned, a deep, sensual sound that made him shudder. Her head dropped back, unconsciously giving him greater access to her tender neck. He pushed his thigh up between her legs, grinding it against her pussy. She pressed down, and her hands tightened on his wrists.

She shoved his hands away from her breasts, and pushed him back. Her chest was heaving, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. She hated her own body sometimes, the cravings, the deep needs she had. She didn't want to surrender to him. She was afraid of losing herself. The fear made her stronger.

She wiggled out of his arms, and tried to break away. But he was faster, stronger, calmer. He merely pushed her again, forcing her face first against the wall. He grabbed both of her wrists, and pulled her arms behind her. He hoarsely whispered in her ear, "You can't win, sweetheart." Somehow the words infuriated her more. She growled deep in her chest and struggled to escape.

Gripping her tightly, one hand holding both her arms, the other wrapped around her, he positioned her over the dining room table. His feet pushed her feet wider apart. He held her down, and began to spank her ass. One leg hooked over her leg, holding her steady. She sputtered and squirmed and yelled with every hard swat. "God damn it, let me go."

"Not just yet," he replied.

He shoved three fingers into her soaking wet cunt from behind. He finger fucked her, his arm holding her down against the table. Her naked breasts were squashed against the wood. He fucked her so deep and hard it pushed her up on the table, her feet lifting off the floor. Relentlessly he continued driving his thick fingers in and out. They were dripping wet with her juices.

Grunting and groaning, she thrashed on the table. His weight and greater strength kept her there. She screamed and tried to lift her upper body up. He simply pressed against her harder. He pulled his fingers out and smacked her ass hard, then rammed them back inside her.

"Whose cunt is this, my dear?" he barked.

"It's mine!" she yelled.

"No, pet, it's not," he replied harshly. He continued the sensual assault on her cunt, fingertips stroking against the smooth walls again and again. He twisted his fingers, and pressed upwards against her Gspot, making her groan louder.

Finally the fingers in her cunt communicated past her anger and frustration. She was lost. She sobbed, and began to move her hips towards his fingers. Her cunt gripped them tightly, never wanting to let them go. He slowed the attack on her dripping pussy, and began fucking her in long, smooth strokes of his fingers. She spread her legs wider apart.

Loosening his hand on her wrists, he leaned down and spoke quietly into her ear. "I'll ask you one more time. Whose sweet, wet, juicy cunt is this?"

She groaned again, and her hips moved to meet his thrusts. He knew what it would cost her to say the words. He knew the battle that waged within her. Having been beaten down by a cruel, heartless man in the past, both physically and emotionally, she cherished her independence, her inner strength, her ability to handle life alone. He slowly, gently penetrated her with his fingers, over and over.

Tears sliding down her cheeks, she gave in to her need for this man. She rocked her hips back against him. She said the one word she had come to almost hate. "Yours."

He leaned down and kissed her shoulder and neck and positioned himself between her legs. Releasing himself from his jeans, he replaced his fingers with his rock hard cock. Her hands gripped the edge of the table, and she moved with him. Slowly he fucked her, his big hands settling on her hips, pulling her back against him.

She felt like she couldn't get close enough. She moaned and whimpered, trying to move backwards, to take him deeper into her body. The fingers of his right hand slid down to her throbbing clit, and he rubbed it hard and fast. She exploded under him, her body convulsing and her pussy clenching around him. The orgasm seemed endless.

When it subsided, her body trembling and quivering beneath him, he took her for his own pleasure. Slamming into her again, his hands bruised her hips as he pulled her onto his cock. A few savage strokes later, he found his own release, bellowing as he did. She felt every pump of his strong cock as he filled her.

When his vision cleared, and his body stopped shaking, he pulled out of her and turned her around. Carrying her to bed, he lay her down and stripped quickly. Stretching out beside her, pulling her into his arms, he held her against his warm chest, their legs tangling up together. He kissed the last traces of her tears away. He rocked her gently as he waited for her to calm down. They had done this before, and he knew she needed time to let the emotions cool down. But he was a patient man. He smiled and simply waited.

Fighting It by Cathy O'Niel copyright 2006