Right now, I want to be degraded.
I want you to come to me, fresh from sex with him, and to shove it in my face. I want you to brag about him, about how big he is, about how he compares favourably. I want you to make me jealous of his ownership, of his every caress on your skin, even though you're not mine.
Even more than that, I want you to force me beyond my morals, until I spring up and take you like you need me to.
I want you to hate how I make you feel, even as you scream my name. Hate how you return to me, when we fight and you can't stand to be in the same room as I am. Hate how, not too much later, you are on you knees in the shower, my cock down your throat, or I am between your legs, returning the favour. The water isn't soothing; in fact, frequently it's scalding, but neither of us notice. For me, it's just another burn on my heart.
I want to feel truly degraded, to feel you sink down, slowly, to my level, demean yourself, by being with me, your body sinking in actuality as I rise to meet you. To feel your anger, your disgust, your arousal, as you impale down onto my cock, then to watch as you erupt in complete, guilty ecstasy, then slap me across the face for your- and mine- weakness. I want you to take me in his bed, in his house, near his work. I want to be the other man, the one he never knows about. I don't care about you; don't love you at all. I hate you.
I'm sure you remember, when we first met; I watched on, as your boyfriend and you had a very public argument; how you fought, in the bar, and he gave up, leaving you there. I remember how you tossed your hair, how pretended that it meant nothing to you, how your eyes flashed with angry tears.
I remember, hitting on you, knowing you were taken, and hating both myself for doing it and you for being so receptive. I hate the memory of how good it was, fucking you senseless in the rest rooms after he left, when you told him to. When you screamed his name, as I was inches into you, and I came within you, no condom or protection.
I'm sure you hated me even then. God knows, you loved your boyfriend; you were crying as you left me, naked and fulfilled, in that tiny space. But you called, almost the next day. You came into that bar, my bar, and asked for more than a drink; how you tried to be nice, to be cool, until I told you to drop the bullshit.
But now, I want us to fight, and keep fighting until we're both breathless, and you scratch my face, and then I kiss you. Normal people have angry sex; ours goes beyond that description. We are ruinous, apocalyptic, abaddonic; there are not words to describe our personal disaster.
You hit me, even as you pull me closer and bruise my neck with your teeth. My hands are holding you down, my fingers digging into your thighs hard enough to bruise, as they clench around me, your heels hammering into my buttocks. I can't decide if your moans are from arousal or pain, then decide I don't care.
You scream the word bastard, as you tear open the skin on my back with your nails, as I enter your body, your thighs parting willingly, invitingly. You bite down, on my neck; earlier on, in our hateful relationship, you almost bit my ear off. I just know you've broken the skin. That's fine.
My thrusts are sporadic, as you fight me still; your hips buck, high enough to keep me sheathed within you fully, as I raise up to push down. Not that it matters, though; it only deepens my thrusts.
You pull my hair, ripping my head back as you bring your other palm across, slapping me hard. I see satisfaction in your eyes, and I growl.
You shiver; I feel it, rippling through your body and along into mine. I pin you arms above your head, and withdraw. You whimper as I turn you over, bringing your knees in underneath you.
Tell me you're my whore. Tell me how bad I am, making you serve me, making you my slave; even worse, make me say the same. I take you hard, harder than I did from the other position, as hard as I ever could. I release your arms, pinning you with my body, my own teeth clamped down onto the side of your neck; I know that'll leave a mark. You thrash, and you cry, and I no longer have any doubt why you are crying; your body squeezes my cock, and your hand runs underneath you, rubbing as your forefinger and thumb tighten around my base.
You jack me, as I hold within you. I love it; have always loved it. You whisper, how you need me, hate me, wish I was dead. How you despise me, how you love my cock. How you wish, as much as you possibly could, that your boyfriend was responsible for how you feel right now. That he could be like me, that he was like me; that he could hate you.
I wish it was him, too, I tell you, as I come.