Hounds of Love

He watches me wipe engine grease on my trousers.

The sun beats down hard on us both. I wonder if he'll go away if I leave him waiting long enough. I use an old rag to swipe at the sweat that has collected above my brow. It makes matters worse, adding to the smears of black and brown, dirt and oil.

It's been months since I've caught a glimpse of him; more since we've spoken. Ever since my fella caught us pawing at each other, all teeth and claws and snarling, like rabid dogs in heat.

I sit in the dirt and bend my legs at the knees, oil-stained rag in my lap, digging in my heels and claiming the territory as my own. If he wants to cross this path, it'll be him that falters, not me.

We both know better.

I could've gone a lifetime without catching his scent, and no one'd ever be the wiser. He'd live behind my eyelids whenever my mind got too quiet, whenever my insides started to ache for a touch no one else could come close to providing. 

I should have known better.

His boots crunch against the sunburnt earth, spurs clicking against their own screws with each step. He stops right in front of me; I hold my gaze steady, settling somewhere around the scuffed knees of his leathers.

"Down, girl." He says. I haven't heard him speak in so long, something in my stomach pulls taut when he gives his command; that tone coating my insides like warm, dripping honey.

"Fuck you."

He doesn't tell me a second time. 

His fingers twist in my hair, pulling me upright. Part of my body lifts off the ground, and I scramble to get my knees beneath myself, trying for stability. The scuffle knocks me off balance, and he lets me go with a shove, pushing 'til I'm on my back in the dirt, his shadow blocking the sun from my eyes.

I am denied any moment of reprieve; no split second to gather my wits and brush the dirt from the sides of my face. He presses his boot into the side of my neck, holding me where I lie.

"Missed you, baby girl."

When I don't give him what he wants -- whatever the fuck that is -- he shifts his weight to my windpipe, pressing until I'm gasping, struggling for air. He doesn't relent until I'm red in the face, clawing at the ankle of his boot, sputtering out little sounds.

"What's that?" He asks, his weight lightening. 

It isn't enough to get the air I need. I suck in pitiful, shallow breaths; my chest heavy and aching. My body protests the abuse, but my brain lights up. All the nerve endings beneath my skin flare, craving more.

Something in my face must change, because he presses and relents again, and again, letting me writhe a little longer beneath his boot. 

By the time his two feet are on the ground, those pathetic little noises of mine have softened out. He hadn't pressed so hard my mouth started spraying spittle. Instead, he'd found the point just before my body rejected the touch entirely. He'd held me there longer, pushing and letting go, forcing me to dance along the knife's edge. 

I lift my hand, trying to clutch at my neck and assess the damage. He catches me before I get the chance, stepping on my forearm and pressing me into the earth with the full force of his body weight. 

He'd been going easy on my throat. As it dawns on me, a smile begins to pull at my lips.

He crouches; the knee of his leathers pressing into my forearm, taking the space his boot has occupied only a moment prior. With one quick movement, he wipes that smile off my face with a strike against my cheek, leaving my skin raw and my head spinning.

But I don't scream or thrash; my shoulders soften and my back relaxes into the dirt. 

He puts his gloved finger in my mouth. I let my teeth close around the leather, holding tight. He withdraws, leaving the glove behind. 

"I missed that pretty mouth," he tells me, taking the glove from between my lips. He uses the dirty pad of his index finger to trace the line of my bottom lip. I let it jut out into a pout, so that he might linger there. As if he knows what I ask of him, he denies me.

He maintains his patience. Uses the limp glove, held in his balled up fist, to prolong my suffering. He lifts the hem of my cotton t-shirt, damp with sweat and stained with the faint, ever-present glow of the desert floor. I feel the callouses at the edges of his fingers as he touches my skin with a gentleness that doesn't come easy to him. I watch his face, finding an old tenderness I used to see in him.

Such sentiment is short lived. He drops the glove curls his fingers around the cotton of my threadbare t-shirt. It's barely a rag, after so many years of wear and use. All he has to do is tug at its fibres and the weave begins to unravel, splitting under the pressure he places on it, coming apart under his strong grip.

It unfolds around my body. He doesn't bother to discard it, now that he's got what he wanted: to see me. To expose me beneath the harsh desert sun, both of us knowing full well this scrapyard isn't quite private property.

No bra. He grins, his tongue poking through his teeth in a way I always found endearing.

"That's new." A silver bar skewered through my left nipple, adorned with gauche, blue gems. He grabs it between his first two knuckles and pulls at it so hard I'm afraid it draws blood. The way that it makes me struggle has him laughing. He ducks his head till he can take my nipple in his mouth.

He's so warm, the way he touches me so certain; my hips buck upward, and he catches them before they get the chance to find any kind of contact, pressing me down into the dirt with a hand stronger than I could challenge.

His teeth close around my nipple. I feel him breathe against my chest, panting softly.

He lowers his head, sinking his teeth into the flesh of my breast. I yelp, writhing beneath his grip; my body trying to free itself from constraint as he holds me in place.

"You don't want it, baby girl?"

I make a sound in the back of my throat, shaking my head, pressing myself down into the earth. "I want it, Daddy -- I want it."

He bites me harder. My skin splits, and tiny little pinpricks of blood start to dribble into the valley between my breasts.

"Fuck -- fuck --" My insides pull themselves taut -- did I cum? Jesus fucking Christ, did his teeth make me cum?

My thighs quiver while he holds me steady. My head spins; my heart soars; my insides burn.

He takes the opportunity - this prolonged moment of thoughtlessness on my part - to unbuckle my belt, unzip my fly, and slip his fingers beneath my underwear. He touches my entrance without pushing his fingers inside, making me whimper, my hips jerking.

"So fucking wet," he tells me, "you like it that much?"

"Mmh - mm-hmm --"

"You want it?"

I nod my head. Words fail me, so I don't attempt them.

"Take your pants off."

I do as commanded, discarding my jeans and underwear in the same movement. They gather at my ankles, kept in place by my boots.

It's good enough for him.

He brings his hand down hard over my clit, striking me between my legs. I shout, surprised at such sudden sensation. The shock drowns out the pain, some. He laughs at the way I respond.

"What do you want?" He asks me.

I can't respond. I try to lift my hips toward his hand, but he hits me again; twice as hard. This time, it hurts. My cunt stings, throbbing beneath the pain of impact.

He hits me again.

"What do you want?"

"F -- fuck -- fuck me --"

Not good enough. Another strike between my legs. This time, I cry out. Each time is worse than the last; I can't tell if it's his frustration bleeding into it, taking from his ability to control the strength behind each slap, or if I become more and more sensitive each time he makes contact.

"F --" I groan, my eyelids flittering. I shake my head, as if it'll dislodge the tears beginning to prickle at the corners of my eyes. "Daddy, fuck me with your fingers."

He lifts his hand --

"Please! Please."

I'm spared his final strike. When he lowers his hand against me, it isn't gentle, but it isn't that.

He doesn't warm me up with a finger, doesn't apply slow and gentle pressure to let me respond in gradual increments. He doesn't need to. I'm so wet, the juice from my pussy has started to pool in the dirt beneath me, leaving an embarrassingly visible puddle that tells him he doesn't need to be cautious.

He pushes two fingers inside of me.

"Still so tight, mm? You been good while I've been gone?"

He presses forth, until he gets a little noise out of me. His fingers curl, finding my g-spot with ease. He angles himself down and pulls upward with the full force of his hand, until my cunt is squelching, full of liquid searching for release.

"You - wont." I get out between pathetic little whines, "you won't."

Of course he will.

The pads of his fingers scrape against my g-spot. My stomach burns, and there's nothing I can do. I try to tighten the muscles of my stomach and hold fast, but it just makes my cunt clench around his fingers sooner.

"No - no, don't --"

I squirt on his hand, his wrist, my own thighs, and the desert floor beneath me.

He pulls out, using the palm of his hand to rub at my clit, so wet from my pussy it doesn't pick up any friction at all. I squirt again - or keep squirting - miserable, humiliated, my nerve endings on fire and begging for more.

"Look at all that fucking mess you made," he tells me, reaching up and flicking his fingers at my face. Not enough for him, he forces his fingers inside my mouth; all four of them, making me take them, tasting myself on my tongue.

...