Hurt Me Good

Hurt me Good
An Erotic Story by RedBud

“I believe that erotica, as a genre, should deal with the theme of erotic desire and, ideally, how desire informs, changes and manipulates the lives of the characters who are desirous.” – Remittance Girl

So here’s a story in honor of Remittance Girl, inspired by What You Want.

•

The humid air shrugged through the heavy chimes.

They gave a slow underwater drift to the room. “Come back,” he says. “You won’t make it here.”

He says that to my back. He’s sitting on a rattan love seat. There’s a trunk between us, stained with hoops of wine, the interstices black with coffee and the cigarette burns and the shipping labels are an ugly smudge. There are two wine glasses. One is full. Mine is empty. I’m lying on my side, flicking my thumb through the frayed edges of the Jamdani draped over the back of a couch that’s seen too much. I don’t answer.

“I know people,” he says.
“You mean you know men,” I correct.
“Yeah…”
“She’s a good fuck. Man, she’ll fuck you dry…”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to.”

I hear the cold snap of a lighter’s lid. I know that lighter. I got it – an Evan’s lighter. Art Deco. Men have a thing for image and he’s got a thing for the 20′s. He knows silent movies and he dresses like the world was never colorized. It’s the way he likes his women – in black and white without subtitles. He’s never told me that. But like everything else, he doesn’t have to.

“Who is she?”
“Why ask?”
“Cause I want to know,” I say.
“You don’t need to know.”
“Is she blond?”
“No.”
“Good tits?”
“Leave her out of this.”
“I know what you buy: good tits and good thighs…”
“I don’t think like that…”
“Yeah you do,” I say. I know the look on his face. “She’ll swallow. She’ll take it up the ass. That’s what a good woman does.”
“You’re mad.”
“You like the silent movie type: starry-eyed, voiceless and all sexed up,” I snarl. “And you’re gonna’ yank them out that trap frame by frame. You like the kind that reek of sex but don’t know it. It was the 20′s. The world was buttoned up. You write a new script for every woman you meet, but it’s your words, your soundtrack, your…” And then I half scream, sucking in the next word.

Yeah, he’s jumped over the trunk.

His left hand is on my neck, holding me down. “God damned, cunt!” he’s snarling. His right hand is smacking my ass, open-palmed. He’s got the cigarette in his left hand. Little burning licks sting behind my ear and my cheek. A raise my ass because that’s what he wants. That’s what I tell myself: It’s what he wants. I raise my ass. I lift my stomach off the cushion of the couch but my hands are behind me trying to cover my ass. He smacks me through the thin linen of my skirt. My blouse comes untucked as I struggle. I bite my lips until I taste blood.

Then he holds me like that, like he wants to look at what he’s done.

I taste dust and upholstery.

He lets go of my neck with a shove. He’s walking. He’s not leaving. He’s just walking the room – abrasive steps. There’s sand on the floor.

There’s a squat wrought-iron balcony off my room. The french doors are open. Drunk hollers echo up the back alley and there’s a whore house just two doors up. I hear a woman’s cries rising in short strangled gasps. I know her. It’s an act. Men like it. They like to think they’re cramming the orgasm into her. It gives them a feeling of control – maybe the only control in their lives. Whores give them that. The missionaries think it’s about sex. But it’s just men wanting the same thing missionaries want. Control. The feeling that somebody gives a damn. She screams before her cries fade into cascading sighs. Then again, maybe she is coming. What do I know?

I turn over. “Give me a smoke.” He taps out a cigarette and lights it with his own.
“Bring it over,” I say.
“Come get it,” he says.
“Bring it over. My ass is sore.”
He likes that. I can see it in the crook of his lips. He likes that a lot. So he brings it over. I didn’t need a fucking cigarette. I just wanted to find out. He’s hard. “You don’t need to live like this,” he says, giving me the cigarette along with the one thing no woman wants from a man: advice.
“That’s rich coming from you,” I say.

“Who’s next?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“You think you’re the only one putting out a sign?”
“You think you’re the first?”

“You think your tits are still worth that much? Men don’t like used currency. There’s always a new skirt with a perkier ass. There’s always fresher tits. There’s always a tighter pussy. You’ve gotten complacent. You’re not the newest dish on the table.”

I throw the wine glass at him. The empty one. He ducks. It shatters behind him – a sound nobody thinks twice about, not in this neighborhood. Polychromatic incisions spread across the floor and reflect on the walls – the god-damn street light outside my window

Cocksucker. I take a drink from the other wine glass. I’m wet. “What about you,” I say.
“Tell me.”
“Men get old.”
He starts another cigarette. Cups the lighter – an affectation. “You know it’s not the same,” he says. “I’m always gonna’ have what women want.”
“Your acerbic wit?”
He pulls a bill from his suit pocket and stands it straight between his fingers. He taps it with his ‘fuck you’ finger. It’s a hundred dollar bill. “Size is everything,” he says. Yeah…. I know what you’re thinking. I should have seen that coming, but my ass is sore and I’m on my second glass of wine.
“You want it?” he asks.

That lights a fuse in my pussy. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t. Men are easy. Their brains are in their cocks. But women are easy too. Their pussies are in their brains. The guys that get laid? They play the game. I’ve seen them do it. They play like they understand. They play like they’re listening. They play like they’ve never been so fucking interested in what you have to say. They get it. And then they get you.All they really know is where your pussy is.

I didn’t give a shit about that $100 dollar bill. It’s what he wants to do with it. It’s who he wants. It’s like an angry hornet in my brain, but it stings good. But the game’s not over.

“Yeah, I want it,” I say.
“Show me.”
“Pay me.”
“Show me you’re worth it.”
“Who’s paying who?” I ask. Checkmate. He gets the message. I don’t have to say it but I do. “It’s not you.” I watch his lips thin. “It’s your money.”

Then he’s coming at me. I stand. He reaches for my arms. I slap him. He grabs that wrist. I slap him with my other hand before he’s got that wrist too. He wants to spit on me. Instead, he turns me round and throws me back on the couch – face down. My cigarette scuds across the floor like a star brought down to earth. It sputters out in a thick spray of glowing ash. I want to make sure. I’m not too drunk to care. I don’t need to set the whole fucking block on fire.

While I’m making sure we don’t set the drapes on fire, he’s on top of me. He’s forcing my face down. His knees are to either side my ass.

Then he’s got both my wrists above me.

I know how this is going to end, but he doesn’t need to know that. As soon as he lets go to unzip, I free a wrist. I reach behind me like I’m really going to push him off.

He grabs my hand and forces my wrists together.

But this isn’t the movies. A man can’t hold a woman’s hands above her unless she lets him. I don’t let him. As soon as he reaches for his fly I’ve got a hand free. I hear his frustration. I can smell it. He leans forward until his lips are next to my ear. “Hold still god damn you! You’ve needed this for a long time!” His fingers find the hollow of my panties and press.

He has no idea.

I hear his zipper. He’s ignoring my flailing hand. He’s forcing up my skirt, hard and fast. He’s ripping off my panties, yanking my hips off the couch as he tears them. Reality? Panties don’t tear easy. It hurts like hell getting panties ripped off. I scream and shout. “That’s right,” he says. But I spread my legs. It’s that kind of hurt.

Then I’m fighting him again.
A little turn of my head and I bite his arm. Hard. Yeah, I don’t want this to be easy.
He shouts and yanks my head back with his left hand. He could have smacked my face. I don’t want him to smack my face. But he knows this is a battle he’s going to win. He’s off me and he’s smacking my ass. He’s smacking it hard. I’m grunting and spitting on the couch. I try to turn but he’s put his knee into the small of my back. Suddenly I stiffen and stop moving. I arch my ass and my head off the couch. He’s got his fingers up my cunt. Now he knows how fucking wet I am. I squirm like a fish on a hook. I can’t get off.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

I’m panting. He moves his hand up and my hips follow. Up. Down Up. My hips follow.

“That’s better,” he says. “You gonna’ hold still?”

I nod.

I’m lying. Soon as he pulls his fingers out I’m clawing at him with my nails. I’m clawing at anything. He knew I’d lie. He didn’t believe me for a second. I hear my shirt tearing. Then he’s tying my wrists above me. He’s tying my wrists to the arm of the couch. The fabric bites and I cry out.

He stands.

I’m breathing hard. I can’t move. He knows it. He looks at me. I look at him from the corner of my eyes, head sideways, nose and lips smashed against my own arm. He’s moving slow now. He wants me to know who’s in control. He’s looking at all of me. He’s stroking his cock. He pulls up what’s left of my shirt and gratuitously stuffs its tattered edges into my mouth.

He’s still stroking his cock with his right hand. His left hand, just the finger tips, is tracing my spine. The curve of my ass, the muscles of my thighs and the soft skin behind my knee. I’m shaking. I groan.

“Open your legs,” he says.

I do. I open my legs wide. I hurry, one knee off the edge of the couch and on the cold hardwood floor. He smacks my ass and I scream and arch. Then he’s tracing the inflamed skin with his finger’s tip. I’m swiveling my hips, groaning. His finger’s tip presses against my anus and enters. My eyes flutter. “There?” he asks. I shake my head. I swivel and offer him my pussy.

Then he’s on me, taking me from behind. Fast. Hard. Blind.

He’s holding my waist and hip hard enough to make me scream into the gag. Maybe it wasn’t so fucking gratuitous. My fingers claw at empty air, wrists trapped. My fucking toes curl. His cock moves furiously in and out of my belly, unobstructed, on a one way trip. It’s my turn. My cries are rising in pitch each time the end of his cock finds the knot buried in my belly. There’s no suspense. There’s no teasing. I’m going to come on his cock. He’s going to make sure I come on his cock. And when I do, he’s going to drive his cock right through my orgasm. He’s going to drive his cock as far into my belly as he can. My orgasm will be the shape of his cock.

And yeah, I come.

I scream. My eyes roll. I arch, and twist and writhe like I was trying to get off his cock – like a fish on a hook. I whimper like I was crying, like I was humiliated, even as my voice snags with each spasm. And then I get what I want. He squeals. His nails are digging into my hip and he’s holding me against his groin like he wanted to drive his cock through my throat. I can feel the length of him twitching in my belly.

I can almost feel his juices flowing through my orgasm.

Then he rolls off me and onto the floor.

He’s breathless. He’s looking out the balcony. It’s raining now – a hot rain. You can hear the steaming spatter on the cobblestone alleyway. It’s the color blue and dark red. He looks at me again. He reaches over and roughly unties my wrists. The skin of my wrists are red with the angry cut of the cloth. I don’t move them. There’s no reason to. I just stare at him with a heavy-lidded gaze.

He wants to say something. His mouth is half open.

He doesn’t. He doesn’t need to. It’s the best fuck he’ll ever have. He knows it.

He gets up.

He straightens his clothes.

I don’t move.

Before he goes he puts a brick of cash on the trunk.

“Aren’t you sick of being some kind of remittance girl?” he asks. His gravelly steps mix with the sound of the water beginning to pour from eaves. The front door thuds shut.

There’s a special kind of hurt for a woman – the kind that makes a woman want more.

The kind men don’t understand.

Yeah…

He hurt me good.

:Will Crimson
August 28 2010