Erotica by William Crimson
You know the truism, right? Don’t tell a woman she’s hot as hell when she’s mad as hell. But, Christ, you turned me on; and you were angrier than a thirsty hornet. Hell, I don’t even remember what the fight was about. In fact, I don’t think it mattered. Whatever we decide, the fight was about something else. I know what it was. That’s the fight when some part of me stopped being a boy. I know it’s trite as hell to say that. This was different. We’d had sex before. We’d had sex lots of times; but up to that night I’d never fucked you before. What’s the difference? I’ll do my damnedest to explain. You were bouncing off the walls like a fucking top. The night was hot. You were wearing a tight tank top, the kind that stretches and lifts with two angry cotton tits – the kind no girl wears when she wants to be listened to. You had on your skirt, the light weight one that confesses everything on a sunny day. That’s what I remember. I remember the way your hips snapped when you rifled your finger at my chest. I remember the way your tits were thicker than the cotton holding them. I remember your dark brown hair – just a little longer than your shoulders and slanting over your glare. I remember your legs from the knees down and that they were parted. Ask me if I remember what you were saying? Not a fucking thing. You want to know what I was thinking? You know what makes a man want to fuck an angry woman? Her passion. All I remember is how fucking beautiful you were, on fire, and that my cock was rock hard and ready to be inside all that fucking passion. You’re in my face. There’s a sheen of sweat just below the hollow of your throat and the hem of your hair, like you’d already been hard at work fucking. Now I’ll tell you the truth. I was scared, not of you, but of what I wanted to do to you; and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t imagined it in and out of a day, every other day, since the hour I met you. I was scared that there are some things a man shouldn’t do to a woman. Your wrists were right there. I grabbed them, lifted them straight over your head and walked, god-dammit, backward until there was a wall against your back and me in front of you. You looked at me like I’d just slapped you. Then you thrashed. You kicked. You pulled. You writhed like you were in heat. You spit in my face. You spit again. You didn’t do or say the one thing that would have freed you. Sure, I’m stronger than you. I held your wrists over your head. They’re slender and I can easily wrap my fingers around them. But that’s not what this was about. You didn’t want to know if I was stronger. It wasn’t exhaustion when you stopped; when you looked me in the eyes, tearful, as if you saw a stranger. I lowered my head. I sucked your tit into my mouth, through the cotton, and bit. Your head snapped back, your knees came together and you arched your back. God-damn right. I stood. I still forced your wrists over your head. Look at me like that – like I own you. I knew I was going to take and you knew it too. You’re a woman. Your lips at my shoulder blade, your tongue tasting the sweat at my throat, confessed it. I could take you whenever I wanted. I kicked your ankles apart. I forced you to your knees with one hand and kept your wrists locked above you with the other. I was in control and that’s what I’d always wanted. I fumbled with my zipper, gave up and shoved my jeans down. I remember the way you looked at me just before I filled your mouth with cock. They changed the minute my cock reached the back of your throat, when you began sucking, glancing up at me as if waiting for my approval. I don’t remember how long I kept you like that. I remember what I said – that there were only two four letter words that belonged in a woman’s mouth, a man’s cock and come. Your eyes were half-dollars when your throat began to fill with come. That’s right. Swallow. That’s where it goes. But I wasn’t done with you. I lifted you by the hair. I yanked your head back, licked your throat. Your hands were free. Your obscenities were laced with the scent of a man’s come but you needed more. You were pushing at me, clawing my chest. I wrenched your wrists over your head again. You spit at me. You told me to fuck myself but I didn’t let go until your mouth was parted, your eyes a question, subdued and with a desire for my come somewhere else. I yanked you from the wall. I pushed you backward, like before, but this time against a table’s edge. Your eyes never left mine. Call it a dance, the oldest that a man and woman know – and that we’re born knowing. I was leading. You were following. I shoved your wrists above you with one hand. I yanked your panties down and over your thrashing legs. Fuck you! – you cried. Go to fucking hell! – you cried. You were testing me. I wedged my hips between your thighs. Another obscenity dangled on your lips before it was lost in a sudden cry, the arch of a back, the abrupt spread of your legs, the throwing back of your head until only your ass and top of your head kept you on the table. Your feet were like a ballerina’s – stiff and straight. I didn’t stop after that. I yanked your top over your tits. You don’t fucking get to hide anything from me. All of you. You’re fucking mine. I’ll make you naked. I’ll fuck you. And you’ll kneel and kiss my cock when I’m done. The table legs ground into the grit of the floor each time my cock found, in you, a new groan or cry. Sure, you were telling me to fucking piss but I swear to God your thighs were never wider. And when you knew what was coming, your body begged for it – bent, swiveled, coiled, arched and soaked my groin. You licked my arm, you sucked my bicep, you opened your pussy with the lifting of your knees. Your eyes didn’t once leave mine. I lead. You followed. Your orgasm caressed my own, was filled by my mine, and marked as belonging to me. You didn’t dare move. You lay on the table with your legs wide, like a woman should, until the music stopped. And, honey, I don’t claim to read your mind, but tell me something didn’t happen that night that filled a need in you as dark and unutterable as my own.
June 13 2013: Will Crimson
- A penpal and sometime contributor to our blog sent me a tidbit of flash fiction which she said was in the style of Will Crimson. It inspired me to write the story above. And below is what she wrote:
Remember the time when she surrendered and you won? The quiet moment when she admitted what you proudly knew was inevitable. When she struggled, with her wrists in your one firm hand, thrashing and writhing futilely. When her anger towards you was greater than her passion. When you wouldn’t let her get away. You held her against the wall until her struggles exhausted her. Until she went limp and dropped her head on your chest. Until she fell into your immovable body. When she slowly lifted her lips to your skin. When she acknowledged that you are the conqueror. When she admitted, with her tongue, that you can take her whenever you want. When she admits to herself and to you, that you can Make. Her. Want. It.