(this is one of many fantasy pieces I’ve written over the years. But I didn’t start writing them about her until late summer 2012 when I was trying to make sense of some of the more traumatic events that took place in our short encounter. This is the first a many that I had originally hoped to incorporate in a novel, but later decided against that idea, although I might collect them along with erotic poetry into a volume later. The points of view of each varies depending on the incident. This, as with some others, I’ve tried to get inside her head to better understand and event that had confused me early on. Most these fantasies try to get a deeper understanding, while still trying to be provocative).
This isn’t the man she wanted to be with and wouldn’t be
with him if not for that kiss.
Why did that other man have to kiss her and not follow
through, leaving her hot in her car as he fled back to his wife?
That’s why she went to that dark dive up the street from her
apartment, aching to finish what the kiss had started.
There were always men there who she could rely on to want to
fuck her, even if most of them were just too sleezy for her to want to and knew
she would have to pick the best of a bad lot.
Why did that man do this to her, his lips stirring up something
inside her he was unable or unwilling to finish? Why did he feel the need to go
home. She could still feel his warm fingers touching her breasts, leaving her
no choice to find someone who would take the next step, and eased this
throbbing inside her with a fuck.
Thrust! Moan! Scream!
She felt him but couldn’t see him, hadn’t seen him clearly
even in the dim bar light, only that he looked dangerous, a dark wraith-like
shape carrying himself with such arrogance, she could tell from first glance he
could do what she needed, if she let him.
Trust! Moan! Scream!
He fills her up, but even when she picked him out of the
crowd, she knew he could only fill up physical space inside her, not the vast
emptiness she sometimes felt when she closed her eyes.
Sometimes a girl has to settle for a cock, even when she
wants something more.
And the minute she saw him at the bar, she knew he was the
one, smiling at her with his crooked and devious grin, his eyes glittering with
the intensity of his lust.
She moved towards him, even though the closer she got the
more terrified she became – that look he gave her telling her she might be in
for more than she expected.
Thrust! Moan! Scream!
Small talk at first, and the looks from other patrons
telling her they’re as scared of him as she is, he telling her about his woes,
about how he envisioned a career as rapper, but must overcome rape allegations,
a crime he claims he didn’t do.
She’s not sure she believes him.
Thrust! Moan! Scream!
Rape? Why did he had to talk about that, digging up old horrible
memories of her own, of that time, that other man, that situation which she
lost control, and did not even realize she’d been abused until later, and then
all she felt was rage.
What scared her most, however, was this dark part inside
herself, drawn to him as if the charge was true, and needing to feel him inside
her.
Thrust! Moan! Scream!
She lets him buy her drinks, more than she should, and each
one letting her guard down a little more
More small talk. More flirting. She even touched the back of
his blistered hands, mean hands bearing the scars of bar fights, most likely
fights over a woman like her.
She thought of the man who kissed her, and the hands that had
cupped her breasts in the car, soft hands, not hard hands like these, peaceful hands,
not brutal.
Thrust! Moan! Scream!
She felt the animal in this man and as revolted by it in
some sense, her body responded to him, aching for him, needing him to use her,
just as she intended to use him.
“This is what I need,” she thought. “Something meaningless.
Someone I can be with then forget, and someone who will forget me when he’s
done.”
She suggested he come up to her place “for a drink” giving
him that slanted look that explained perfectly what she really wanted, and from
the intensity of his look back, he understood.
Thrust! Moan! Scream!
Then, outside the bar in the dark, she got scared again.
“Am I crazy? This is someone someone has accused of rape.
What if it is true?”
Again, the old memory emerged, full of the dread she’d felt
after the fact, of having been abused, of having no control over it, or how to
recover from him.
“Am I taking steps back down that same path?”
What scared her most was how much this aspect of this man
attracted her, how somewhere deep inside her, she hoped it was true, and at the
same time hated herself for aching for him the way she did.
Trust! Moan! Scream!
Again, she cursed the man with soft hands who had kissed her
and abandoned her. He should have suggested he come with her, should have done
what he really wanted to do to her but was too much a coward. He should not
have kissed and run and forced her to seek the comfort she needed in the arms
of a brute like this.
She needed to feel a man inside her again, if not the one
she wanted, then any man, this man, this rapist rapper with brutal hands, as
dangerous as he might be.
She led him through the dark to the door to her building,
then out of the dark, up the stairs, and through the door to her apartment, her
sanctuary, her seventh heaven, telling herself all will be well if she let it.
Thrust! Moan! Scream!
He didn’t even wait for her to make a drink before he
pounced on her, practically dragged him to her bed, throwing her down, then thrusting
himself inside.
The pain! The pleasure! She could barely breathe, each
thrust driving the air from her lungs as he shoved himself deeper inside her,
stroke after stroke, he muttering “you know you like this, baby, you know you
want all of me to do this,” almost singing, almost rap, a chant ancients might
have expressed when waiting to be fucked by their gods, and she loved it, every
stroke, and hated herself for loving it as the same time, feeling guilty at
having this guilty pleasure, this meaningless thing, a physical embrace without
love or tenderness, just pure fucking that made her scream again and again.
Worse is how out of control she felt. He owns her. He does
what he wants the way all rapists do, and still worse, she lets him do it.
Thrust! Moan! Scream!
She loved it, feeling his manhood intrude on her, forcing
itself deep inside her where she feels the most pleasure. She might have been
fucking a god or a beast, some monster trapped in the core of a labyrinth, each
stroke spreading godliness inside her until she felt ready to burst.
Then, it was over, and he was gone, asking for nothing,
especially not love
She was alone in her apartment again, safe after all,
throbbing still, her flesh still finding aspects of pleasure.
This is what she needed, something that meant nothing,
something that lasted only as long as it lasted and was gone.
Lying naked on the bed and still feeling the intensity of it
all, she reached for her phone, to call him, recalling the kiss and touch of
breast that started it all, and thinking maybe if she could she would give him
another chance to do something that would mean something.
The question was, would he actually go all the way the next
time?
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