I stood in the shower and cried. I was exhausted after yet another 12 hour plus day and my heart hurt. He was still at the game I’d had to miss and taking his sweet ass time to come home. He didn’t care about me. It was all so obvious.
The water poured down over my face, dripped off my nipples, slipped down my swells. My heels rooted into the tub floor. I felt lost and as if my line had snapped.
I heard the door slam and Faisal jumped from his perch on the bathtub ledge. I closed my eyes and pretended I was unaware.
He came into the bathroom with a questioning look on his face. “Are you upset with me?” he asked. “I saw your text.” My angry text telling him how stupid I felt for leaving my meeting early to meet him for our plans when he obviously — obviously — didn’t care.
He seemed nervous, like he was on a floor of eggshells.
I burst into both tears and laughter as I pulled the clear shower curtain back and he approached me cautiously. “Yes! And no!” I blubbler-giggled. And then it all came out in a rush.
“You knew I was exhausted already and you knew I was going to have a 14 hour day today! It seems as though you don’t even care about me! I put myself out there and was vulnerable when I told you I wanted you to fuck the shit out of me tonight and then you stayed at the field instead of rushing home to me, but I can’t even be mad because we never communicated what time we’d meet up or when I’d be done and you can’t read my mind like I wish you could and I feel crazy and sad and mad and know I don’t have a real leg to stand on!”
He reached out and held my arms as my words tumbled out and looked at me with a kind face. “Are you done?” he asked.
“Yes,” I nodded. “I think so. I’m so sorry…” I ducked my head in shame. So tired, so overwhelmed, so embarrassed.
“It’s ok,” he assured me, “but I want you to know that I was the second person to leave and came home earlier than I would have to be with you. I do care, Hy.”
“Really?” I squeaked. And then I pulled him closer to my wet, naked body and he kissed me roughly, dirt and sweat filling my nostrils.
I wrapped my warm, wet arms around him and pulled him into the shower fully clothed. He stopped to take off his socks and peel off his shorts and shirt and then he drew me back into his arms and kissed me, hot water ran off my back and buttocks.
I washed him them with my coconut-hibiscus bodywash, careful to clean between his round cheeks and behind his soft sac. I scrubbed his neck and pressed my body against his hard length; our skin slipped and slid against each other.
“I still need to be fucked,” I said quietly. “Hard.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he replied holding my gaze. “I’m going to abuse you.”
I nearly folded in half at the words, the promise. I wanted nothing more than to be pushed, hit, bitten, and pummeled. My complete failure to reach perfection in life in general demanded that I be reminded what a worthless piece of shit I was; nothing more than a wet hole founded in pleasure would suffice at that very moment to carry me through to reach equilibrium.
We toweled off and stood in front of my bed. I was nervous. He was huge. Everywhere, every way.
He grabbed me and kissed me, his scruffy face abrading my face. He shoved me down onto the mattress, my feet planted on the ground and he told me get ready. I braced myself on my elbows and waited for the sting.
He gave me 3 little warmup swats. “You ready?” His voice was low, heated.
“Mmmhmm,” I nodded, squeezing my eyes shut.
And then pain exploded throughout my flank. I lunged forward, buried my face into my bedding and screamed. The white-hot sting greater than anything he’d ever done before; it was so fast, so complete. He told me he was going to do it again. He moved to the other side, but I told him to stay there. I wanted to be marked.
He struck again and this time tears filled my eyes. Legitimate tears. The flame down my backside wasn’t subsiding. So fast, so perfect.
A third time, on the other cheek, brought me down through the rafters. I began to sob and he was there with me, cooing in my ear, pressing against my hot skin with his big, lead hand. He made apologetic sounds, but never said the words. I didn’t want him to. He was there with me in my sadness, my bareness.
“C’mere,” he said and pulled me up to the pillows and put me in his nook as I shook with sobs. He stroked me gently for a moment then said, “Ok, we’re not done.” I lay limply, yet complcit beside him, and helped him to roll me over to my belly. He wedged my knees apart roughly and sunk deep inside of me.
“Is this what you want, you little slut?” he growled into my ear. His hips jack-hammered into me, his hands pinned my wrists to the mattress, my wet hair matted to my face. He bit my shoulder, scratched his clawed hand down my back.
I felt the tip of his cock in my throat shove organs aside. Orgasm bloomed through me and I held my breath as I heard him grunt and pound above me. He wrapped my hair around his fist and he lifted my face off the sheet. “Say you love it,” he said between gritted teeth.
I ignored him.
“Say. you. love. it.” he ground out again each word punctuated with an unforgiving thrust and a tug.
“I love it,” I breathed out. “I love it, I love it, I love it.” Each “it” truly a “you.”
My pussy squelched and cried her juices, my bottom was slick with sweat from where we joined. I was determined to be his rag fuck doll until he was either exhausted or came, whichever came first.
I felt him tense, heard his breath catch, and his tempo increased to a frightening whir. He cried out and filled me with his magical cum, a smile on my face smashed into the mattress by his angry hand.
He collapsed on top of me then rolled off. We lay there panting like two tired dogs in the desert sun. I slowly rolled over and easily fit back into my nook. My long, horrible day forgotten. My silly little meltdown washed away in a burst of semen and one red bottom.
We admired the marks on me, kissed and cuddled. I was myself again. All bruised up.