Loading...It’s not in my nature to be violent. Really, it’s not. Sure, I yell, swear, and slam doors, but to me these are just casual little outlets for minor irritations that go no further. But to actually physically harm someone? That would take a lot. I can count on one hand the number of times I actually feared I’d do someone bodily harm. Only twice did I actually go through with it: one man I had grabbed by the throat until my friends pulled me off, the other I punched twice in the face before his bloody nose told me things went too far.
Both of them were men, and I’d never thought to hit a woman. Until now.
Kelly was REALLY pushing my buttons. I sat on the couch, beer in hand, trying to tune her out so I could watch the game until she cooled off, but that only seemed to piss her off more. I couldn’t believe she was making such a huge deal over nothing. Then again, with Kelly, I shouldn’t be surprised. As I listened to her screech, watched our decretive household items smash against the living room wall, and waited for the storm to pass, I thought about the cute, feisty little fireball I first fell in love with. Kelly was always so exciting, and so easy to get worked up. When we first met, I picked on her all night, teasing her about whatever I could think of on the spur of the moment, just to watch her reaction. It was adorable: her eyes would flare, mouth cock slightly to the side, and you could tell she was fuming, but she kept smiling and trying to come back at me with something more offensive, further below the belt. When that failed to get her desired reaction, she’d really get worked up, her voice would get louder, and she’d rip off the nastiest string of insults that would make a sailor blush. I thought it was terrific, and wouldn’t rest until I made her mine.
Now that I have her, and I’m dodging pens whizzing by my head. Kelly was overreacting in a big way. She never used to get this upset over something so minor. I bought her friend a shot of whiskey that night. So what? Kelly used to love the way I could make anyone feel at home, including her friends, and she was never this jealous. When we first started dating, I remember being the confident man that she was proud to take the arm of and walk into a room. We used to meet our friends at the bar, and be that couple everyone else envied, going our separate ways but lovingly meeting up at the end. She used to cast looks across the room that said, “I adore you.” Now days, it seems all I get from across the room are looks that say, “what did you screw up NOW you retarded weasel?”
And that’s how it was when I bought her friend a shot. Kelly, tough as she likes to pretend, can’t shoot whiskey. Also, tough as she likes to pretend, she can’t hold her alcohol to save her life. Two beers, and she’s nearly non-functional. I thought Kelly had had enough, I hadn’t, her friend likes whiskey, so I bought two shots of it. I set one in front of her friend, kept one for myself, and Kelly stared down at the empty space in front of her. The fireball in her came out with an almost immediate vengeance, eyes narrowing and locked on mine (well, as much “locking” as her drunken eyes could do):
“And where’s my drink, Alan?”
I was shocked. “You don’t need another one, Kell, you’re still finishing your beer.”
“Well so’s SHE, but you still bought HER a drink!”
“You don’t even like whiskey!”
“Well why didn’t you buy me something I DO like? What? I’m not fun enough anymore?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I don’t like whiskey, so you run off with the first tramp who does?” She back-hand slapped my arm for accent.
“I’m not runni…”
“Funny you don’t buy your girlfriend anything, but you buy for other girls. You’re trying to impress someone else, OBVIOUSLY you don’t care about me.”
“Alright Kelly, how about we just go home.”
It took some convincing and a bit more verbal struggle, but I got her home. Once there, things got worse. I reconsidered my decision; perhaps staying at the bar would have been a better idea. She doesn’t have much public restraint, but at least at the bare there would have been witnesses.
She wouldn’t stop. She just went on and on, yelling about how I clearly don’t care about her, bringing up things I said three years ago that I don’t even remember, and then her favorite method of frustration release: throwing things. Honestly, I was getting very sick of her little temper tantrums, so I grabbed some beer from the refrigerator to help dull my growing angst. I plopped down on the couch, convinced I hadn’t REALLY done anything wrong, and sure that if I just ignored it, it would go away.
But it didn’t. I kept drinking, watching TV, she kept yelling, demanding my attention. When she wasn’t yelling, she was stomping around, pretending to be sane and rational, but I knew the truth: she was building up steam for the next round.
Now, I know this makes me sound like a sell-out, but I began formulating my apology in my head. It’s not that I was actually sorry for anything, but I figured the faster I just sucked it up and apologized, the faster this nightmare would be over. That, and I was feeling extraordinarily horny; beer does that to me. At the current rate, I was sure she wasn’t going to sleep with me that night, so I was willing to make concessions to improve my chances of scoring. I finished my bottle in a long swig and tried to come up with a response to her inevitable accusation: “you don’t even know what you’re sorry FOR!”
I set the bottle down, stood up, and went to her as she came back in the room. I stood right in front of her and put both my hands on her shoulders. Faking the most caring, love-sick puppy face I could, I looked deep into her raging eyes and said, “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry for upsetting you. That was never my intention, I love you too much for something like this to come between us; I’d really like for us to have a nice night together.”
“So you’re sorry for upsetting me, but you’re NOT sorry you bought the shot? See, you don’t even know what you should be sorry for!”
Damn I’m good. “Kel, I didn’t think I was…”
“No! That’s just it, Alan! You DIDN’T think! You never do! I’m always the LAST thought!” She failed her arms to break away from me, but I tried to hold on to her even as my resolve to apologize was waning.
“No baby! Come on now! I was just trying to be nice to your friend! What harm is there in that?”
“So I have no right at all to be upset?!”
“That’s not what I’m saying! But Kell, you’re flipping out over nothing! Gosh, when did you get to be this crazy?”
“WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?”
Uh-oh, I struck a nerve. She can’t stand it when I call her crazy; it makes her feel like I’m “invalidating her feelings”. My apology was lying in the gutter, and I had enough beer in me to pursue plan B.
“You’re crazy Kelly! Storming around, throwing stuff like a five year old because I DIDN’T subject you to alcohol poisoning tonight?! Come on, baby, I was only looking out for you, this is crazy! You’re crazy!”
“Shut up!” She screamed and started to cry, on the verge of hysterics. “Just admit you did something wrong, and say I’m not crazy!”
“Get you act together, and maybe I wouldn’t call you crazy! But hey, you’re acting crazy, Crazy!”
“Shuuttt…. UP!!!” And with “up”, she slapped the left side of my face. Hard. The sting hadn’t faded and the handprint hadn’t formed before I grabbed her wrist and gripped it tight, my entire body shaking, locked, and ready for a fight. My eyes sparked with immediate anger that I tried to burn into her skull. I don’t know what it is, but being slapped was an unexpected insult that instinct refused to tolerate. And she knew it: the anger she had a moment ago gave way to fear. Her eyes weren’t apologizing in the silence between us; no, she wasn’t sorry, but she was worried what I was about to do in return. After a few seconds passed, I knew I had to be the better person. I let go of her wrist, still seething, and watched my handprint fade from her delicate skin. I gave her a final cautionary glare before I sat back down on the couch and opened another beer. I needed to cool off.
And then there was silence. Not good silence. Silence before a tornado type silence. She had gone to the kitchen, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. She hit me. I had never laid a hand on her. Now every nerve of mine was on edge, knowing she wouldn’t leave well alone. I just drank my beer, pretending to watch the game, although my head was too filled with angry thoughts to absorb anything else. The adrenaline of the moment had caused a raging hard on that was fighting for my attention, but I just adjusted it angrily before she came back in.
She leaned in the doorway. “Why can’t you just admit you did something wrong?”
“Oh cute,” I thought to myself, “so she is going to try to come of as rational now.” In my opinion, it was too late for conversation. She had been pissing me off all night, and SHE’S the one now who stepped way over the line. Even with the hard on pressing in my jeans, I wanted nothing to do with her. I wasn’t going to say anything else to her. I just kept staring at the TV.
“Oh, so now you’re not going to talk to me? Way to be a non-communicator.”
The fire was burning hotter in me, testosterone pumping. “Not my fault that you can’t handle situations like a normal adult, Kel,” I growled. “Grow up, then we’ll talk.”
“Ah, there we go, at least you’re talking now. So I have to really piss you off to get a response from you? Huh? Is that it? I scream and cry and you don’t care, but I strike a nerve with you then you’ll talk to me, huh? Well maybe if I…”
She leaned over and lightly patted the side of my face just to antagonize me. I jerked my head away, fuming.
“Knock it off,” I spat.
“Or what? You’ll treat me bad? Find someone else? Go right ahead, I know that’s what you want to do anyway; you made that clear earlier tonight. How about you just come out and tell me.” She tapped the other side of my face with the back of her hand.
“I fucking mean it Kell, knock it off!” I jerked away and moved further down on the couch.
“Oooh, so touchy!” The bitch seemed to be enjoying this! She was smiling which laced through her voice. “Big bad man doesn’t listen to me when I tell him what I want, but now expects me to do what he wants! Come one baby, I’m just trying to help you,” she said, mocking my explanation and tone, “I just want to get you to open up.” She moved closer, and I glared at her as hard as I possibly could. Each of us stared the other down, trying to feel out the other’s next move. My twitching cock hinted at a suggestion.
She broke the silence (surprise) first: “Just say you’re wrong and I’m not crazy and we’ll call it a night.”
Huh-uh. “I’m not wrong. I didn’t do anything wrong, and you ARE crazy.”
SLAP! She hit me even harder than the first time! That was it: I snapped. Pouncing on her like a cat on a bird, I grabbed her wrists behind her and leaned forward. It forced her head into the couch cushions, and oh my goodness did she fight me. She flailed like her life depended on it, shrieking and twisting, trying to wrench her hands free, turning her head to bite at my arms. As I gripped her flesh and fought for control of her, I subconsciously found it symbolic: she had been fighting me all night, I’ve had it, and I was about to let her know it. She gave the fight her all, but I once I got a good grip on her upper arms, she was easy for me to position.
I can’t even say I smiled. My teeth were clenched and lips pulled back, but I wouldn’t exactly call it a smile. Hardly even a sneer. It was more like a snarl, an animalistic action that spoke to my abandon of reason and restraint. I gathered her arms in one hand by the wrists and lifted, bending her over, then kicked her feet apart, placing my legs inside of hers. Controlling her was becoming easier and easier; I could my body weight to keep her bent over, and as if to give her a little hint of what was to come, I rocked my hips just a little into her ass. My free hand reached around to the front of her jeans. Struggling against her continued efforts to free herself, I grabbed the front of her pants, and with a little maneuvering my fingers were able to undo the top button. An evil chuckle escaped me as I pulled down the zipper.
“What the hell are you doing?!?!” She screamed at me, her voice laced with anger and fear, her struggles becoming desperate.
“Guess.” The way she was bent over, her ass was naturally pressed against my crotch. I knew she could feel my cock’s hardness and heat, and all that wiggling she was doing was only egging me on. Pulling her pants down just a bit, I reached for my own fly. “I’m gonna give you exactly what you’ve had coming to you.”
“You can’t possibly be serious, you sick son of a bitch!”
“Now now” I said, undoing my pants and dropping them to the floor, “no need to make things worse for yourself by name calling.” I grabbed a hold of my cock and gave it a few pulls, letting my precum moisten my tip. I leaned in and guided my cock towards her pussy, which I was surprised to find a little moist itself.
“NO!” She struggled harder, but I won. Finding the little indent I was looking for, I pushed my hips forward, letting myself enjoy that tight sensation of the first stroke slipping over my head and down my shaft. I pulled out slightly, then pushed in deep and held it there, “oh yeah, that’s right”, I groaned to myself.
“Get the fuck off of me!”
“Oh no, bitch, you’re going to learn a little lesson.” I wasted no time, and started pumping in and out of her. I wasn’t gentle from the start, but the feeling it gave me made me want to fuck her harder and faster each passing moment. Soon I was pounding away at her little cunt with every bit of strength I had. I still had her arms in one of my hands, the other was free. Fucking her hard and fast wasn’t enough for me. I drew back my arm, and landed a slap hard on her ass.
She yelped, but I didn’t care. “You like that? You like hitting?” I growled. “Not so fun on the receiving end, is it?” I slapped her again, getting her to yelp once more. I pounded at her extremely fast, hearing the staccato slaps of my hips against her ass. I let go of her to get a better hold on her hips. To my surprise, she didn’t fight me once I let her go. No, instead, she placed both hands in front of her, holding herself up doggy style. I kept pounding away at her fast and furious, muttering incoherent insults about the lesson I was teaching her. It seemed everything man in me had finally come to the surface to put this little bitch in her rightful place: at the tip of my cock. But I was still pissed she had hit me.
I grabbed her hips tighter, and started sharper, slower, more deliberate upward thrusts. I used them to accentuate my words: “Don’t! You! Ever! Hit! Me! Again!”
Then by all things sacred, she put her head back and moaned. My little feisty fireball was actually enjoying me standing up for myself. “No,” she moaned, “I won’t….I’m sorry…”
“You’re not sorry yet!”
“Yes, my love, I’m so sorry…”
“Fucking take my cock!”
“Oh….harder Alan…yes…”
“Oh…” I almost passed out. An orgasm was building in me like none I have ever felt before, and such intense pleasure was making me see red. Here she was, finally apologizing to ME, enjoying the intense masculine prowess my body was inflicting upon hers. She even started rocking her hips back to match my strokes. The sheer primal sexuality of it was too much for me to take, and with three or four more hard thrusts, I gripped her flesh tightly and unloaded everything I had into her in jerking spasms. I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath until my lungs screamed for air, and taking in deep desperate breaths, I leaned my sweating body across her back for stability. I truly thought for a moment I was going to black out.
She held her position there and waited for me to recover. I don’t know if she was afraid to move, or just didn’t want to bother me. But it wasn’t until my limp, slimy cock slipped out of her that she moved a muscle. I was still panting hard, and she helped position me to sit back down on the couch. I was covered in sweat, and she ran her fingertips across the beads on my forehead. She looked at me timidly, but sweetly: “Do you want me to get you some water?”
I was panting too hard to answer, but I nodded. I couldn’t place it, but she looked content. The little minx stood with catlike grace and continued her feline movements out of the room, returning momentarily with some water and a washcloth. She handed me the drink which I downed in only five gulps, then she set about to wiping my forehead. She was looking at me in a way I haven’t seen in months: admiration. She took the washcloth, then, and started wiping up some of the cum still left on my cock and balls. When she was finished, she stood up and smiled down at me for a minute, biting her lip in a girlish way. Finally, she leaned down and kissed me on the forehead.
“I’m sorry I slapped you, sweetheart. That was very wrong of me.”
I almost laughed, and would have if I wasn’t so spent. “Say that again.”
“I’m sorry for what I did.” With deliberate playfulness, she pursed her lips and winked.
I didn’t think she was really sorry at all. I’m not sure who won the fight, but I am kind of looking forward to the next one.