Twitter Fiction: What You Want (#twittersmut) Part 4

That first thrust felt so fucking good. Everything I had imagined it would be. Fiercely hot, impossibly tight – she had the angriest cunt I’d ever been in. It was monstrous, delicious. I ploughed into her over and over, bracing myself against the back of the sofa, lifting her until the blood rushed to her head, giving her pale skin a deep rose flush.

Her muscles seized me until it felt like I would never be able to pull out of her. I knew I wasn’t going to last, but it was a ghost of a thought; I didn’t care. My pulse was thundering in my ears, pushing me on, goading me to fuck her harder, faster, until my thrusts matched its rhythm.

Suddenly her back arched, her muscles went rigid and her heels dug into the back of my thighs. That initial spasm was a door swinging open. I plunged in, through her orgasm and came as hard as I’ve ever come in my life.

The vertigo was overwhelming. My knees almost gave in. It felt like minutes went by and still I could not stop erupting into that dark, angry cave. And with every spurt, I could feel my own rage abating.

When my vision cleared, she was staring up at me. The triumph had gone, her features had softened. She nodded, trying to catch her breath.

“Yup. That did the trick,” she said.

I pulled out, let her hips drop onto the couch and collapsed into the cushions beside her. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. It felt like my soul was full of gaping cavities and she’d put them there.

“Admit it, it’s what you wanted.”

I stared at her mutely.

She sat up and gathered up the mess of her hair, pulling it back and tying it with a rubber band that had been on her wrist the whole time. “Admit it!”

Never in my life had I felt so completely manipulated. The self-hatred came flooding back, settling heavily into the pit of my stomach. And I had no doubt that she knew exactly what I was feeling. She’d orchestrated it all.

“You’re like a disease,” I said finally. “You know that?”

This isn’t normally what I say to women I’ve just had sex with – usually we kiss, and fall asleep and eat breakfast together – but the words tumbled out before I could stop them.

They didn’t faze her. She fished her cigarettes out of her purse, lodged one between her lips and stood up. “I know,” she said, with a small snort that I assumed was a laugh.

She walked out of my living room, naked as the day she was born, and onto the darkened terrace. I assumed she’d left her clothes out there.

Of course, I should have relented and been polite. I should have gotten up and seen her out. But I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I sprawled on the sofa until I heard the outer gate slam shut and then fell asleep.

I spent the next week trying to mentally paper over that evening. Every time I thought of her, it was like a nail rusting away in my brain. The harder I attempted to forget about the whole debacle, the more vivid and present the memories became. I had no idea what she’d done to me; only that I craved it with suffocating intensity. By the following Saturday, I found myself back at bar where we’d met, looking for her, like a junkie jonesing for a fix.