Monday, March 15, 2010

Domestic Violence: In Your Mouth

by Anna Gray

"I'm not gonna hit you," he had me face down on the bed, his hand wrapped around the back of my neck, pinning me there, "I'm leaving."

I wasn't worried. I knew he wouldn't hit me, or else I probably wouldn't have started punching him.

After an 8 mile traffic pursuit (this I'd noted since I was pissed that I was wasting precious gas in my SUV) in our respective vehicles, we met up back in the driveway and apologized. He probably had realized that there was no escape from me since I was right behind him and apparently not afraid to run red lights. He also probably wanted me to quit (lightly!) bumping into the back of his Jetta at every stop. Anyway, done deal. Fight resolved. Not.

Back upstairs in the bedroom he sits down with my laptop. No problem, I'll watch some TV.

"Uh, I was watching that."

This is where I fucking lose it. No dude. You can not be on the computer AND the TV. Small argument ensues.

I'm sitting at my vanity with my back to him and all my makeup, perfumes and hair products are lined up at my disposal. And I'm getting violent again. I take my deodorant and without looking chuck it over my shoulder at him.

"What the fuck, bitch?"

This elicits a response from my can of hairspray. It hits the wall behind him.

"You're a fucking psycho!"

Keep talking and I'll keep throwing shit. A glass bottle of perfume sails over my shoulder.

"Owww!! My fucking ankle!"

The one with the metal plate in it? I really hope so.

Before I can fire another missile I've been pulled backward out of my chair and am facedown on the bed again. FUCK.

I don't know how, but we are able to calm down and start talking. What are we doing here? and blah blah, etc.

Eventually, I ask, "Do you really think we should be together?"

He thinks for a minute. Then, "I'm starting to think maybe I could just as easily be single and try to fuck some 18 year olds."

I have the exact opposite reaction to this than anyone would likely anticipate. It makes me HOT. I mean turned ON. Hornier than a drunk 15 year old virgin. Before I know it I'm overcome with images of some hot, slutty, young BITCH going down on him, bending over for him and riding him.

I'm firing off questions about who, what, where, how. He knows I get off on it so he indulges me and even throws in a true story about a 25 year old that wanted to sleep with him when he was 17.

Yeah, this really gets me going. While he's talking I'm rummaging through my clothes, the closest ones to me. He watches me slip on a hot pink silk thong, 4 inch black heels, and a mini-dress, which I hike up high. I strut around for a minute, bend over a few times. We start making out. I'm psyched that we're playing dress up, but this is lacking. I want a serious game of pretend here.

"Go in the kitchen," I tell him, "and when I come out, you do NOT know me."

I change my outfit. Same thong, same heels but this time with tight, short black shorts and a too-tight, low cut tank top. My thong is hanging out above my waist band and my nipples are slipping out with the slightest movement. My hair is in pigtails because I know he likes handlebars. Seriously.

Clearly only good things happen with me on my knees on the kitchen tiles in this get-up, but I'll cut to the chase.

The climax comes (again) when I'm on the bed laying on my back. I'm on the edge of the bed and he's fucking me standing up. My knees are up by my head and my pink thong has been thrown on the pillow next to me. This sex is great. Fabulous. Glorious. Man, am I enjoying myself.

"Shut up. Shut your fucking mouth, slut." He knows I like when he talks to me like this.

He's already tried to shut my up with his dick in my mouth. Or in the back of my throat is more like it. Now he's trying to cover my mouth with his hands but its not working, I can slither away. He even tries plugging my nose... I don't know why but I like it.

"He's gonna fucking hear you!" he hisses. I like how he was added an imaginary person that might hear us into our game of pretend.

I don't care, I'm loud and proud. He starts fucking me harder, harder, harder. His hand comes down on my mouth. My pink silk thong is balled up in his fist. When he shoves it into my mouth I can smell and taste myself on it.

His hand over my mouth keeps it in there while I come, my cries stiffled.

Anna Gray works at a grocery store by day and fucks froggy style by night. She lives in Amity, Oregon. This is her first published piece.