Of Cancer And Pain

"That'll kill you," she grinned, eyeing the cancerous substance between his large, pale pink lips. Their eyes met and she swiveled her bar stool and crashed her knees playfully into his thigh. "Those things will kill you for sure," she blushed.

He nodded and placed the cigarette into the ashtray in front of him. In the city, he might not be able to partake in this activity in doors. In his small hometown, dingy bars didn't care about such minimal intrusions. If smog-coated air meant more patrons, so be it. "You come here often?" he inquired, immediately feeling cliché.

"You smoke here often?" she smirked, taking the burning embers and smoldering them into the side of the ashtray. "Come on, take me home," she demanded, no sense of fear or nervousness tainting her sweet, feminine voice as it soared into his ears.

He raised an eyebrow as she collected her purse and stood from the bar stool. She was no more than 5'5" with heels, a petite little brunette with a fire of desire fanning the flames in her blue eyes. "Anxious?" he grinned.

She stomped her foot and his attention went straight to the large platform heel. He eyed her tiny toes, the urge to take them into his mouth overwhelming him. She watched him observing her, and moved closer, placing her hand on his large bicep, offering a playful squeeze. "Please?" she purred softly. "Take me home now!"

* * *

"Harder," she begged, his thrusts too slow, too gentle inside her body. She wanted to feel him bottoming out, wanted him to hurt her and bring her pleasure all at once. "Make me bleed," she cried softly, the voice of a small child. "I want pain, Paul, pain."

He complied, wrapping his large hands around her throat as he increased his pace inside her tiny body. His hips bucked forward, driving him closer and closer to her furthest depths. She wrapped her legs around his large hips, pulling him ever closer. Her cries were soft, but they hardened his body, propelled his movements. She begged emphatically, and he felt his hands gripping her, crushing gently at her windpipe.

"I want to hurt," she begged. "Hurt me, Paul, hurt me. Please, give me pain."

"I can't," he heaved, pushing inside her with all his strength. His grip loosened on her throat, and she watched as his large brown eyes softened. "I can't," he frowned, pulling off her and out of her ravaged body as he fell to the bed beside her.

"Well, why the fuck not?" she demanded, as she rolled up onto her elbow and stared down at his heaving chest.

He shook his head slowly, trying to regain his composure. "I can't hurt you, Kelly. I'll really hurt you."

"Well, why the fuck do you think I concocted this whole little role play, Paul?" she spat angrily, sighing loudly as Paul stood up and began to search for his discarded boxer briefs. "Why on earth did I have you pick me up in a bar like I was a stranger if we weren't going to fuck?"

Paul continued to search their bedroom. "We fucked, Kelly. We fucked and you wanted me to hurt you. I can't hurt you. If I snap your neck or crush your windpipe, I'll-"

"You'll what?" Kelly demanded of her fiancé. "You're not going to hurt me, you fucking wuss."

"I'm sorry," Paul frowned, running a hand through his mussed black hair as he pulled on his underwear. "I can't hurt you, Kel. I love you."

Kelly huffed and climbed off the bed. "Fuck you, you fucking wimp!"

* * *

"That'll kill you," she grinned, eyeing the long neck bottle that he placed to his large, pale pink lips. Their eyes met and she swiveled her bar stool and crashed her knees playfully into his thigh. "That habit will kill you for sure," she blushed.

He nodded and placed the bottle back onto the bar in front of him. He felt out of place in this dive bar on the outskirts of town, but it was a comfortable place to go unnoticed. In his small hometown, a bar like this was a unique find. A beautiful girl with spunk an even greater rarity. "You come here often?" he inquired, immediately feeling cliché.

"You drink here often?" she smirked, taking the bottle of Budweiser and lifting it to her own, full lips. "Come on, take me home," she demanded, no sense of fear or nervousness tainting her sweet, feminine voice as it soared into his ears.

He raised an eyebrow as she collected her purse and stood from the bar stool. She was no more than 5'5" with heels, a petite little brunette with a fire of desire fanning the flames in her blue eyes. "Anxious?" he grinned.

She stomped her foot and his attention went straight to the large platform heel. He eyed her tiny toes, the urge to take them into his mouth overwhelming him. She watched him observing her, and moved closer, placing her hand on his tattooed forearm and offering a playful squeeze. "Please?" she purred softly. "Take me home now!"

He nodded and fished for his car keys.

* * *

"Harder," she begged, his thrusts too slow, too gentle inside her petite body. She wanted to feel him bottoming out, wanted him to hurt her and bring her pleasure all at once. "Make me bleed," she cried softly, the voice of a small child. "I want pain, Joel, pain. Give me what Paul couldn't. I want to hurt," she begged. "Hurt me, Joel, hurt me. Make me bleed, make me gasp. I want it all!" His grip tightened on her throat, and she watched as his large chocolatey brown eyes hardened. "More," she demanded as she met his stern gaze. "Don't be a fuckin' pussy like Paul. Don't be a fuckin' pussy, Joel. Be a man. Be a real man."