One End of the Spectrum

They'd been sniping at each other all night. Ever since he walked into the restaurant with that scowl on his face. He was in a bad mood. Had a bad day. One of those too long; don't want to talk about it; you wouldn't understand kind of days. So what. She'd had one of those too long, restless, too much time and not enough to do days.

Why they were both acting this way wasn't the point. What they were saying was trivial. What was important was how she was saying things. What she was reacting to, and what she was ignoring. She was riding a fine line. Keeping him just enough off balance that he wasn't thinking too much, that he wasn't analyzing her actions. She wanted him edgy, slightly less than hostile. She had an itch; she needed him to scratch it. But if it went too far, if she goaded him too much, the whole thing would fail.

Six months into the relationship, she could honestly say it was good. He was the kind of guy everyone assumed was a jackass, a little too glib, a little sexist, quick with a snide comment. She was the sincere, feminist, do-gooder; the person who always saw three sides to every story. He was a lot smarter than most people gave him credit for, and in those quiet moments between the two of them, more introspective. She was the open book everyone thought they knew. They were the couple none of their friends understood. The one that shouldn't work, on paper. But in the flesh, they did. And how.

Tonight she needed the jackass. The hot head who reacted without thinking, and only sometimes regretted it later. So she pretended to mishear something he said, snapped at his confusion, blamed the noise in the quiet restaurant. She was genuinely distracted, but it wasn't anything in the room. She kept shifting in her seat, trying to press the seam of her jeans against her clit, damming herself for deciding to wear panties. Trying to wash the memory of the taste of his cum out of her mouth. Drinking wine she didn't like, faster than she should.

Halfway though the entrée she thought things were going her way. He was leaned over the table, stabbing at his food. He finished the beer he'd been nursing in two gulps and signaled for another. She put down her glass of wine and switched to water. In the low light of the restaurant, his eyes glittered. She shifted again in her seat.

"What is going on with you tonight?" He practically spat out the words. She shrugged, looked down at her plate.

"I don't know. I guess I just had a bad day."

"You had a bad day? Jesus." Sarcastic, condescending. He knew she'd had the day off. The fact that she only had to work part time was one source of friction, especially since his own schedule was so unpredictable.

"Fine. Whatever. Of COURSE your day was worse. Let's just finish eating and go home."

She waited for his response. "Fine." He signaled for the check and she exhaled the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Sat back and played with her food until he'd decided he was done. Walking to the street, he kept one hand on the small of her back, possessive; his signal that he still expected to get laid. She paced herself so that his hand stayed where he wanted it.

In the taxi, he gave the driver her address, farther from the restaurant than his place. It meant he wanted a quick screw and an excuse to leave. That wouldn't do. She turned to him and started to apologize. "Hey, I'm sorry I'm so bitchy tonight. It's just, you know, this stuff at work." He snorted. She retaliated. "Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with YOU tonight? You can't spare one second to think about someone else?"

He rolled his eyes. "I'm not having an argument with you in front of the goddamned cabbie."

"Who says there has to be an argument?"

"You do, apparently."

"Jackass."

He leaned in and lowered his voice. "I had a rough day too. At a real job. Can't we just get home and call it a night?"

She leaned forward and got the driver's attention. Told him to change destinations. "What, your place is closer, right?" He shrugged, "Sure". He stretched an arm along the back of the seat, and slouched to look out the window. When she sat back, she leaned into him, so that their bodies were touching hip to shoulder. But she faced away from him.

The driver stopped a few doors away from his building. She jumped out and stalked to his front door. She watched from the corner of her eye as he trudged over. Now she was glad of the panties, because she was pretty sure they were soaked. He was expecting an argument as soon as they got inside. She really hoped she hadn't overplayed her hand. She let him catch up to her and then pushed open the lobby door. Up the stairs to the second floor, she got ahead of him again. At his apartment, she stood aside while he unlocked it, then pushed in front of him.

She walked a few feet into the apartment, threw her purse on the couch, kicked off her shoes, and immediately stripped off her pants and underwear. He was still relocking the door, leaning on it, gathering himself for whatever he assumed she was going to accuse him of. She was standing there in her shirt, unfastening her bra, when he turned around.

In the heady days at the beginning of the relationship, they'd had a few drunken conversations about sex. About fantasies. About when it made sense to try them out. She'd talked about her theory of sex on a spectrum from sweet, emotional lovemaking, through recreational, fun sex, to dark, dirty, animalistic fucking. She knew he hadn't believed her when she told him that sometimes she wanted angry sex. That sometimes what she needed was to be used. That she needed pain, occasionally. He'd nodded along, bemused. He hadn't ever seen the bruises she left on herself, when she was alone with just her imagination and her hands.

The sex they'd had so far was definitely in the recreational fun part of her spectrum. But she thought she'd seen glimpses that he had it in him to fuck angry. One night he'd pushed her up against the wall, pinned her arms behind her and ground his knee into her pussy. But he'd backed off as soon as she moved her hips. Another time, she was giving him a blow job and he grabbed her by the back of her head and almost taken over, fucking her mouth. But again, as soon as she repositioned, he relented.

That's why she'd resorted to goading him tonight. She needed him to turn off the part of his personality that made him respectful of her. She needed him to inhabit all his worst features, for this one night. When he turned around and saw her, half naked, fishing her bra out from under her shirt, he looked confused and her heart sank a little.

"What the fuck?"

"Yes. Exactly."

She walked to him and he backed toward the door. The wall separating the bedroom from the living room was immediately to the right of the door. When she reached him, she grabbed for his belt and backed herself against the wall. Cornered by the door and the wall, she tugged on his belt so that he fell forward and braced himself with a hand to either side of her head. She unbuckled his belt and pulled at the button at the top of his fly. He moved and suddenly his hand snapped around her wrist. The sharp contact made her look up at his face. He didn't look confused anymore.

"You bitch."

"Yes."

He leaned closer and whispered "Are you fucking crazy?"

She met his eyes, and opened her mouth. But no words came out. She just nodded.

He let go of her wrist, and as she was unbuttoning and unzipping his fly, he reached up and grasped her chin. One hand still on the wall next to her head, the other tilting her head back, fingers digging into her cheeks, fingertips and knuckles white, pressing her against the wall. She pushed his pants over his hips, and slid her hand around his growing erection. He leaned into her hand. She could feel the heat off his body; his breath on her neck. Then he pushed off the wall and stepped back, her hand still reaching out but no longer in contact with him. She almost whimpered.

In a second that took forever, he'd stripped off his own clothes and stepped back to crowd her with his hands and body. Now she was pressed completely against the wall. When she reached up to touch his chest he shook his head and grabbed her hands in his. He put her hands behind her back, grasped them both in one of his. The other hand slid up her torso, under the shirt she was still wearing, and over her breast. Too slow, too gentle. Then pushing her breast up, letting her nipple slide across his palm. He let go of her breast and dropped his hand, starting the slow slide up from her waist again. This time pushing her shirt up and over her head.

She had to say something. She couldn't think of anything to say. She couldn't tell if this was still going the way she wanted. She had to look at him. She couldn't look at him. She wanted to lean forward and lick his nipples, to bite his neck. He'd pulled up her shirt, and she leaned forward so that it could fall behind her. He let go of her hands and grabbed her chin again.

This time when she reached for his cock, he didn't move back. She slid her hands in tandem up and down its length, reaching down to gently squeeze his balls. Slid her one hand up along his abdomen, to his chest, running her palm over his nipples, down his side. One hand on his cock, the other reaching for his ass.

She kept thinking that she should look at his face, but she couldn't convince her eyes to move. He let go of her chin, now leaning on his elbow against the wall, seemingly impossibly close. His other hand was grasping her breast. He squeezed her breast, and squeezing harder still he moved his hand slightly so that he could reach her nipple with thumb and forefinger. She could feel the individual pressure points of his fingertips, and it was so close to being right. She inhaled sharply and let out a moan.

In her ear, he was whispering "Is this what you want? You want pain?"

She stammered "I told you..."

"Fuck what you told me. Is this what you want now? You want me to hurt you?" He was pinching her nipple as hard as he could, pulling it away from the globe of her breast, and yet still, squeezing as hard as he could.

She started to nod. "No. Say it. Fucking say it out loud."

She turned to meet his eye. "Yes. I want pain tonight."

He abruptly pulled back from her. "Is that who you think I am?" He still had his hand on her breast but the look in his eyes was contemptuous; he was sneering. Suddenly she was scared. Had she miscalculated? Had she fucked this up? What was her little fantasy experiment going to cost her? She was still cradling his cock, sliding her hands along its length, rubbing her thumb over the head. He slapped her hard across the face, knocking her off balance.

Before she could fall he grabbed her by the hair at the back of her head and pulled her upright again. She blinked to clear her eyes, now halfway to crying. She was certain that he hated her for thinking he was capable of doing what he'd just done. Then she realized his fingers were in her pussy, and he was rubbing her clit with his thumbnail. He was rolling her clit around and little sharp pains shot out through her body every time the edge of his nail grazed it. He had two fingers pushed up inside her, and was moving his whole hand back and forth. She gasped.

"Sweet Jesus. Fuck. You are so wet. You ARE a little pain slut, aren't you?"

She took a breath. "No. Shut up. You get what I give you." He pinched her clit, and withdrew his hand. It was covered in her juice, and he rubbed his fingertips across her lips. "Suck." He slid his fingers in her mouth and she licked and sucked herself off of them. "All this time, I've been dating a masochist."

She opened her mouth to protest, some half formed thought that she wasn't REALLY a masochist. Then his mouth was covering hers, and he was pushing his knee between her legs. He ground his knee against her pussy, and this time when she moved her hips he didn't stop. Pushing harder against her, pressing her into the wall, his fingers working in her hair for a better grip. His tongue was in her mouth, not his usual gentle pokes barely past her lips, but thrusting as far into her mouth as it would go. She sucked around it, only wishing it was his cock instead.

She was grinding against his thigh, her hands roving over his arms, sides, back, trying to find a home. One hand settled on the top of his shoulder, like the rung of a ladder she was trying to climb. The other slid around and walked up his spine. She felt him reach down and pull up her knee, so that her leg was bent, foot pressed against the wall. He pushed her knee to the side and started slapping the inside of her thigh with the back of his hand. Slapping, pinching, raking his fingers down from inner hip to knee, leaving marks she could feel.

It was what she'd asked for, but not exactly what she wanted. It was enough to make her acutely aware of these pieces of her body. Her thigh was burning. Her cunt was throbbing. Her lungs needed air but his mouth covered hers completely and her nose was smashed to one side. Her scalp was stretched as she felt his fingers digging into her hair, pulling her head back. He'd pressed himself against her completely. She was pinned to the wall, holding on to him for life, listening to her heart beat faster.

Suddenly he pulled away again, knocked her hand off his shoulder and spun her around to face the wall. His hand still gripping her hair, he pressed her forehead against the wall, and without thinking she put her hands up. She heard a low laugh and then he was pressing against her again, his cock a steel rod against her spine and ass. He raked his fingers down her side, pressing each space between her ribs, pinching, pushing, pulling at her skin.

He moved slightly to one side and slapped her ass cheek. Once, as hard as he could. She jumped, gasped, and her cunt contracted. She was imagining that bemused look he'd had during that long ago conversation when he hit her again. Now he slapped her ass as harder and faster, turning her slightly against the wall, moving away so he had better distance to swing. She lost count of the number of hits, but noticed that they somehow all landed in the same spot. She noticed that she kept pushing her ass out to meet his hand.

Her cunt was so wet she could smell herself, pulsing in tandem with the impact of his strikes. He stopped as abruptly as he'd started and moved closer to her again. He slid the hand now warm from spanking down to her pussy, curled it into a claw and squeezed. Her head was spinning. She could hear her own ragged breathing and his breath in her ear. He was muttering something but she couldn't make out the words. Words were meaningless now anyway.

Then he stepped back, jerking her off the wall by her hair, and she clamped her hands on his wrist, afraid that he was going to let go. Instead he walked toward the bedroom and she just managed to make her feet work well enough to keep up with him.

In the bedroom, he did let go of her hair, and shook her hands off his forearm. She turned toward him and he pointed at the bed. "On your knees. There." She clambered onto his bed, kneeling down just at the edge. He gestured again and she backed up. He stood there, and she imagined what he was seeing. Her skin flushed, hair in disarray, scratches, red marks that would turn into bruises, her mouth swollen, pussy dripping. The epitome of the bitch in heat. She realized that he'd bitten her lower lip.

She looked at him. Cock jutting out from his pelvis, his skin flushed, eyes wide, sweat glistening on his stomach. He was making himself calm down, slowing his own breathing. He ran his hands through his hair. She struggled with the urge to jump up and go to him. Then he was walking toward her. He stood next to the bed, reaching out to caress her cheek, run his thumb over her bitten lip.

He bent down to kiss her, gently this time, slowly working her mouth open and touching her tongue with his. Slid both arms around her and pulled her to him. Romance in the middle of violence. He broke the kiss and smoothed back her hair, kissed her forehead, cheeks, neck. She sighed. Ok, maybe this had to be enough.

Then he whispered "Get ready, bitch."

Her whole body twitched but he only caressed her, gliding his hands over her tits, down her sides, cupping her ass, and back up her front. He slid his fingers in her pussy, dragging his knuckle over her clit and grinding it into her pelvic bone. When he pulled his hand out, he put his fingers in his own mouth and smiled.

She settled her ass on her heels as he reached out for her head, one hand bending her over, the other on his cock. She reached out for it, but he said "No hands."

She put her hands down on the bed between her knees and he guided his head into her mouth. She licked his shaft and tried to grip his head with her lips. She slid her tongue out again and tried to reel him in, like licking a dollop of ice cream off her own chin. He wasn't cooperating; he kept moving his hips, pulling back just when she'd gotten her lips around him, sliding to the side so her tongue lost contact.

Frustrated, she leaned out farther, and decided the angle was all wrong, maybe if she turned her head sideways. He moved again, and she leaned out further still. She was unaware that her ass was completely in the air, her head pressed against the sheets, hands pinned to the bed by her own body. She moved her mouth again and this time he slid his cock into it, letting her grip him with her lips and use her tongue to flick along the veins. She breathed in through her nose and sucked just a little.

He started hitting her ass. Both cheeks, as hard and fast as he could. It's hard to gasp with a throat full of cock, but somehow she managed to. This was real pain. He was no longer tentative, no longer exploring. He struck all over her ass, trying to find the most tender spots, targeting the skin in her crack, and where ass met pussy. Then he was slapping her labia, both hands banging down one after the other, fingers slightly splayed. He moved in her mouth, fucking her face slowly. She tried to push up, to get some purchase on the bed, needing to move her head so she could breathe more easily.

He was still slapping, but not as fast and not as hard. He jammed two or three fingers into her cunt, finger fucking her, not caring if he was scraping her with his nails. He was fucking her face too, thrusting into her mouth and down her throat. Not giving her a choice, and she realized she didn't want one.

He stopped finger fucking her and pulled his cock almost all way out of her mouth. Used her hair to wipe off his hand, and started slapping and hitting her ass and pussy again. She could feel the blood rushing, sting turning into burn turning into throb. He wasn't moving his hips, except from the exertion of hitting her. She was trying to keep hold of him in her mouth. Trying to lick or suck or give him some kind of pleasurable sensation, but it was difficult to concentrate when her lower half was on fire from lust and pain.

She realized there were tears in her eyes. She realized she was shaking. He stopped hitting her ass, and pulled his cock out of her mouth completely. She dropped her head to the bed and felt his hand in her hair again. She listened to him catch his breath again, and wondered how close he'd been to cumming. He hit her ass once more and then reached down with both hands to sit her up.

He held her head in his hands, pulled her to his chest and she felt his heart pounding. She touched his chest, ran her hands back down to his cock, around to his ass and she squeezed. He laughed again and kissed her.

"Tell me what you want."

She couldn't think. She couldn't form words. He was asking the world of her.

"Now, or you get nothing. Now, or I jack myself off in the shower. Tell me what you want."