Quick & Dirty - F/f - D/s - S/M - slapping - kicking - whipping - fucking. Fantasy, not reality.
*****
The front door bumps open, is shouldered aside by an athlete. It's knocked closed carelessly by the heel of her shoe, and she leans against it briefly, as if to seal it.
Her body is glistening and flushed, her muscles tense and strong from the exertion of her run. She is breathing hard and fast enough for me to see, but not enough to do justice to the ten miles of road she has left in her wake.
I rise from the couch as though it doesn't exist, as though the glance she shoots my way is a fishing line, and the hook has caught in my breast. I tumble towards her, with all the self-possession of a giggling child rolling down a summer hill. By the time I'm standing in front of her I must be in control of myself; she must know that I am a willing participant in what comes next.
I fall into her orbit. I'm a frivolous confection of jiggling tits-and-ass, squeezed absurdly into too-small vest and shorts. I'm a nonsense of dark fluffy hair above a foolishly grinning face; I'm ten tiny naked toes yielding to the hard wooden floor; I'm breathless in a vacuum until I fall into her atmosphere and breathe the life-filled, wholesome scent of her honest sweat. I'm shivering until I'm warmed by the radiance of her muscles.
Even as I tumble into her, I can feel the emotions rush at me in anticipation of what we're about to do, what we always do when she's taut with energy and glistening and breathing hard and fast. Shame, confusion, helplessness... they barrel into me and become hopelessly tangled with the excitement and lust that are already gripping my flimsy, kittenish form. I'm sick of thinking about myself.
There's only room for her in my attention, as she tears the sweat-sticky vest over her head. Her long torso is a sculptural masterpiece. Elegant abdominals, obliques, anteriors... all those mesmerising shapes super-heroines are made of, and she...
Wait, I can't keep up. She has pulled off her running shoes and now she's tugging down her jogging pants, and kicking away her socks, and there she is. I can't describe her. Even if I had more time, I would never stop. She's lean and muscled and tall and rangy. And she's soft and curved and her skin looks so tough and feels like brushed cotton...
Everyone calls Hard & Fast, because that's what she is. In the ring with an opponent, on a track or in a pool, those long, clever muscles twitch and swing and dance and she's unstoppable. My woman. Hard & Fast rules.
And now in the hallway of our apartment, she is something more. Her blonde hair is plaited strictly in a rope which swings between her shoulder blades. A no-nonsense sport bra sculpts her chest and a little pair of briefs cling to her and stir something filthy inside me. I fetishize the trappings of her earnest endeavour. She is barefoot and she looks like she's thinking, hard and fast. She looks at me with eyes that are blue like denim. I know what she's thinking, and what she wants from me.
I'm her kitten. I'm her trailer-trash poet. I'm an aspiring waitress. I'm the dirty-cute foul-mouth. I'm the working-class girl with too many ideas and all of them above my station, and I know I'm not a tenth of the cock-sure little demon I pretend to be. I'm not a hundredth of the girl that deserves Hard & Fast.
She stands a foot taller than me, her limbs thicker and leaner. She radiates power with every subtle movement, and with her poised stillness. In the ring she wouldn't even raise a glove to me, it would be laughable, obscene. She could floor me with a shrug.
I stand so close that I have to tilt back my head to look in her beautiful eyes.
"Hey, Hard & Fast," I whisper, in my silly, taunting, girlish voice.
"Rosie," she murmurs. That's just my name, but you need to hear the way she says it. Her voice is dark and hungry, shivering with something out of control...
"Yes?" I say, breathlessly. "Say 'yes', Hard & Fast."
"Yes please," she whispers, and closes her eyes, making the room darker.
Strong enough to throw me like a ball, big enough to squash me like a bug, fast enough that I'd never touch her. I take a short step backwards, angle my shoulder, and slap her hard in the face.
A breath escapes her lips and it sounds soft. Her eyes open quickly to see my fascinated smile. I slap her again, harder this time. This time she makes a little moan. My stinging fingers brush her pink cheek. The skin is downy. Her cheekbone is firm. Her lips are trembling. She can't meet my gaze.
The other cheek. My other hand. Her head snaps a little to the side. I emit a hot little laugh from deep in my belly, where I am tingling, excited, ashamed and aroused. The laugh gets a response. She thinks it's cruel and full of contempt. It's not, honestly, but that's okay, I know what she wants. My hardest blow yet and a heavy breath escapes my lips, even as a breathless whine leaves hers.
Her powerful hands move falteringly to her artistic abs, and her softly square-tipped fingers trace her contours. As another blow stings her lips and makes her groan, those fingertips are teasing her nipples where their peaks yearn beneath the fabric of her bra.
I watch for a few seconds, then say: "No. Hands behind head."
She obeys and looks stronger and weaker than ever. Her quivering face is begging. She knots her fingers behind her head, urging herself to be helpless. She whispers my name, looking me in the eye. I'm silent. Oh, Hard & Fast. Oh God, what are you doing to me?
I take another short step back, angle my shoulder lower, and swing my hand in my fiercest stroke yet. I grunt with exertion, and she makes an animal sound. I flex my arms and then I unleash a flurry of blows, as harsh as my soft muscles will allow, left and right, looking deep into those blue eyes which sparkle with life.
I know her well enough to tell how much of her blush is soreness, how much is shock, how much is arousal. I love it all and it scares me. And her eyes are just about wet. Not crying, not even watering, just wet. Glistening. Enough for now.
I maintain a supercilious expression long enough to walk around behind her where I can hide. I take deep, silent breaths and try to calm down. Hopeless. I have to let this carry me along.
"Strip," I say simply. I continue to pace around her, casting sideways glances while her fingers fumble. I feel uncertain and shy, but she's unwilling to see that.
The bra is peeled away, leaving her golden hair a tiny bit disturbed, and leaving her breasts to make sweetly pointed domes on her proud chest. Those nipples strain and beg to be teased. She stoops and wriggles and the briefs slide to her ankles where she leaves them, resting on the tops of her feet, as she always does. I stand toe to toe with her. She can't meet my gaze, so she doesn't see me grin foolishly up at her. Her hands return to lock behind her head. There is a delicious perfume in the air between us.
"You owe me," I say, but I mean: I need something from you.
"I'm a perv," she whispers, electrifying me. "I'm sorry. Thank you for doing this. Thank you. I'm dirty. I'm a freak. I'm inferior."
She hisses these words hard and fast from deep in her throat, warm and wet with passion. Nobody has ever heard her make noises like this. I start to slap her breasts, building up pace and strength, warming up, getting crueller. She gasps, whimpers, cries out.
"Thank you! I love you! Please!"
The blows continue until my hands begin to feel sore. Then I stand at arms length and watch her shiver and moan with excitement. I tease a nipple with my fingernails. My nails are just long enough to trap that hard bud in a sharp grip. She gasps and twitches. While I torment her with my fingertips, my toe finds the moist tangle of fabric around her ankles. I tug gently and she hastily steps out of her knickers. I keep looking at her.
My hand leaps from her yearning nipple to her yearning face, gripping her hot, red cheek. She makes a sound in her throat as I crush her lips. I squeeze her face, and I shake her gently for emphasis.
"This," I say, tersely.
I take my hand away, snap my fingers, and point at the floor. She looks down and sees my naked toe tapping impatiently on her crumpled knickers.
"Here," I conclude.
She obeys. Her hands remain clasped to her head, but she drops to her knees with a thud. She throws her face down and buries it in the sultry, scented fabric, slurping her mighty breaths. I don't have to tell her to raise her butt, or part her knees, or expose her pussy. It's hot and open and glistening, and it wants me. And I am ready be what she wants.
I'm not an athlete. I'm not good at sports. But I played a little soccer because I like chasing around with sporty girls, and I look good in shorts and knee-socks. And I know how to aim a kick. Balance, swing the leg, strike with the upper part of the foot...
