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.
