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HotThis story may contain adult content. |
| Written by Lucy Burnett | |
| Friday, 18 January 2008 | |
Hot, rushing anger. It flows through your veins and pulses through your hands. Those two appendages that once gave life will now take it back. They will now destroy. The anger twists around your heart with its tentacles of black and squeezes until there is nothing left. You can only feel the lump rising in your throat as the hot tears stream slowly down your face. Your nose begins to clog and you can hardly draw in air. Because that anger is squeezing the air from your lungs like a balloon, slowly drifting into the sky. Your mind begins to wander off into all the other times you've been so hot, and angry with passion. You lift a pencil, a pen, no a knife, and think of all the sick and twisted things you could do with such a common instrument if used in times of anger. Then you look down at the zipper in the crotch of your pants and think about all the times that's been let down to release your anger on the person whose made you angry. Does hot, angry sex really taste better than normal, love sex? You rip off your belt and charge forward, buckle in one hand, worn leather in the other. You crash past the table in the kitchen and spill the salt shaker. Is there time for luck? You wistfully toss the remains over your shoulder to ensure that this will work. That the flames of your passion will not die out before its too late. You take the stairs two at a time, unsure of whether or not the one you wish to exploit and piss off even more is even really up here. Why was it you're so mad? Oh, yea, never mind. You crash into the small stand holding the lamp and magazines. You hear a vulgar phrase leave the lips you search for. Haughtily, you lift the lamp and return it to its place on the table. Then you spring into the bedroom, the hot anger you feel growing with every beat of your heart. How could she do this to you? How could she treat you like this? How could something so small become so big? She's standing there, arms folded over her chest. You can see the tattoo on her arm peeking out just below her sleeve. Does she remember the night she got it? She sprained your thumb from squeezing your hand so tight. But none of that matters now. None of the good times or the funny times or the sweet times or the physical times matter because she's angry with you at this precise moment. You drop the belt, forgetting why you'd rushed up here in the first place. She scowls and shifts her weight, expecting you to make the first move. You can feel the bulge in your pants getting bigger, as the instincts trusted for so many generations take over. You can only hear the blood rushing through your probably-red ears as she glances down. An evil, sinister grin crosses her face and she knows what's about to happen. You slide your hands deep into your pockets to resist the urge to squeeze and tug and pull and bite. No, she's mad at you remember? This isn't the way to solve it every time! You've got to snap out of it! You're angry! Your mind continues to scream at your heart and your dick as your hands are removed from their pockets. You watch in horror from the theater in your head as you make a move to wrap your arm around her waist. She scowls at you again, frustrated at the time you're taking. You inwardly laugh at the predictability of it all. She knew this was coming. Are you getting played? Did she make you mad, just for this? She bites her lip and cranes her neck as she strains to stop herself. You give into her tease and press your lips to hers. You can feel her teeth moving slightly over the flesh and her tongue searching in your mouth. She stops and pulls away, gasping for air. She wishes to speak but you don't give her a chance. You are in her mouth again, this time groping, your head and back arching with hers. She stumbles backwards, pulling you by your bottom lip to the messy bed. You fall on top of her and strain not to crush her as she fights with the buttons on your shirt. The fact that you're stripping first settles in your mind, another building block on the anger she's caused. When will the volcano erupt? You grip the sheets, feeling the fibers in your hand. It is the only thing that'll keep you from floating away. She grips your back and claws at you, making you even angrier. The wounds from last time have just started to heal. You can feel the skin tearing and groan in pain but make no move to stop her. She pushes you away from a moment, struggling to breathe as she tears at her own shirt. You assist her and quickly toss it to the side. Why are you doing this again? Oh, that's right. You force her down onto the bed again, this time seething with anger. You search frantically for your belt, finally realizing you've already removed it. She makes no effort to assist you, only continues to rip the flesh from your backbone. You tuck away the anger and remove your pants in one fluid motion. She presses her breasts into your chest. She's unhooking her bra. You fumble for the clasp so that she will hurry. The flames of anger aren't remaining strong forever. Finally, she pulls the elastic support from behind her and tosses it with her shirt to the side. She shoves you over and you groan as your watch collides with your side. That'll bruise. You chalk that up on your list of anger. You push her away from you long enough to remove your drawers. She quickly sheds hers and you're on each other. You enter her and raw passion fills you. She screams in agony and punches you. Does she seriously want you to stop? Then the words contradicting your thoughts escape her open mouth. She wants you to keep going. You force yourself in deeper, until it feels almost like your pelvis is going to pop out of place. She grips the sheets. You can feel her flowing like a volcano, hot lava spewing out. She shakes her head, the hair pulled back in a bun escapes. You shut your eyes and lose all thoughts and grip on reality. This is the instinct felt before you again and again. And she did all this to make you angry. Why were you mad again? She bites your lip and claws at your arms, temporarily distracting you. You beckon to her longing and thrust again, her screams and moans of pleasure returning you to your thoughts. She was mad, extremely mad. There was shouting and rage and anger and violence. She struck you across the chest numerous times. Was that not abuse? But how had you ended up downstairs? You had wanted to leave. You had wanted to walk out. So what stopped you? Your guitar. She still had it upstairs. She had been strumming it, singing vulgar curse words in that sweet, malicious voice of hers. She was taunting you, knowing you'd come back for your guitar. But what had led to all that frustration and the screaming and the violence? What had sparked the stripping and the clawing that soon ensued. What had started it all? Why was she mad enough to make you angry enough to want to walk out? Oh yea, that's right. She didn't like angry sex. Copyright 2008 Lucy |
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| Last Updated ( Friday, 18 January 2008 ) |
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