I hate you. There is no other way to put it. There can’t be any sugarcoating. I am sure of my feelings. I am confident and comfortable about them. I hate you.
“I hate you” I whisper in your ear, as you are pinned against the wall. As my hand squeezes your neck, my body keeps yours in check. The words in my mouth feel bitter. And yet the warmth of your breath against my lips feels soft. Your mouth feels soft. Your chest heaving against mine feels desirable, lustful, erotic.
I rip your dress off, your petite perky breasts fully exposes to my hands, to my tongue. You skip a breath. Your cheeks flushed. Your eyes wide. Is it fear? It is desire? Is it both? You don’t speak. You look at me like a deer looks at the headlights. I hate you still. As I kiss you, as our tongues dance in unison, I hate you even more. I hate how good you feel. I hate your soft skin. I hate your perfect pink nipples. I hate how they feel like cherries in my mouth. I hate how I can’t get enough of them.
I hate you. I look at your face. I look at your hips, I watch as they gyrate, longing for the primal rites of mating. You are a primal goddess of carnal heat. And I hate you. I slap you. Once. Twice. Three times. I can’t even articulate why I do it. It’s punishing you. But also me for wanting you. I know you’re toxic. You are poison. And yet when we sit in meetings, all I can think of is to kneel under the desk and taste your pussy. It would be so intimate and yet so detached. The desk would cover my view. I wouldn’t see your face. My world would be your wetness, your moans. Making you cum would be my delight. And my torture. For I hate you so, and yet I crave your pleasure more than mine even.
“I hate you, you toxic slut”. Why does that make you squirm? Why can I feel your pussy tighten against my fingers as the words leave my mouth? Does being evil and powerful turn you on? Is it just the pleasure of feeling dirty? Do you think daddy would be ashamed of you if he knew? Do you like to leave a trail of dirt in your wake? You don’t say. Not that I would let you speak anyway. You are not allowed to speak. You are only allowed moans of pleasure tonight. As my fingers fuck your pussy, as my hand squeezes your neck, you do not have my permission to speak. Your words would do nothing but anger me anyway. For my hate of you is pure.
And yet as you arch your back in pleasure, as you moan and twitch with delight, you are beautiful. Your lust is so pure. Primal. Unabridged. I imagine you would look no different if we were mating in a forest before writing was discovered, sitting by the fire, near a cave, the starry sky our only blanket. You would look no different there than you do in this empty office building. If anything, the stark contrast between this artificial world and your primitive feminine core makes everything more appealing.
I pinch your nipples, I squeeze them hard. I twist them. And all I get in return is more moans. Is pain the ultimate pleasure to you? Is that what drives you? Giving people the same pain you crave for yourself? I can’t help but want to slap you. And I do. I slap you as I shout how much I hate you right in your face. Should it make you cry? Should it make you say no? Push me away? Maybe so, but it does not. All it does is make you moan harder, it makes your hips try to reach for mine. Can’t you wait a minute longer? No? You need to be fucked. Now.
What would your husband say? Does he know your true colors? Does he know you are evil? Has he seen your manipulation? Those fake little tears as you play the “defenseless damsel” character? Who do you think you’re fooling? Not me. I know the real you. And I hate everything about you. I hate how tight your pussy feels around my dick. I hate that you are so wet around it. I hate how you can squeeze my shaft at will. Those jolts of pleasure you send up my spine as I ride you.
Condoms? Oh no. Condoms are for your husband. He needs to play it safe, build our careers first. I don’t play those games. I hate you. And I would love nothing more than to help spawn one of your cursed progeny. You know I am going at it bare. You know I won’t pull out. You know I could destroy everything you schemed for. The rich husband. The nice house in the fancy suburb. The career. The power. Everything could be forever ruined by one lucky tailed attacker.
“I hate you enough to breed you”. You can’t stop me. I don’t know if you want to. I don’t care whether you want to. None of my business. I learned from the master. Consequences are someone else’s problem. My only concern is to pound you hard and fuck you deep. Your tiny body twitches, quivers, like a sail in the storm. You are powerless against my violent lust. Not that you are complaining about it. Your moans are loud, your body sings to the tune of “fuck me harder”.
I have cum. I don’t care whether you have. I know you have. I could feel it happen right before I shot my load inside of you. But I don’t care. It barely registered for me. I moved away from you, and pushed you onto the floor. I look at you, your dress torn, as you clumsily try to get yourself back up on your two feet. What an apt metaphor for all those you have damaged in your path to power. I laugh at you. And as I turn around and walk away, you can hear me say it one last time. “I hate you”. And softer, almost a whisper, more for myself than for you, “I hate you. Because I can’t stop loving you”
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/bxxemw/mf_a_bit_rapey_hints_of_breed_hatefuck