“I antagonize because angry sex is more fun. I need you to fuck me until it hurts.”
“But I’m a hand-holder, not a hair-puller.”
“Try it.”
When you’re in college and sex-deprived, you listen to the 4’10 Macedonian with 34DDs and lusty eyes who can outdrink you and doesn’t want an ounce of mercy in bed.
When you first grab her by the hair and bite her lip, starving, she’ll whimper, but she’ll bite back. You’ll hold her by the throat and snatch her hair back so fast, whiplash, but she’ll mimic you. You’ll bear similar marks – bruises the size of mangoes on her neck; claw marks on your back, reminiscent of an aggressive wildcat.
She will squirm when you pin her wrists above her head and rail her, tremble in doggy. Most memorably, she’ll straddle you and tease, claim, “Now that I’m on top, I’m in control,” and you’ll let her believe it for a few minutes before you reach under her shoulders, steady her, whisper “You sure?” and give her hell from below.
There will be blood. There will be tears. There will be screams, cervical bruising, dry throats, animal lust, primal pounding. There will be pain and pleasure, indivisible, as Frank Cotton said.
But there will also be long nights filled with jugular and carotid kisses, with heaving sighs and smiling orgasms, with Christmas creampies. She will taste like cookie dough; she will be the best shower sex you’ve ever had. She will teach you about aftercare, about the power of laughter during sex.
Thank her – she’ll be the blueprint, the handprint, the lovely girl who opened your eyes, who told you, “It doesn’t really hurt anymore.”
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/sm8s6j/the_beginning_a_vignette_about_the_girl_who