*You talk too much.* That’s what she told me.
Funny, she’d been so receptive until then, but, I’d noticed something had changed in those last few weeks. She was distant, her replies diminishing from paragraphs of carnal pledges to shorter sentences around neutral topics. Finally I dragged it out of her with my persistence. And no, I know what you’re thinking, I wasn’t bothersome about it. Just crafty. I have to give myself credit, *I have a hell of a way with words.*
In the end it was my passion that drove her away though. Her parting statement the ultimate blow to my psyche—*You’re just,* ***too*** *intense.*
Now, typically I’m the kind of the guy who can let things go, especially opinions of me. I don’t *need* you to like me, but I also don’t enjoy wasting my time and energy on people. And that’s what I did. Three months of talking, building a rapport, for nothing. And I *liked* this girl, fuck. She *got* me. At least I thought she did.
Honestly, I don’t even know what went wrong. Things were progressing fast. In fact, *she* came onto *me.* And not lightly, no, fuck no. Her first words were *“I wish I was there, you wouldn’t be bored with me naked in front of you.”* Normally that’d be a red flag for me, but, I don’t know. Maybe I was just bored, or maybe just horny, but either way I was already hooked on her, eating up every line she fed me as I sat on the edge of my bed and jerked off to descriptive sentences of promises to satisfy every kink I could think of.
Three months later and she had enough illicit material on me to essentially ruin my career and social reputation. Probably a folder full of my cock on display in every angle I could photograph it in with decent lighting—shoved through my boxers hiding my balls so that my shaft was all she had to focus on—pressing against my stomach toward my belly button, the tip leaking pre-cum I’d squeezed out while looking at photos of her in lingerie that looked more expensive than I could afford to buy her.
Fuck, that’s another thing, her *body*. God damn. She was perfection. Natural breasts, curved hips with a thin little waist, skin nice and smooth. I could *feel* her contours as I imagined running my hands over them, squeezing the nipples of those full breasts, tasting them after, and then ultimately sliding into that sweet wet reward she spoke so confidently of.
*I talk too much?* How about, *you* don’t listen enough. Everything I thought I knew about what women wanted had gone out the window. *Too intense?* I am intense, passionate. Is that a sin? An utter turn off? I thought women wanted men who thought with their brains and not their cocks? I have enough blood flow to service each simultaneously. Don’t women want to be loved as diligently as they want to be fucked? Apparently this one thought otherwise.
After a week of pep talking myself back up into standard confidence I said I was over it. I had only met her once, enough to exchange numbers, what was I so worked up about? Though—in truth, we had gotten fairly close. I’d shared intimate things about myself, trying to be human—but so had she. This wasn’t one sided. She had shared her body, parts of her mind. We chatted on the phone and she laughed at my jokes then whispered seductively in my ear all the things she would do to me. Yet it still irked me. Just the audacity of her to cut it off like that after I’d been so polite and so patient, so fucking *gracious.*
I *could be* an asshole driven by his cock, demanding pictures of her spread pussy for me to cum to. Some fucking meathead who somehow manages to fall backwards into pussy whenever his dick got hard, simply by behaving like a misogynist prick. I’m not that guy though. I respect women. Don’t get me wrong, I want to fuck them too, but I want to know them, care about them, love them. I want to put in the work until I have a girl that not only demands my cock, but commands it.
How many times did she remind me of how *sweet* I was or how *nice* I was. And the way I look or dress wasn’t the problem. I grew up a humble guy, more concerned with being smart than cute, but I can own my attraction, I’m mature. A part of me thinks maybe I was *too* nice, which I’m not, I’m just respectful. *She doesn’t know what she’s missing.* I convinced myself of that and tried to forget about it. The bad thing is that she lives not far away from me. We use the same grocery store, the same dry cleaners, frequent some of the same restaurants. It’s a wonder I hadn’t run into her before.
A month after our last exchange it was still bothering me. I kept pulling up the photos I’d saved, arguing repeatedly with myself over keeping them. The majority was headless body shots of her in precarious positions wearing a variety of mismatching bras and panties. One showed her in the bathroom, sunk behind the closed door with her bare ass pressed against the cold tile, her thighs spread open to show me what I was missing. I had three showing her in her entirety, my favorite being one in black and white where she was sprawled across the bed coverlet, her arm folded across her tits, hiding them in a teasing fashion while she smiled at the camera. I wanted to pull her dark brown hair, wanted to wrap it in my fingers and shove her face in my lap to worship the cock she chose to deny.
Following another feverish night of making myself orgasm to them after one drink too many, I finally brought myself to delete them, my cum covered finger hovering over the ‘Move to Trash’ button longer than it should have before I made the irrevocable decision—but god damn did it feel good when they were gone.
Two weeks later I had all but put it out of my mind. On a Thursday after work I swung by the used bookstore I’d frequent about once a week on my way home, and that’s when I saw her.. No, not *her*, not the obsession I’d managed to compartmentalize as another failed connection, but **her**—this wild heathen of a girl in glasses, carrying a stack of books so tall that she couldn’t see over them. I’d been coming here for two years and I’d never seen her, though admittedly it had been about three weeks since I last stopped in. She must’ve been new. I ducked behind a dividing shelf in the Horror section, watching anxiously as she moved about the small space, putting books back in their rightful place one by one as the stack got smaller.
When she wasn’t shrouded in literature I could really get a good look at her. The first thing I thought was—*this* chick, *this chick is fucking metal.* That choppy bleached hair, those skin-tight black jeans with the holes in the knee, letting the world know what a little rebel she is. The thin loop of silver on her nostril and that the black heart tattooed on the webbing of her left hand. I don’t know about love at first sight, but lust made itself known and I had to immediately suppress it before it sank through me and showed as a bulge in the crotch of my pants.
And now? Now those tight black pants were laid across my floor just like the little black panties they hid were, along with a White Zombie t-shirt that looked two sizes too big on her tiny frame yet fit her personality perfectly. Now my hands were tangled in bleach blonde locks rather than brunette tresses. Now my cock filled her shaven, wet little cunt as I had imagined it filling the one who wanted nothing to do with me. Now I didn’t care about the girl in the lingerie. Now all I cared about was the new-age bomb shell panting and sweating in my bed.
My phone buzzed and I picked it up. It was her. Three months of mourning this girl and now she was fucking messaging me. Isn’t that always the way? I looked over my shoulder at the nymph taking residence in my sheets, how tantalizing she looked, short hair disheveled, black eye liner smeared at the corners of her eyes, that smile plastered across cheeks still freshly flushed from a fuck.
It only took a moment and I knew what to do. Ten minutes later I clicked send. Five minutes later another message popped up. *Fuck you.* That was all it said. Scrolling up to what I had previously sent, I reviewed my handiwork. No more pictures of my cock, fully erect and dripping for her, no. What she viewed upon opening my text was *her*, in her full, rebellious glory—the girl from the bookstore, her bright eyes drunk with desire, grinning up at the camera with a load of my cum dripping from her tongue. *Too intense, huh?* I smiled, deleted the message, and slipped back into bed.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/vq05q9/wrongful_rejection_warranted_revenge_mf