When he comes through town, a storm passes through my body. All the windows and doors swing open. If they don’t open on their own, he pries and prods them until they do. A gust of wind rushes in. And for as long as he deems necessary, I breathe and choke on sweat and skin and nails and hair and saliva and the intermingling of his cum with mine.
He throws me around the room like a toy that has yet to find its rightful place on a shelf. He pins me against the wall and growls in my ear until I squirm and sink to the floor. He throws me on the bed and makes me take his cock in my mouth and in my cunt and wherever he likes for as long as he wants. He slaps my ass while we fuck and makes it ripple like water from a pebble and then hits it again before the first ripple even stops and again and again until it’s a consistent, obedient wave. He claws at my back, my thighs, my arms, my neck. First digging into my flesh with his hands, his nails, then biting into it with his teeth, sucking me dry and making me wet all at the same time.
He rides my body the way he would a subservient animal’s. He pulls and twists and angles it to his liking. He grabs me by the hair and turns it into a convex shape and rams his cock as far inside me as it can go. He whispers in my ear. “You like that, don’t you, my little slut?” I whimper a yes, but he doesn’t start fucking me in earnest until he can fully hear the yes. He makes me scream it, makes me tell him how much I want it. Makes me beg. He turns me into the whore I always felt I was destined to be. He fucks the shame out of me and then serves it back to me again on a silver platter, because I wouldn’t have it any other way.
He sticks his fingers inside my pussy. To that particular place that makes me forget my name and everything else in the world. “As you go in, first floor back window,” Paulo Coelho writes. He makes me come again and again, as many times as he likes, until I beg him to stop. Sometimes he doesn’t stop.
He fucks me again and slaps my face, asks me if I’m ready to take his cum. I am, I say. I was born ready. He whispers nasty pleasantries into my ear as he’s about to burst. He growls like an animal that’s about to go in for the kill. I feel his cock expand inside me, I feel it ready to explode as he slips it out of my cunt and buries it in my throat, I diligently draw every drop of his cream and salt into myself with pride. He takes my head in his hands and kisses me all over in elated appreciation and orgasmic trembles.
He leaves me on the bed. Facedown, limp and lifeless. With sweaty hair matted around my face. Like a doll someone played with for a while and forgot to dress. And then he tidies up the room. He closes the doors and windows back again, quietly, gingerly, so as not to disturb me. He covers me with a blanket and kisses my lifeless, dreamful head. He gets dressed and erases all the storm’s traces…when he goes.