"I want to do only tender things to you," I said. I meant it. I felt for him something that made my heart want to burst. We were in bed again, taking a mid-day nap after two days of fucking and talking and fucking and talking and walking and fucking again. "And I want to punch you in the chest," I added. "I want to crack you open."
Earlier I’d pinned him down, fully clothed. Locked his arms behind his back. Pushed my mons into his ass. Put the full force of me on him, immobilized. “No, no, no,” he’d said. He’s a strong man with the face of a cop. I’m just small enough to be able to lie on top of him for a long time, just large enough for me to actually hold him down. If he wants it.
We began to undress each other, I felt for his cock, hard, thick, heavy. He pushed me over onto my back. We were both tired from too much not sleeping. There didn’t seem to be time for it. He spread my legs, plunged his fingers in. Rolled on a rubber and thrust into me. I grimaced. I was swollen from all the previous fucking.
"Does it hurt? Do you want me to stop?" he asked. I said yes, it hurt, but I needed him to keep going. Legs cocked back around my ears he thrust deep in me, hitting my cervix, making my eyes roll back and my head groan. Suddenly he slapped me. Hard. I looked up at him, shocked. He looked worried. "Was that too hard?"
"No, it was hard, but it’s ok," I said.
He did it again. And again. And again. Blows raining across my face. Fucking my sore pussy. “You’re flinching,” he said. and kept feinting, hitting, feinting, hitting. I was convulsing from his cock bottoming out inside me, I let the tears go, let them out into the world. He came. He looked taken aback. Concerned. “Are you ok?” he asked again. “I hit you til you cried.” I couldn’t quite talk. I nodded. Looked him in the eyes. Tried to reassure. “You sure?” he asked. “Positive,” I managed to say. Reaching my arm toward his chest. He rolled off me. We lay face to face. Taking it in.
I hugged him. Stroked his head. “You know I’ll always tell you if it’s bad, bad, right?” He nodded. I held him tight and whispered, “I told you I’d break you open.”
Small, strong, a strawberry blonde ponytail. Piercings all over. A slightly derailed suburban runner mom. I peeled her pants off, a big purple bruise high up on her right thigh. I spread her legs.
"You always have bruises, what’s this, a bite mark?"
"Yes," she said. Bashfully.
I dove in. Licked, ate, sucked her perfect hairless little pussy. Didn’t stop until she came. When I was done I lay on top of her. Heavy, for a while. I slid down. Bit the other thigh. Hard. So hard I nearly broke skin. When I was done, an angry red ring of teeth.
"There, now you have one on the other thigh too."
I led him by the hand, into the weird wonderful abandoned area of the park. Where the fountains are empty and overgrown and felled trees still lie about since the hurricane. Men, always alone, always unremarkable, the types you would never look twice at on the streets outside, come and go, sit alone on park benches, just happening to bump into someone.
He forced me up against a tree, his cock hard, a hand on my throat, fingers up my snatch. He kissed me, then choked me and whispered, “I could kill you here and nobody would know.” For the first time I didn’t safe-word out of his chokehold. I relaxed. Didn’t breathe. Still for a while. Then he let go. “You could. But I know you won’t,” I said and laughed, walking further into the greenery, him trailing behind me.
We met when it was still light out, lost tourists and local yoga moms with kids and scooters. He greeted me by reaching inside my flimsy halterneck dress and untying my bikini top. He pulled my head back by the hair, biting and grazing my neck with his lips.
Then: Some food. Walking, talking, groping, lewdly rubbing up against each other. A little later, on a bench, he removed my panties. Stuffed them into his shirt like some demented neon pocket square. We walked some more, shared experiences and tall tales, waited for darkness and for the stubborn, heavy, humid heat to dissipate. It never did.
Later, still down by the river, behind some bushes, under a tree, looking out on residential towers and a well-kept lawn. It was nearly midnight and we’d been ambling around the small park for hours.
"I just touched myself, and I am dripping wet," I said, then wiped my finger on his arm, to show him.
He slid his hand under my dress and began to finger me.
I was so close it hurt, but could not get over the edge.
"Please, stop," I said.
"I’ll only stop if you finish yourself off," he said.
I tried, but couldn’t.
"I want to fuck you so bad," he said. "I want to wait until we can fuck."
I looked at him, confused and suspicious.
"OK, if that’s what you want."
"I don’t know. I’m not comfortable with coming without getting you off yet."
"Yeah, I’m a sensitive flower," he said.
We talked some more. Travels. Teenage years. Fights and broken teeth.
"Are you satisfied with your experience?" he asked.
We were about to leave, under the same tree still, a couple was sitting off in the distance.
"Sure," I said. "But I want it on record that I would have blown you until you came."
He unzipped his fly. Pushed my head down. I sucked, deep-throated. Wondered if anyone was looking and didn’t really care.
He jerked himself off into my mouth and I drank the cum. I straightened up and gulped some water. Looked over at him still sitting there with his legs straight out. Dazed.
‘It belonged to his father,’ I said. ‘His family used to manufacture that gun. There’s a logic.’
‘Right. A logic.’
‘He doesn’t use it. It’s not stuffed into the cuff of his boot.’
‘And yet I’d wager that he is the type of man who would enjoy the feeling of that,” Burdmoore said.
He leaned his chair back on its hind legs and looked at me. […]
‘And I think you might be… oh, never mind,’ he said.
‘I might be what?’
‘I think you might be the sort of sister who likes that type,’ he said.
His chair kept creaking. I was convinced it would break from the strain of bearing his weight on its hind legs.
‘You like a guy who puts a gun in his boot,’ he whispered. ‘don’t you?’"
— From Rachel Kushner’s The Flamethrowers