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I hated myself for it, but I hated myself for a lot of things. At least this thing brought me as much pleasure as pain, or rather this part of it did.
It felt so good when he started moving that I found my nails clawing into his back every time he started to pull out, then clamping into him with every rough shove in, until, as he began to move faster, I was scoring with gusto into the abused skin over his shoulder blades.
He wasn’t complaining, and I couldn’t seem to stop myself.
It was quick. It always was the first time.
“I can’t hold it back,” he moaned. “I’m coming.”
“Selfish prick,” I taunted into his ear.
Of course he took that as a challenge. I’d meant it as such. Either it’d motivate him to get me off faster, or it would make him feel inadequate. Both counted as a win for me.
He chose the former, one of his big hands snaking between our bodies, his familiar fingers going unerringly for my clit, working at it with a precision that made my eyes roll up in my head, my overactive mind gone blank for one glorious, regrettable moment.
Tears stung the back of my eyelids as I came. He followed me with a low groan, taking my mouth as he rooted deep and let himself go, emptying inside of me.
It was the sweetest torture, the most delightful torment, to let the man that had ruined me for joy bring it back into my body for one brief instant.
The full-on drunk I’d tricked him into earlier must have still been affecting him. He was usually good for more than one short round. A lot more.
But this time, after a soft kiss on my cheek (a second before I shoved him off me) he rolled onto his stomach and passed out cold.
With one last sneer at him I got up and started gathering my clothes.
I was just zipping my dress when my eyes caught on his shoulders. Or rather, what I’d done to them.
I’d scratched his back bloody. Literally. A few of the deep scores were bleeding.
He’d be wearing evidence of me for weeks, and though it hadn’t been as deliberate as he would no doubt assume, I wasn’t sorry.
I paused when I was dressed and ready to go.
I couldn’t help myself when he was sleeping like this. I moved closer to the bed, my eyes on his downcast, peaceful face in slumber.
I let myself watch him for a time, my mind worlds away and years ago, recalling a time when his beautiful face had been beloved to me.
This was the problem. Even with all the hate I had built up against him, being in his proximity brought back those other feelings, the ones that had nothing to do with hate.
To counteract such poignant, debilitating regret I felt like I should do something else, make some statement that he’d see in the morning that would further cement my victory here.
I thought about ways to humiliate him while he slept. Throw some dollar bills on him, draw a penis on his forehead, get creative, have some fun with it.
But alas, I was short on cash and I didn’t have a Sharpie handy.
I settled for leaving a short message written in lipstick on the bathroom mirror.
NICE TALK.
DON’T CALL ME, AND STAY OFF MY FLIGHTS.
I figured between that and the scratches, he’d understand that I knew I’d won this one.
I had to take this round for myself, but not for the reasons you might think.
Not to win. Not even to conquer. But to endure. It was imperative.
Because even when I won with Dante, I was defeated.
