For April, for as long as I can I will try to write and post a piece of erotic flash fiction a day.
I had always hated her, ever since we first met.
She had always hated me.
We were like the Democrats and Republicans, Arsenal and Tottenham, Iraq and Iran; it was twisted and nasty, irrational and petty: so very pointless.
It started innocuously enough; we were four, and I stole the rubber from the top of her pencil. She cried. I laughed. She hit me. I kicked her. The banal pettiness never stopped, we never grew out of it. Every week for years – through school, college and University – we would try to hurt each other. It was sociopathic, we were blinded by hate, yet it felt so natural. There was no escape from our bile.
A decade later, I visited a brothel; I wanted “Felicia,” but I got her. I got Mandy Jackson, with her blonde hair and devious smile. I looked away as her face flickered; did she recognise me?
Why should she? Why would she think of me when I was just a normal punter? My mind fluttered as I followed the prostitute into the room; my fears went blank, as naked as her body. Her hands oiled my back; she soothed my frustrations away.
Those thoughts resurfaced: I wanted to fuck her, drive my cock deep inside her and watch in her eyes as she realised who I was. I wanted to debase her, defile her, humiliate her and dominate her; I’d pay to destroy her, and then laugh as she realised that I had got the last laugh over her.
I’d … I’d … fantasise as her fingers gripped my tired muscles, and her hands glided down my arms until she snapped my wrists into restraints.
I was immobile; she laughed. I guess she had recognised me. She taunted, threatening me, and gripping a spanking paddle.
The blows hurt: not just physical pain, but emotional agony. This was her, spanking my bottom with sharp, firm, strokes. This was my enemy, dominating me and inflicting her sadistic desires onto my skin. This was my nemesis, winning.
But it was also my cock rising, pressed against the soft bed as her blows rained down on my blistering posterior and as her taunts rained down on my psyche. She threatened to use a strap-on, she said she would humiliate me, she demanded apologies for thirty years of errant behaviour, and still my body betrayed me.
I felt floaty and embarrassed; subservient and defeated. And so very free. I wanted her to do these things, I wanted and needed them. I was desperate for her to beat me, forcing me to submit to her will.
She had found my hidden desires, unlocked them to me and the world, and prepared my anus for its intrusion. She had discovered what, for three decades, I had subconsciously longed for … and I hated her for it.
The featured image comes from here.