Clawie vs. Little Miss Alpha from FCF
“Little Miss Alpha” – Amber:
For the longest time, I thought it would change. That eventually, I’d enjoy it. The experience that all my friends seemed to rave about. The one they spent nights and years chasing and gossiping about.
Hetero sex. You know, the kind where a hair-covered man does his best, or perhaps worst impression of Solja Boy Tell‘Em and whale-dives right on top of you. His sweat and Cheeto brand stench so strong you can taste it. His grunts so loud and discordentr with intimacy that it makes you laugh.
Shockingly however, that never happened. It never got better. Never got sexier. Never got anything other than harder and harder to stomach.
So finally, I decided. Or, more accurately realized, I was a lesbian. Always had been. Always would be. I told my parents, who of course kicked me out and told me I was going to hell. Told the few friends I had at school, who reacted in either asking me to eat them out, or telling me Christ would judge me. Whatever though. Fuck them. All of them. And most importantly….
Fuck the closet.
Or maybe fuck in the closet? At least that was the thought running through my mind as I sat on the downstair’s apartment in the building. One I just so happened to inherit outside of my parents’ bigotry.
The tasty little thought placed there by the moving lips, shifting thighs, and immaculately-applied Shane-Dawson eyeshadow of my second to last applicant of the day.
An applicant to rent the the none-bedroom flat. One whose bright purple, pixie-cut hair made me want fuck her right there and right then. My teeth gnawing suggestively at my upper lip as I struggled to make out enough of what the girl was saying, and not just thinking about making out with her, you know, with tongues, sucks, and nibbles.
And though I made it through that conversation without giving into my more primal needs or embarrassing myself any more than necessary. I was tired.
Done with hearing bitches kiss my ass. Done with perfume that smelled like a local Ross without AC. Done with everything other than having that sweet little pixie in MY apartment and in a collar fitted just for her.
With that fatigue wearing down on me, I stewed, waiting for the final applicant. For five minutes and then ten. Ten minutes and then twenty. Until finally, I just said fuck it, and began the long, stair-complicated journey back to my own personal space.
A space I intended to relax in. Pliny the Elder in hand, as I watched Grey’s Anatomy from my bathtub. But then it came, a buzz at the secured front door of the building. A buzz and then a loud pounding at the metal, screen door that had to be unlocked remotely from inside. Remotely by me.
“Oh my god, fuck whoever the hell this is!” I muttered angrily, as against my better judgment I hit the door release button and headed back down to meet whoever it was that had the fucking balls, metephorical or not, to either show up so late for an appointment, or without one.
A rage-accompanied curiosity that quickened my steps until they froze. My every movement, and even the beat of my heart stopping cold when my eyes caught my first glimpse of you after so very, very long. Chloe….
Clawie – Chloe
And another one bites the dust. That makes it a dozen.
A dozen apartments, in 4 years. That’s a frakking record, someone contact Guinness! But no one would, because no one cares about the little piece of shit that’s me. No one ever did. Except maybe my mom, from the ages 2 till 14, maybe. Until I started coming back covered in mud, scrapes, and bruises. Until every discount bin pair of pants or leggings she got me were torn at the knees. She screamed and cried. She smacked me around a couple of times, then she gave up. She was too tired to deal with my shit, and made sure I’m reminded of it. I know it was tough for her being a single mother. But it was tough for me too. Being the poorest smallest girl in the class. And it only got rougher, when my boobs kicked in, and the boys finally gave me attention, and I wasn’t as excited about it as I thought I would be.
Something about having a phallic shaped semi rigid dong shoved in my mouth felt disgusting. I could smell their work out sweat on their groins. I hated the way they grabbed my hair and smacked my ass when they bent me over and thrust into me. I caught myself yawning. And figured, something was off.
Enter. Her.
She was from another school. The one right across the one traffic light in our small sleepy town. They said our little hamlet was clever as fuck, using roundabouts to solve all traffic jam issues. Bullshit I say. They just didn’t have the money for our afterthought of a town. But there was a rumble one day at the football field. Some cheerleader yanked another by her pigtail. They spat and screamed and hollered. Being as loud as they could like two packs of peacocks, while waiting for their muscle. And like Achilles pushing his way through Agamemnon’s armies. I pushed to the front and. There was a mirror. Well. One of those more flattering mirrors. Her skin was fairer. Her hair shorter. Her face rounded, and her body curvy. With just a hint of tattoo, not as outrageous as my own. Obviously dressed much nicer than me. But that was not difficult by any means. But she was dressed overtly nice. A rich bitch. One with a trust fund and probably grandparents to write her a beach house a city duplex in the future. My cheeks went red. I called her for what I saw: “Looking for trouble, rich bitch?” And her response made me lose it: “I am, still looking, see none, poop stains.”
The brown stain on my skirt was not frakking poop. It was mud. But it got the girls to laugh and I rushed. We slammed and grabbed each other. We fought like girls. We grabbed hair, slapped, fell to the ground, kicking and kneeing. Punching sides and backs. It was timid, sluggish and mild. But it was the toughest fight I’ve had to date. I had a bloody nose. She had a swollen eye. And when we stopped. Panting and sweating bullets, I had to pull my skirt down. I was drenched. Fuck that bitch. Fuck how turned on she made me! We backed away, cussing and calling each other names, telling each other it’s not over. And it never was. I didn’t look to Saturday nights to go out with a lame jock or the town’s mechanic in his Camaro. I looked for Sunday afternoons after the football games for a chance for someone starting shit to meet her in the field. In our spot. We never smiled at one another. We never said a nice word. We hated each other. I believe I do, truly. But I. Needed. Her. And I knew from jamming my thigh between hers enough that she too was drenched. The bullet hard nipples, and the occasional moan leaving her lips. She ruined boys for me. And in many ways, ruined me utterly, to the core.
Running late to my 13th apartment’s interview. I saw the listing and knew it was too good to be true. Must be a switch and bait. The photos looked great, but it’s a duplex, so it’s bound to be nicer furnished upstairs where the renter is, and where all the photos were taken. But still, the location was great. Of course, I’m late. Because why you ask? Why not? Why are people even on time? She’s at her luxurious house anyways. Who cares if I’m there on time or not.
I get there and the lights are off. I press the buzzer. Nothing. I press it again, longer. Also nothing. I then hold it and start to pound on the door with my fists. Maybe she’s upstairs. Or deaf. Or old. Or a fucking cunt who wants me to wait. And I don’t take shit from nobody.
Finally the gate releases with a Bzzzztttt. I open it and step inside. I step inside and I’m straight into the duplex. Stairs leading upstairs, and I guess my **unit** is right in front of me. I see construction stuff, she must be still in the process of building a door here to give the tenants some privacy. Great. I let myself inside, walking forwards, hands on my exposed hips. Chewing on my gum. Black leggings. I find it better for first impression to try to cover most of my tattoos. Those on my arms are on full blast though through the black mesh top, framing my black bra beneath it. A black collar around my throat. Green bangs down over my forehead. Checking out the kitchen. Nice.
Amber:
I was always broken. I was always wrong. For the life I was supposed to lead. For the roles I was supposed to fill. I was destined to be a doctor or a lawyer, an accountant or something smart — something straight and respectable. But instead, I was me…. I was distracted. And dismissive. Not giving a fuck about school or grades. College or listening to whatever authority figure happened to be in play on a certain day.
I just wanted to be me. To listen to what I wanted to listen to. To do what I wanted to do. When I wanted to do it. Skipping class, yada, yada. You know the story. It’s cliche, but fuck you. It was me.
And even though I already knew I was dirty, fractured little doll, I didn’t know exactly how messed up I was until I met you. Until we parted the red-sea of our schools urchins and met for the first time.
First time though it was, at the very moment I laid my eyes on you, I felt, ugh(!), I can’t even describe it. Just, like, safe. Which is the weirdest thing to fucking say, given all that we did to each other.
But I felt like you were me. Like I was you. And that finally, I wasn’t alone in being broken. After so long, I wasn’t the only freak in the world.
Yeah, I couldn’t read what you were feeling, but at least in my metal-head mind I thought I saw the same look in your eyes.
As we met face-to-face. Chest-to-chest. And body-to-body. If only because we didn’t know what else to do or how to deal.
Our minds telling us to destroy each other, even though in some ways you were my only lifeline to feeling like I wasn’t worthless.
And though all of those thoughts are and were a mess. It got even more confusing what our battles made me feel. Turned on, even when we were clawing at each other. Lust-driven, even when we were yanking out each other’s hair one emerald patch at a time. And though I knew you shared those irrational and inexplicable desires. You left me.
Moving away or some shit.
After years of being my only silver lining. After so long helping me survive a world I hate to its very core.
And though I hated you even more for that. For betraying me. For leaving me. Even though we never spoke but to curse. Never touched but to hurt.
As I see you moving about down the downstairs flat of my building, I rush to you. Not shouting your name. Not alerting you to my presence. Instead running, as fast as my dirty, New Balance covered feet could carry me. My half-baggy black jeans swishing between my thick, alabaster thighs as I moved. My ample breasts bouncing in my skin-tight, braless A-shirt as I did the same.
Until finally I am behind you. Until finally, I grab your shoulder and pull you around to face me. My mind, soul, and eyes flooded with so many emotions I can not count them, let alone describe them.
Conflicted and overwhelmed though I am. As I force you to spin, and then you settle, I reach out and grab a pinch of your black mesh top. Something in the taking giving me the strength to breathe as I study your face.
Your beautiful, gut-wrenching face. Your eyes telling me more than any words spoken might.
Chloe:
I keep walking around, checking the place out, nodding, and acting like I’m some big shot pleased by what she is seeing, and that’s simply because my mind reached the conclusion fast: No chance in hell I can afford this joint.
The floors are hardwood. The furniture looks like it’s out of a West Elm or Restoration Hardware catalogue. The rug made out of hemp and looks too fucking nice for my dirty Vans sneakers to dirty them. Heck, it’s too nice for my lay down on it with my clothes. A fireplace. A frakking brown brick real ass fireplace, with a poker and all that. I feel intimidated. I feel. I feel.
Small.
A sensation that I always revert to, my deepest insecurity since I was a child. A runt. A black sheep. I was short and pudgy. And I hate feeling this way. And walking around this rich bitch’s house, I am going back to that sensation. How. Worthless I am. And I hate it. I frakking hate it.
I hear the steps rushing down the steps. A bit too fast. Probably saw me and is scared that I would steal something. And I can’t blame her really. I look the part. But I’m a piece of shit, I’m not a thief. I don’t turn, because, part of me knows I will hate seeing some tall blonde model type, the outcome of mating between big money and some gold digger. I will hate myself even more, and I have been turned down from worse, shittier apartments. I feel the steps approaching, rapidly. A bit too fast, then, the grip on my shoulders and the spin.
“What the EFF!” I gasp, shocked at the violent gesture. I did nothing! There is no cause to put her hands on me. Then. I see you.
You.
YOU!
And my mind goes back to that night. Our very last night. Our fucking swan song.
We met in our place. The same spot at the field. But there was no riot, no scuffle, no grudge. Frakking school was out of session. I just left home after a fight with my mom. She told me she wish she never had me. I told her I hated her. I stormed out. And I saw you. Your cheeks were also stained with tears. You had a rough day.
But we didn’t walk up to each other and embrace like friends. No. That’s what normal girls do. That’s what girls who are safe and secure about their sexuality do. We. Did. Not.
We screamed at each other, and treated the other as if she was the source of her misery. Her punching bag. Her scratching pole. Her chew toy. Fists flew. We pounded each other, stumbling around the giant Oak tree. We speared each other into it. We slammed and kicked. I ripped your blouse open. Clawing and mauling your breasts. You pulled my shorts down, trapping my legs. You managed to sneak behind me. And I felt your hand, sliding between my thighs from behind.
“What. What the. Uhh! What are you doing?” I moaned, scared as I felt your fingers pushing inside of me. Your thumb into my asshole, two fingers inside my cunt. I shuddered. I tried to squirm but you had me pinned chest down into the dirt. You pulled my hair back. You sneered and kissed me. It was violent. It was delicious. I thrust my hips back into your fingers. You knew my secret. You knew it. And you just took me there under the tree. You fingered me into a puddly mess. Then you pulled me up by the hair and shoved my face between your legs. But I was diving in by choice. I licked and ate you.I suckled and nibbled on you. Then when when your cream was staining my cheeks, we laid there. Panting. Trembling. Without a word. I got up. I was still crying. You looked up at me. I wanted you to say it. To say: “Stay.” But you didn’t, and I left. I didn’t go home. With $11.59 in my pockets. A chewing gum. And two condoms. I made it out of town. Both condoms were used. But I made it out.
And now. You found me. Or did I find out? Or did fate see this through? I never believed in the bitch. You pinch my mesh top, it stretches and your nails rip through it. It tightens around my armpits, you pull me towards you.
I say no words, I reach up, and cup your chin with my right hand. Fingers curling. My nails. They are longer than when you last saw me. Sharper. Painted black. And having had their share of city whore blood. I latch them to your cheeks, thumb in one, the rest in the other, and I pinch your face the way you are doing my top. I shove your head back. Glaring. Heart pounding.
Amber:
I have always tried to shrug off regrets. To ignore things I should have done better. Things I knew I did wrong. Successful though I have been at that, since the last time we saw each other, I have hated myself along with you. Not because I let my truth come out.
Not because I let my true passions override the lie we had told each other for so long. That all there was between us was violence. That all we had in common was hate.
No, that I call came too late. I should have made it before. Not so we could fuck instead of fighting, because the fighting gave me life. Gave us life. Connected us deeper than any kiss or caress. Any orgasm or moan-laced encounter ever could.
But I should have said it. I should have told you to “stay”. I should have stood up and grabbed you. Pulled you back to the dirt with me, and made you understand that….. That…..
It doesn’t matter now. What I would have told you or what you would have said in return. How I would have begged you…. Worshiped you, if you just would have stayed with me. Not just that night but forever.
But I didn’t.
And you left.
But now by the grace of god or the fates, you’re in front of me once more. Just like I had dreamed about since that last night. Just like I had seen in my waking fantasies. You walking by and me stopping you. “Amber….?” you would say. “Chloe…?” I would respond.
Until hand-in-hand we ran off together to live the life we always should have lived. To be for each other what everyone else in the world had denied us.
But finally it isn’t a dream. It’s real. My claws piercing your half-tattered top, just as you cup my face and dig your nails into my cheeks.
I have so much to say. So much I want to know. So many questions. So many answers. And yet, as I feel us sink back into our comfort once more. Into our dirty, wild heaven. I don’t want words. I don’t want reason and explanation.
I just want you.
And so, in a blink I move my hands to your hair. Hair that is still just as green as mine. As if we were afraid to change the hue, in fear of forgetting one another. A sentimentality absent as with my two tightly bound handfuls, I tug. Just enough to tell you what I want as I lean into you. Pressing my forehead to yours, as my eyes close and body shivers.
Everything about the moment being good enough to take and cling to, even if it were my last moment on earth. Even if it were the only memory I could take with me to the afterlife.
Having you back. The one woman who made me feel real. Made me feel like anything other than garbage.
Chloe:
You’re my sin.
I was told that I had many. Everyone saw their favorite sin in me. From sloth to envy, from pride to greed. But you were my true sin. Lust.
You are the reason for my true dysfunction. Our upbringings they just served to augment the confusion, the sense of guilt for being repulsed off boys. For thinking and dreaming of being with a girl. For imagining actresses instead of their male counterparts everytime we shut our eyes and touched ourselves in bed.
Then, the other came. And we found that release, but not like normal girls with parents who love and support. Not by holding hands, kissing softly and moaning as we gyrate in heavenly bliss. But no.
My first time to get wet pressed into another was on the lawn with you, rolling and thumping thighs weakly against the other’s crotches. The first time I felt my nipple so hard was when you leaned in and pinched it. The first time my mouth was so watering for someone, was when I sank my teeth into your perfect smooth flesh and bit you until you bled.
We’re broken, dysfunctional, and it’s all because of each other. You’re the reason I can’t maintain a relationship. Why I have to fake every orgasm. Why I ask to be tied and bonded, spanked and choked, just to even get close.
And now, you have my hair. And you pull me towards you. My top is ripped, and when I let go of your chin, your cheeks are showing the tiny dots of where my nails sank. I grab your hair too. We pull together, our skulls butt. I grunt. Hissing it hurt. But you push me away, then pull me back again. Another crack of our skulls. I grunt. I push your head back few inches in return and pull you in a third time. This time. We yelp, and we can feel the warm crimson slowly seeping down our foreheads. Whose? Yours? Mine? Both?
We don’t speak. We twirl our fingers more. You push into me, I shove my body against yours. We don’t ask for permission. We’ve long desecrated each other’s forms. Bodies. We’ve made a mess of each other. And we want to pursue that. Further. Deeper. We want that that we have deeply missed.
I kick my right foot, sending my Vans flying off. I do it with my left, but it sticks. So I kick the ground a couple of times, loosening the shoe stuck to my sweaty foot and it flies off. Better footing. More familiar. We’re not on dirt and grass. But it’s as close as it will get. Grunting, struggling. Grinding bodies, pushing one another with our bodies. Feeling out each other. And frakk me, did you fill out nice. Your breasts larger, juicier, firmer. They shift under your shirt, but barely so. They press proudly into mine. I groan, pulling you violently into me, gaining speed, I spin, and send your back into the wall hard. I collapse into you. Pinning and crushing you to the wall. Hatefully. Nastily.
Amber:
Just like in the movies — the ones where everyone is pretty and normal, when we reunite time seems to both slow and speed up at the same time. As sure as we are of so many things about each other, we fear. That we’re in a dream. That we aren’t really wrapping around each other. That we don’t really have the chance to fight once more. To breathe once more.
After so long spent suffocating in a world without the woman that completed us.
Trying to fill the hole we left in each other. With pleasure and pain. Drugs and alcohol. Tattoos and piercings.
Asking girlfriends to fight us, only to find ourselves without those girlfriends that same night.
They didn’t understand. They could never understand. The maelstrom of teenage angst, familial rejection, and scholastic ridicule that it took to break us. Nor the happenstance meeting and malice taught us how to live. How to love. Not through the normal trappings of a relationship, but through pain. Through battle.
Your claws being the bouquets you brought me. Your thighs wrapped around my abdomen and squeezing being the chocolates you gave as surprise. The punches you drove into my stomach being the sweet nothings others whispered in their lover’s ears.
But others not understanding didn’t matter anymore. As long as you are real. As long as this isn’t a daydream. Doubt though I did — though we did, with every passing second it becomes more and more clear.
This is happening. This is you I am holding by the hair and stumbling with. Each of us kicking our loose and dirty shoes off, as together we pull tight. Our matured and matching breasts compressing between us, as we fight over every breath we take.
My eyes having opened to meet yours as you slam me into the nearest all and pin me. Each of us glaring, as my head leans back and my right leg lifts and wraps around your hip. It pulling your lower half into and against mine, as I yank hard, first left and then right. Pulling your head from side to side in painful jerks, just as you do the same to me.
Those lips on my face curling into a wide sneer as I growl at you like a starving and feral cat. An expression that makes your own lips move into a smirk, just as your eyes sparkle with an excitement I had missed for so very long.
I love it. Every second of it. And though I do, and could stay beneath you forever in that state of contrary wills and adverse intentions. With a sudden surge of force, I drive forward, left, and roll us on the wall. Pinning you, just as you had me.
My hip level leg dropping in the process, as we engage in this hairpulling foreplay. Both of us knowing that if this is real — if our dreams have truly come true, it’s forever.
Chloe:
There it is. That. Feeling. That sensation of being complete in this chaos. I never belonged to this world. Never to this sense of normality thrust upon us by those who never understood, or bothered to. This is where I belong. With you. Doing what we do best. Even if it’s a sick, demented, twisted form of release. One that in an alternate universe, would have us waking up each other in the morning, with faces between the other’s thighs, licking and worshipping. Moaning in bliss and happiness.
But we’ve never been happy girls. We’ve been so twisted and deformed, that it feels strange. So yeah.
Fuck Happiness.
And fuck you, Amber.
I don’t say the words, but my eyes scream them. Grinding you to the wall. Feeling your leg wrap around me, your thick limbs bendier than they look, but I know. I’ve felt them. I’ve tangled with you in naked catballs, coiled together, only to feel a surprise third limb scratching at my cheek and neck. Making me yelp in surprise, wondering if you grew a third arm, only to realize it’s your creamy leg that I’m sure you can bend behind your own head in your spare time. Probably challenging yourself to see if you can eat your own cunt, because no one else can do it well enough to satisfy you.
But I groan in twisted delight when you do it. Because it means everything to me. It means that you want me. There. Against you. You’re not pushing away. No. You want me in. In! In! In! IN!!!!!
You ragdoll my hair and then, spin me after dizzying me enough, lowering the leg and pushing into me. Your hot scented breath on my cheeks and lips. I groan. Moaning. And you reward it with a thrust of your hips. Drilling my ass back to the wall. I grunt, glare, and thrust back into you. You moan and fire back, but this time, my hips are turned, and I take your pussy right into my jutting hip bone. City life cost me few pounds. So less padding for you.
You whimper. I push off the wall with a foot. Sending you back. But then I stop and hauling ass, I spin, slamming your back again haaarrrrddd into the same spot we were struggling on. Bringing you back. Letting you know I’ve not had enough. Your body slams and you sag a second, and I’m on you. My hands off your hair, now grabbing your white tee. Sticking to sweaty flesh. I pull it up, over your arms and covering your face. I hold it there with both hands, my fists punched to the wall to keep your arms busy and your face covered. I bend down, face to face with your breasts.
My Jesus. They are no longer a girls blossoms. They are a woman’s. Bigger. Firmer. Heavier. They look even bigger than my own, or maybe it’s because I am face to face with the right one. But I don’t care. I open my mouth and bite on your pink nipple. Hissing in delight. Hearing you scream and moan. I look up at your face, covered in the wet tee, your face outlined like a ghost through it’s sheet. I see the lips wide open, moaning. I bite harder, more delightfully, pulling the nipple back towards me, stretching it.
Your tormentor is back. And she’s loving it.
Amber:
As it has always been between us, there is a push and pull. An equal and then an opposite force. But not only in our battle to best and batter, but also within ourselves.
We want it. The pain and suffering inflicted. The feeling of the other seezing control and hurting us. There is such intimacy in giving into it. In giving you the reins and letting you ruin me. To feel your offense. Your brutality. Your strength as I allow myself to be weak.
Because that weakness I could never share with anyone else. Not with the family that disowned me. Society which has shunned me. Or even the girls I met after our last night, who stuck around just long enough to call me a freak for wanting this.
A this you give me not only willingly but wantonly. Spinning us back and slamming right where I was. A message of control. A message of domination. One that comes in spades as you lift my sweat-wet top up and over my head. Letting it stay just in front of my face as you lean in and bite at my nipple.
A bite that brings a shriek that dovetails into a deep, guttural moan. One like none I have given to any other since last we writhed in the dirt.
And though I do moan, as you bite hard and then pullback, stretching out my tit and then letting it snap back. When next you come for it. Another bite. I reach out, down, and grab your own top from your bent over back. At it I then pull, though I do so on touch and not sight. My eyes still covered by my own moist white top.
Despite that blindness, still I get the cover I pinched at earlier to come forward, up, and then over your head. For a moment the idea crosses my mind to leave it there to blind you as you did me, instead I use it to pull you forward into a knee I bring up hard into your own hanging tits.
As that blow connects, I move my hands to my own top and pull it free — just as yours drops over your shoulders and arms and then to the floor.
Yes, I could wait. For you to straighten yourself so we can crash once more, in a delicious collision of long-lost tits. Instead, like the hellcat I’ve always been I leap at and onto your back. Hoping to grab a hold around your neck, as in desperation and delight you fight to throw me off.
Chloe:
I feel it there. That weakness. One that we always shared with each other. Unspoken, but we sensed it, first in ourselves, hating our own souls for it, ever since we learned and came to the fact that fighting the 15 years old green haired tattooed rebel behind the bleachers surrounded by our cheering school friends, waving our school flags and ordering us to fight harder.
Like their war hounds. Their savage beasts. Like we are not even human, because we never were for them.
But we were humans to each other. Never spoken. Never said, but we felt it. Because we completed each other in that demented dichotomy from our first ever fight, to our feverish last one 3 years later, after we violated, and nearly raped each other. But is it really rape, if the other was enjoying it secretly?
A twisted delirium of emotions, I bite your quarter sized nipple, stretching it. Staring up. It pops back. I reach again but you get my top. Nails scratching through it, while simultaneously stretching the see through mesh. It’s hardly more resilient than a wet napkin now, it pulls over my hair, baring my back, with the red streaks from your nails that I thoroughly enjoyed and moaned to, despite them welting my alabaster flesh, leaving red lines cut off only by the strap of my black bra.
You yank the top over my head, and hold it there, it’s mesh, it’s see through but its wetness does a good job blocking my air circulation. I whimper and try to shift, trying to hold you into the same kind of grip, now denied the ability to bite you with my mouth covered up. I think about rising up, slamming my chest into yours, but you think faster. Wilder. Harder.
A knee slams up, crushing my left breast in. I groan. Fingers release your top. And you reach up pulling it off your face casting it away. Sweaty and topless. Still against the wall. I slump. My breasts feeling like an echo chamber for demons screaming, it pulses and you bend over, hooping a strong thick arm around my throat from behind. I groan, you tighten hard. I feel your breasts pushing into my upper back. A wet nipple and a dry one taunting my flesh. You’re in control now. And you feel my weakness. Granted to you.
You push off the wall. Bent over. Holding my neck. You fire a right hook into my ribs. I grunt and stumble. Weakening more. You grumble something that makes me picture your lips smiling. You fire another knee, driving into my other breast. I gasp and sputter. Weakening more. I stagger and begin to sink to my knees. But you are not done with your fun. With your surge of dominance over me.
But I am done with it.
My weakness, like yours. Granted. By the savage urge in us to be hurt. Mauled and pummeled by the other.
And much like me, you never mistook my weakness for the end of the line. That my tank is anywhere off Full. I have a lot in reserve, and so do you. I groan, my arms wrapping around thigh thighs, holding them. I’m on my knees, but I push a foot to the floor. I feel you swing another blow to my ribs. I grunt, but I don’t buckle. I’m tougher than that. I push a foot to the ground, I see it, behind you. That symbol of decadency and debauchery that rich folks love. A piano. A black one, that I doubt you or whoever gave you this place ever played. With the lid open. Propped up on it’s leg, exposing the intricate strings, dampers, and bridges.
I heave, grunt and thrust. Pulling up, lifting your small form, with a vicious surge of strength, my neck strained, your arm strangling it. But I don’t stop. I pick you up and charge across the room, roaring. I don’t aim for the keys or the front of the piano. No, I go for the open back. Pushing your ass into the edge and diving into it with you. I scream, feeling the hard metal wires pushing into my cheek and nose. There is a reason assassins use them to garrote their enemies. And there is a reason I happily am taking them to the face. Because your back is open, exposed, and there is far more skin there to be tortured, furrowed and sliced.
A little bit of me, for a whole lot of you.
Amber:
So long have I been without you. Without the girl who would walk with me — sprint with me to the gates of hell and then hand-in-hand skip inside. And because of that time spent, I find myself nervous.
Nervous to hit you. Nervous to batter you like we once did. Not wanting to drive you away. Or fall victim to memories that in my hard life I have twisted into being something they weren’t. A level violence that perhaps in the passing of years has grown to be more than it was.
But with every passing second that we struggle against one another. And with every blow I bury into your back and sides that you take with a grunt and then a turned-on moan, I begin to feel more and more comfortable with our violence.
More and more sure that all I remembered was true. That we were limitless and without boundaries. Not because we had no sense, but because the violence is all that made sense.
But none of those memories and none of that sense prepares me for your sudden charge. One that leads you forward, up, and into me. You, though neither of us are overly strong, picking me up and driving me back. Into the Piano I found here when I took over the building. One that was too expensive to move and too pretty to destroy.
Pretty though it is, still you slam me into it. Not against it, but inside of it! Into the open top, you following after me as if not a moment can pass without you inflicting pain and punishment upon me.
And though sometimes we suffer in silence. Or whimper and moan out in voices so quiet only the other can hear. When we together fall into the wire workings of the piano, together we scream. My back catching and sinking between them, the sharpness of every such reed slicing skin and calling crimson at just the weight of us two. Your pretty face shifting past my side and landing into those same string-made blades and slicing you open.
At the pain of it. The feeling of it. And in the already spacelessness of the open piano I am unable to move. Barely able to breathe past the feeling of my own skin torn open. And yet as you finally lift your head up, trying to escape the purgatory you trapped us in.
I suddenly kick with my left leg. Knocking the one leg that held the piano lip up out of the way. Leaving its heavy, black cover to slam closed atop us — trapping us inside until effort can be put forth to force it open. It landing atop you and hitting you hard in the upper back, and causing you to collapse down on top of me.
A drop which hurts me more than you, though the lid itself no doubt caused its own agony.
But its an agony we endure together. Your naked breasts and mine flattened together, as tears fill my eyes and begin to fall. Both from pain and perfection. The misery of the moment. A moment with you being all that I had wanted for so long.
Something I show you in the dark, as I use my tongue to lick the blood dripping from your face as you struggle to recover your senses. My back having already gone numb from the pain and lacerations.
Lacerations that drip. Drip. Drip upon the old wood of the inside of the piano.
A pitter-patter that surrounds us in echo, as I reach down and push my loose jean bottoms down.
Chloe:
With a heaving groan. A strain. The feel of my breasts bruising, spilled out of the black bra. One strap down and arm, and the other barely hanging. I push and lift. The small of my back killing me. Pain that makes me want to just let go and cry, collapsing to my back. Pain that you sense. Driving an elbow on my back, making me slump, almost fall, miss the opening and drive your back into the black shiny edge of the instrument of melodic beauty.
But then, your foot touches the ground, and you use it to thrust. To lift your body. To pounce up in the air. You’re lending an assist. You’re battering into me, and yet, you want me to finish what I started. You don’t know what’s behind you. But you are aching to find out what I am trying to do. It’s something to be missed in the chaos, the pain, the delirium your strong arm is causing as it strangles me from behind. But I can’t miss it, like I haven’t missed the hundreds of similar gestures you’ve done in all our old battles. The moments of near triumph that you’d have. That you forego just to keep us fighting a bit longer. Ones that I’ve happily returned, because defeating you was never the purpose. Putting you down was never the point. It was being with you. Feeling your flesh, your moans, your grunt, your body battling mine.
And through the gaping maw we go. Screams. The thin metal wires slicing and dicing. You cry and lose the choke. I lean back, feeling the welted skin on my right cheek. The blood tingling, burning. I see your eyes shut and your cries filling my ears with joy. I reach up for your hair. Gripping and sinking my fingers in. Hissing, my body arching, pushing my belly into yours, I want to push you into the bed of pain like a fruit into a dicer.
But you kick. You scream and kick the leg off, and I feel the heavy lid slamming into the back of my head. Then darkness.
One that I assume is the outcome of the hard blow. The spreading pain and wetness at the back of my scalp. The sickness in my stomach warning of a possible concussion. But no. I can feel your naked chest on mine. I can feel your chest heaving, making our bodies expand, my back lifting the lid a little, it’s not fully shut, not with our legs hanging out the edge of the piano. But the weight is pushing me into you, and your back into the wires.
I feel the sickly, sadistic lap of tongue. The fingers worming between us. Flicking the buttons on your jeans, and pushing it down. I feel the urgency, and I reach down too. To my leggings. I push them down, groaning. Silently, in this entrapment, our premiere challenge becomes outslutting each other. Baring our own wet, needy sexes. My head turning. I lick across your lips, then I bite the bottom one hard. You moan while I stretch and chew, until it pops like a ripe strawberry. Then I lick your blood off it.
Our bottoms now rolled down just under our curvy butt cheeks. It’s the furthest we can lower them now. We. Handshake.
Or in reality, pussy shake.
It’s all we care for now, pushing our hips, legs spreading, and I moan out, deep, shaking, my pussy on yours. After all those years. I’m drenched. I’m wet. I turn my hands in your hair, pushing your head to the side, turning it, grinding your left ear and cheek into the wire, screaming into your right ear, shaking, trembling like a volcano, while my pussy rumbles and erupts like a volcano, gushing my honey on yours. Drenching you with my Chloe sweetness. My moans and your screams echoing in our musical sarcophagus.
Amber:
Our first battle without watchers, we could hear it in each other’s voice. Sense it whenever we would linger in a hold longer than it made sense for either offense or defense. Doing whatever we could to remain body to body.
Each of finding any reason we could to extend a hand or an arm — a finger or thigh between each other’s legs just to see. Just to feel the acceptance we so deeply needed from each other. A wetness that meant, despite all the pain and torture. Insults and yells, that we — the two of us — Amber and Chloe wanted.
One another.
Even though the world hated us.
Even though our parents berated and abandoned us.
Then, when we both knew and felt certain of that truth — as desperate and joyful as the realization was. We tried to deny, both to ourselves and each other what we truly wanted. Not instead of, but with our violence and pain. A A satisfaction. A release. A quenching of the thirst our wars created within us.
But with every night that we met under the bleachers in the dirt and the grass, we let it take us more and more quickly. At first in unspoken, unacknowledged grinding of womanhoods against whatever part of the other we could find.
Until we found ways of meeting center-to-center and core-to-core. Eyes averted in shame and denial, even as we would hump each other until we found the strength to war once more.
Engagements which came quicker and more often, with every battle we waged.
And part of me hesitates challenging you to such a lustful return to our history, I can’t help it. I can’t resist it. Fuck the closet, as I always say.
And so as I suffer on the piano wire, I pull down my jeans and you remove your leggings. Each of willing, now more than ever to fuck. Even as we fight. To satiate, even as we struggle.
Yes, every thrusting of hips hurts. Yes, in the enclosed space the two of us can barely move, and yet still it is heaven.
Our soaking wet pussy lips spreading against each other, as we hump there in that piano like wild animals. You sucking on the blood you’ve drawn from my bottom lip, just as blood for the cuts on your face drip into my own mouth.
Hours verging on ever, I could last with another. Another who does nothing for me but hold the dildo, or offer their tongue. But with you, I feel an orgasm building in seconds. One I tell you of not with words but moans. Soft, gentle, weak moans. Just like those you offer me.
In that moment, just as it had always been, the weakness we shared only with each other peaking in those moments of satisfaction. We together admitting that though we hurt. That though we cling to the violence and love it. We need more from each other. Want more from each other. And in only a matter of a minute, that more: we give.
Each of us exploding in orgasm, perhaps apart by a second or two — but a second I had forgotten as soon as it passed.
It being drowned out by our sensuality-drenched symphony of sensuality made sound. Just as we shiver against and with each other, as an orgasm — the first real orgasm we have experienced in so long ravages us.
Ravages and then leaves. Neither of us moving in its absence. Neither of us gripping or grasping. Your bite on my lip having released, as you lay down cheek-to-cheek with me in a sole moment of softness unmolested takes hold.
Minutes pass with us there laying there in that piano. A time that passes not with words spoken or expressions made. Until finally, together, and carefully, we work together to peel our sweat-and-blood-wet flesh apart and then push back open the piano lid. We two crawling out from it and back to my downstairs’ apartment’s floor.
And though any other pair my then dress and discuss — share a cup of tea or shot of Jack, I remove whatever clothing is left on my body, just as you do the same.
Each of taking a brief moment to examine the matured body of the girl we once knew so well beneath those goddamn bleachers. Bodies with a moment after move and then crash together. Our hands once more moving to each other’s hair.
Chloe:
Ah. This bliss.
This wonderful release.
I feel my soul. My entire essence seeping out of my body, like my own sex is an open wound, and my cum is my life blood seeping out. But it doesn’t hurt. It’s. Deliriously magnificent. My head throbbing from the heavy piano lid smashing on it, my back aching. I just lay there, embraced with you. Breast to breast. Our pussies exposed, jeans and leggings pulled down to upper thighs. And what’s sweeter?
You’re cumming too. A second or two after me. But we cum together for a long, long time. Claws grabbing flesh, bending and pinching it. Nails jammed into ribs and love handles. We just lose it together. And it’s not happening with one of us getting woman-handled and hate fucked with a finger or a fist under that Oak tree in our home town. This is. Consensual. This is needed. It feels like my first orgasm since that night 5 years ago. And my young body has stored so much lust, frustration, and sexual toxins born out of failure after failure, failures of flesh, failures of romance.
Romance that I only found with you. Hating each other. Destroying each other’s bodies and souls.
Sobbing. We lay there. Then your hand moves and pushes on the lid. It’s heavy. I bring my arms out, and grab on the wood frames, the wire, cutting, and I don’t want to put more weight on your back. It’s seen. Enough. For now. I jam my naked, sweaty ass into it, doing my best to cooperate. And like two vampires pushing open the lid to their casket, we lift it up. You push on me, sitting up, I see in a mirror your back. It’s. Brutal. Brutally delicious. Thin red lines sliced into creamy flesh, down to your ass. But you grab me. Your violent passion overwhelming the numbed pain. We slump out of the piano and crash down. And we just lay there. Moaning.
Until we’re not.
Until you grab me by the hair, pulling me up. Your eyes glaring at me. A hand pulls your leggings down. Completely. I don’t grab you back. I pull my leggings, rocking back, dropping to my ass, you slump into me, my legs come up, feet on your hips, toes spread on your soft youthful flesh, peeling my leggings off all the way until they are gone. And I’m as naked as the day I was born.
You hiss, pushing me back. Your cum soaked hips drop on mine. I moan. You grind my head down into the floor. Lips still pursed. No words uttered. Yet.
Glaring at you with my evil brown eyes. My hands going to your upper back. But I don’t go for hair. My nails spreading, feeling the furrows the piano wire left on your skin, I sink in, and sadistically rip them down. The pain has been numbed for too long. It’s time to awaken that sickly, pale beast. And make you scream some more.
Amber:
So much is different now. In the world. In our lives. And though we have remained mirrored and in lock-step in so many delicious ways. Something is different. Joyously different. Each of us too mature and too affected by the years we spent dreaming about each other to let denial blind us.
To let pride or expectation silence our desire. And so even after orgasming together. Tears streaking down our cheeks and ruining our mascara. We together freeing ourselves of the pleasant hell of the Piano-trap we fought to catch ourselves in.
We reach out.
And then as we strip the last shreds of clothing from our body, we pull close. Not on our feet. Not on our knees. But body-to-body and breast to breast on the floor.
You splitting your essence-webbed thighs for me, a liquid leaving made of both my release and yours. And as you do, you reach up, wrap your arms around my back and then dig your nails into the wounds left by the cruel wire of our temporary and hellish home within the pitch black instrument standing above us.
It casting a shadow, as I prop myself up between your legs, reach my own right hand down between the same, and then, as I cup your chin and cheeks with my left hand, squeezing it tightly. I dig my nails into the lips of your valley.
Softly at first and then harder. My eyes and yours locked as we speak without speaking. Communicate without communicating. We two warring and memory-addicted women whimpering for each other in pain as we share such glorious agony.
An agony accompanied by lust and regret — passion and possessiveness. The fingers on my right hand, as they dig into your sex with sharp nails, claiming. Just as I growl at you. Knowing. Swearing. Oathing with the blood we have already shed, and will continue to, that you are mine. And I am yours.
No matter what we were before.
No matter who dares get in our way
Chloe:
Everything is slow.
Is deliberate.
It’s almost ritualistic.
Two long lost souls, finally reunited, acting off this surreal, terrible, macabre dance of the flesh to each other. You slam your crotch on mine. I slash down your back, widening the rips and wounds. You scream, and return a paw to my face. You claw into my soft tender flesh. Something that would make a normal girl flinch and flail. Fearing for her features to be scratched and maimed. But I don’t. I just don’t care about leaving through that door ever again. I don’t care if I remain imprisoned here with you. Fuck life. Fuck society. Fuck anyone who will scowl at the scars you leave me.
But your claws seem merciful, somewhat. They pinch, they bunch my cheeks together. My lips puckering up. You hold me. Just for control. And you go for my soppy cunt. Grabbing. Clawing. Mauling and squeezing. I shudder. Deep groans leave my lips. My eyes shut tight. You have me. In a pain grip. Punishing my pussy. I shudder, spread legs slap and bare heels drag on the tiles. But I don’t fight back. I savor the pain. And in a way. I give you a giant fuck you, saying in a bit direct way, with no words: is that all you got?
But you have more. Nails pushing, splitting, cutting. I begin to whimper. Wince. You see it. But you don’t grin. None of this is about gloating. It’s about beating each other. Hurting her beyond recovery. My hands slowly come up, my left, slaps on the right side of your neck. Then, my right to the other side. My thumbs stretch over your larynx. I see you gulp. I let you take that deep breath. I allow it. I’m telegraphing everything. Letting you maul my cunt and grind my head down into the carpet.
Then I cross my thumbs, I curl them. The sharp ends of my digits flank your windpipe. I squeeze. I tighten. Eyes glaring with deep hatred. Lust beyond words. Choking you with an ivory band of spikes.
Amber:
As I wrench at your sex-moistened lower lips, you taunt me. Tease me. Telling me to give you more. To give you everything I’ve got. And as I begin to twist harder and pinch deeper, you raise an arm, wrap your fingers, and with your eyes — with your everything tell me you’re about to choke me.
With that knowledge, and wanting to last as long as I can in such a cruel and intensely-hot hold, I take a deep breath. One you allow. One you give me.
Our battle profoundly methodical. Perfectly dilatory. And in being as much, the hottest thing I have ever experienced.
And though that redacted speed is intentional and heavenly, neither of us are what we once were. Yes, we’re young, but we aren’t gym rats. Yes, we feel everything as we struggle at an 11 of 10, but we don’t jog on weekdays or Jazzercise on weekends.
Facts of fecklessness that prompt us to move slowly. So that this will last. This moment of unfathomable sexual intensity and violence-made romance.
Reasons though we have. And breath though you gave me. Despite my efforts to stay strong. Stay atop you. And continue gouging my fingers into your pussy lips, as you continue to choke I weaken.
Your fingers squeezing so hard I swear they will each leave a bruise. Bruises I will love. Bruises I will cherish, and curse when they fade.
And yet it is not that pressure that fucks me the most. No, it is my lungs burning, vision blurring, and balance breaking that makes me fall off of you and to my back. You following after me in one swift motion. Mounting me, as you continue to choke.
My hand falling free from your kitten, as it joins it’s other and move to your wrist. Not to pull. Not to wound. But to tell you. But to dare you. More bitch. Give it to me.
Chloe:
We’re no longer fighting. No. Certainly we’re not. We’re battling.
There was a time when I rushed to the green field, heart pounding, my loins burning because I just want to frakking see you, marching towards me. In your fancy designed threads that I just loved pulling and jerking you in with. When we hammered fists into each other in straight up beatdowns. Fell down kicking and trying to worm a knee in to drive it into a cunt.
We were fighting then.
But today. It’s different. We’re hurting each other. But we’re in a battle of wills. We’re testing each other. We’re showing off to each other, the full breadth of how much we can take. And you bring my cunt to its limits. So. I go for your neck. And you allow me. You don’t bite my fingers, you don’t pull the paw off my face and return it with a ground smash.
Instead, you choke. You let out that beautiful gurgle. The delightful moan. My thumb nails sinking into the soft flesh.Piercing the skin. Two trails of red run down your neck, each millimeters off your windpipe, and sufficiently away from your carotid arteries. Flesh wounds that just trickle down your gorgeous creamy flesh. Slowly.
You weak and fall off me. And I follow. My legs spread. Straddling your hips. I stare at you. My breasts now the ones hanging above yours. My nipples hard. I lower myself enough. Just enough to let the nipples drag and flick. My body gyrating. Rubbing into you again. Grinding into my enemy. My rival. Breathing harder. Another orgasm building up. One fueled by your asphyxiation.
Lips pursed. Nostrils flare. Grunts rising into my chest. Fucking faster. Harder. Choking. Choking. Choking.
Amber:
Beneath your body. Your beautiful, sexy, heavy-breasted body I squirm. Not as an act, but because my body can react in no other way. Your choke so strong and unrelenting that your nails dig into my neck and draw blood.
My vision going dim.
My lungs not only on fire, but already burned to a cinder.
And though I swear I would let you choke me, to death even. If I knew it would please you. If I knew it would let me keep your heart and soul forever. You do not want a victim. Not a sub. No, you want, what we both want, a rival. Forever and always.
And so with my last ounce of strength I take my hands from your wrists and then begin to strike. Burying my right hand, one balled into a fist, into your perfect little tummy.
Even as I choke and sputter.
Even as you grind your wet sex in differing intervals against my own stomach and mound.
You riding me to orgasm, the very sight of my weakness being too hot — too arousing to do anything but.
A ride I would hope you finish, a mountain top I’d hope you climb and reach, even as once and then again my fist slams into your side and then stomach. Each landing with a wet sound of sweaty flesh clapping and then drifting off in an echo.
Those blows being more instinct than offense. More desperation than determination.
Automatic though they are, they remind me even as my consciousness drifts. Of the nights we spent punching each other. Slugging it out for none but us to see.
Chloe:
Green hair matted to shoulders, sticking to clawed cheeks with tears and sweat. And no small amount of crimson.
My breasts swaying, like wrecking balls going to work, but they don’t pummel their twin rivals, instead, the nipples flick, sending thunderous ripples through my core. Ones that compete with the sparks of my pussy grinding and riding.
I’m drunk. On violence. On you. I stare into you. I’m closing a climax. Then your fist rams me into my core.
It’s soft. It’s hardly a hard blow. But I’m tender to the touch. I moan. Staring at you. Eyes half lidded you punch me again. I moan and slump into you. My cunt, like a faucet opening, pours down my Chloe-honey down on you.
My hands, now like jello, are pulled off your neck by your grips. Chest to chest. I shake and empty another swimming pool’s worth of cum on your tummy and thighs, leaving a puddle on the floor beneath it. I shake. Tremble. My hands gripped to the sides. I look into your eyes and . . .
BAM!
I see stars. Your forehead cracks into mine. I moan, dizzy, glaring at you. I see a bruise on your head. I breathe hard. I pull my head back.
BAM!
I headbutt you back. As hard as our fleeting bodies can muster. Groggy. You stare at me. The bruise on your head bubbling up. And I know I have one as big on my head.
Both tense our necks. My arms held outwards by you.
BAMMMMM!
We both ram our skulls together. I scream and see white flashes. I feel blood running down my forehead. I don’t know if I’m still on top of you, or dumped to the side, or trapped underneath you anymore. My head just. Spins.
Amber:
Just like then. Just like those nights where we would fight until we passed out together. Naked and dirt-covered. Stained and stuck together by sweat and cum.
Our hair not tied by hand, but still bound by friction and nots.
Our poorly applied mascara clumping and catching, as after out battle and our fall into unconsciousness we held onto each other through the cold of the night.
Nights I cherished as I thought about that night after night. Nights I wished to have back, when the liquor didn’t deaden my thoughts and the drugs didn’t quiet my longing.
But here again, such a moment has come. After my punches and your orgasm. After your release of digits and my violent, sputtering coughs. You drop down onto me.
Our mirrored breasts pressing and meshing, as your forehead and mine meet softly. Neither of us strong anymore. Neither of us having even the ability to think, let alone stand.
And yet we battle on. You moving your hands to my sides and holding me, as in a sudden breaking of gaze-connected eyes you headbutt me.
The blow is audible and devastating. It not only crashing my skull into yours, but then mine back and to the floor with a bouncing thud.
In an instant a light trickle of blood begins. Is it mine? Is it yours? It doesn’t matter and even if it did, I couldn’t tell.
An inability that does little to stop me from delivering my rebuttal. A headbutt of my own. A strike that staggers you, though we lay, just as yours did to me.
Broken though we both are. Battered though we both may be. From the pits of such agony do we suddenly headbutt again and in unison. Our heads colliding with a crack so loud I can feel it in my teeth.
With that mutual strike both given and received, we lay. You giving way, and laying atop me. Our cheeks pressed together. Our heads facing the same way.
It is only then. After what could have been one minute or thirty, that while in the height of our weakness, the corner of my mouth moves. It lifting and pressing to the corner of yours.
Everything left in me hoping that you will sense it. You will accept it. And that after so very long, you will kiss me.
A softness we almost never shared.
Chloe:
One headbutt after another. Each one a concussion in the making. Until, we slump. Dazed. Moaning. My hips have a mind of their own. They are still shaking from the orgasm. Dousing you with it. My head turns to spare my throbbing forehead. My arms slumped down, your fingers still grabbing the wrists. Who’s in control? Me being on top? Or you holding my arms like that and making me cum a second time?
Does it matter?
I know it doesn’t. And in deep, dark abyssal slumber I slip. Dreamless. One that I wake up from a hundred times, almost startled, fearing this was all in my head. I feel your bosom lifting mine up with each deep breath. Your lips corners rubbing with mine, my saliva drooling into them, pooling on your tongue that accepts it eagerly. And I just go back to the painfully throbbing slumber.
When my eyes open. It’s dark outside. The windows showing the street lights, and the sound of construction that smothered our screams and grunts is gone. I moan. And you announce that you are also up with one of your own. Your head moves, oh God. Are we going to. Fight some more?
My body is battered. The cuts congealed, but I know that the slightest of motions and every wound will seep out again. My stomach is aching with a ravaging hunter. My throat is dry for water. But there is something I desire more. One that you are softly offering. My head turns, and our lips kiss. Softly. Tendering. My tongue pushes into your mouth, my eyes shutting, I moan. Our first kiss. We fisted each other’s pussies and fingered the other’s assholes raw. But we never kissed.
And now, I regret never doing it.
Amber:
It makes no sense now, looking back on it. How dirty we got. How sexual and deviant we were, and yet we never kissed. Never let ourselves give into that temptation.
But having tasted your lips and having felt your tongue roaming free inside my mouth. We should have. Not because we loved. Not because we cared. But because it was hot. Just like us. Just like our rivalry.
A rivalry that lead us here. To this floor and this state of absolute devastation. Fatigue and frailty gripping my every muscle and bone as I eventually — I peel my skin from yours and then roll you off of me and to my side. Fighting to get back up to my knees and then my feet.
You only rousing in the barest of ways, as I speak through the fog of war that still hangs over my mind.
“You have can have the apartment. Bitch….” They are the first words spoken between us, and yet they are pure. Unaffected by the pull of emotion or weight of importance.
They letting you know, and hardening in myself the resolve to believe, that we are the enemies we always have been.
Only now we are free.
To fight.
To fuck.
And to lose ourselves in the violence that shaped us. The violence than made us. And the violence we shall always need.
But for now, I need that bath. That Grey’s. And a night to lick my wounds.
So that the next time I see you, I can give you the beating you — the beating WE deserve.
The End.