I heard the front door slam while I was standing at the stove. My back was to the entryway. I didn't turn around. But I heard him stop and take a deep breath before he growled, “What the hell do you think you were doing today?”
My response was quiet. “I just thought it would be nice to see you, as a surprise,” I said, shrugging slightly. “I didn't mean to upset you.” And I really hadn't meant to. I wanted to see him, so I had put on my cutest little babydoll dress and some heels, put on some makeup and left my hair down the way he likes it, and drove the 20 minutes over to the worksite he was managing for the week. I had thought he would be happy to see me, but I couldn't have been more wrong, and I realized that when he came down the stairs, grabbed my arm, and practically dragged me back to my car. All he said was, “We'll talk about this later,” before he slammed my door and pointed toward the exit.
I guess this was “later.”
I heard and felt his footsteps as he crossed the room, his heavy workboots making the stove tremble slightly. I felt the vibration in my fingertips where they rested on the metal stovetop. The vibration stopped when I felt his breath on my neck.
“What made you think that visiting me at work, dressed like a complete slut, would be a good surprise, Morgan?” he asked. When I didn't respond immediately, he made his anger clear by putting his hand to the back of my head, twining his fingers through my hair, and twisting. “Answer me,” he breathed into my ear. “I-I just thought … I don't know, that we could have lunch or something, and maybe it would make your day better.” I said quietly, “I wore the dress for you. I just thought you would like it.”
“Oh, I did like it,” he said softly. I felt the tension in my shoulders ease slightly, and my heels lowered back to the ground, easing the pressure on the balls of my feet. I began to take a deep breath, thinking that he had gotten over most of his anger and that now I could cajole him into getting over the rest of it. But as I started to turn around, his hand twisted more painfully into my hair, and he pushed forward with his whole body, pinning me against the stove, and putting his jean-clad thigh between my bare ones. My thin, boxer-type shorts just barely covered my ass, and there was only that slight piece of material between his rough jeans and the apex of my thighs. It only took half a second for him to pin me there and begin to lean me over onto the stovetop.
“You're a smart girl, Morgan, you had to know I would get sick of this at some point. I did like the dress. And so did every other smartass, horny bastard on that worksite. Would you like to hear what they said about you?” he asked. “What I had to listen to, for the rest of the day, and what I'll have to hear when I go back tomorrow? About how they liked your tits,” he asked, his right hand coming around to cover that same portion of my anatomy, but not stroking, or kneading, as his hands usually did. Instead, he covered my right breast momentarily, then removed his hand and grasped my nipple, twisting in the same manner that he had my hair, hard and painful.
I gasped, “Stop, please, David, you're hurting me.” The anxiety I had felt all day about his anger was quickly turning into fear. He had never acted like this before. I'd seen him angry, but never at me. He'd always been so gentle, so tender and caring, because he knew about my past, and he knew how terrified I was of repeating that experience.
“I'm not hurting you, baby, just giving you a little taste of what's to come,” he said, “because I've been waiting long enough, and if you can show those hot little legs of yours to 100 dirty, horny workmen, then you can open them up for me, and I'm not taking 'no' for an answer this time.”
I had a split second to think about whether I was even going to try to stop him. I didn't really see the point. Once I thought about it, I wasn't really afraid of him. I knew he wouldn't really hurt me, and I knew that I loved him, so if this is what he needed, then fine. But I wasn't going to help him, either. If he wanted our first real time together, the first time he would be inside of me, to be something he did out of anger, then he would have to do that all by himself. I took a deep breath. “Ok, David, if that's what you want, can we at least go into the bedroom, please? Please?” I asked, the tone in my voice matching the words coming from my mouth. I needed him to know that fucking me against the stove was not going to be all that pleasurable for either one of us, especially since I knew it was going to hurt the first time he entered me. We'd spent a lot of time getting to know one another's bodies, and though we hadn't had sex before, we'd done everything except. And I knew he was big enough to hurt me. Just having his two fingers inside me made me feel so full, and if that was a tight fit, I could imagine how it would feel to have his thick cock inside that same tight passage. I had imagined it, time and time again.
I was still leaning over the stove at that point, my back pressed to his front, and I could feel his hardness through his jeans and my thin shorts. But I felt the pressure ease as he started to move away. He removed his hand from my breast and the pressure on my hair decreased, as well. When he had stepped completely away, I turned around. I didn't look him in the face when I said, “I'll be in the bedroom.”
I could still see the tension in his shoulders when he came into the room. He looked at me warily, likely not believing I was going to just let him do what he wanted, since I had avoided it so often over the past six months. He was still angry, though, probably not so much about the dress, but about the fact that I had been denying him for so long. He had built up that anger over the past few months. I had sensed it at times, but he was always so giving, and so gentle with me, that I had convinced myself I was just imagining it. And yet, here it was. That's what you get for denying your instincts, Morgan, I thought to myself.
While I had waited for him to join me in the room, I removed my tshirt and shorts. And now, while he watched, I reached behind, unfastened my bra and pulled it off my shoulders, letting it slide to the floor. Then I just stood there, looking at the ground, waiting for him.
I could hear his increased breathing. I heard him step out of his workboots, loosen his belt, and pull his shirt over his head. I saw it land on the ground next to his boots. I heard the wariness in his voice when he asked, “Aren't you going to take off your panties, too?”
I just shook my head, showing him that I had no intention of doing so, still not looking at him, still waiting for him to command the situation as it seemed he wanted to do.
“Come here, then,” he said, and I moved across the room and stood in front of him, doing as he asked. He splayed his hands on each of my hips, then inserted his index fingers in the waistband of my lace panties and pulled them off. I stepped out of them, as he tossed them over onto his shirt.
His hands went immediately back to my hips, then around to grasp my ass, pulling my bare front against his jeans. The buckle of his belt was digging into my left hip as he ground his jeans into my pussy. I felt his head descend, and his lips brushed my right shoulder, then slid, his tongue just lightly skimming my skin, up to my neck. I loved it when he did that, normally. I loved feeling his lips on me, his hands on me. The difference in our skintones was striking, and I loved to watch his hands, calloused and tan, on my stomach, my thighs, entering me. The remembrance of these things made my complete lack of interest impossible. I always wanted him, wanted to feel his hands on me, his tongue in my mouth, in control, leading me. So my pussy was wet, as always, when his hand found me there. I heard the “Ahhh” come from his lips, the joy at always finding me so ready for him, so needy for him. But that was something I couldn't control. What I could control were my other responses. I stood, silent, unmoving, looking straight ahead at the wall. I wasn't going to help him take something that I wasn't ready to freely give him. It would only hurt us both, later, because I wouldn't be able to look at him the same way, and he wouldn't be able to forgive himself for having changed how I saw him.
It took him several minutes to notice my lack of response. I was usually an active participant in the touching, kissing, grinding foreplay that made up so much of our time together. He finally realized I wasn't moving, and I winced slightly as he withdrew his fingers from inside of me. He immediately stepped away from me, removing all contact between our bodies, and standing with his hands by his sides.
“Look at me, Morgan,” he said. I raised my head, looking him in the eyes for the first time since he entered the room.
I watched the muscle in his jaw clench, and the slight grinding of his teeth, the evidence of his renewed anger, right before he said, “You would have me rape you, is that it?”
His chest rose and fell, one deep breath in and out, before he yelled, “That's BULLSHIT, Morgan!! I know you want me! Christ, you're cunt is soaking wet!”
He knew he was right, of course, the evidence was right there on his hand, still glistening. I glanced down to see him rub his thumb against his middle and index fingers, feeling the moisture, as if convincing himself he hadn't imagined it.
“Fine,” he said. “if that's what you want. You want me to treat you like a whore, too, so you can hate me after, so you can leave all self-righteous, feeling like you're the victim? Ok, here goes...” And he started removing the rest of his clothes in earnest. He looked directly at me the entire time. He jerked the belt out of the loops of his jeans and threw it to the side. As he started to undo the buckle and unzip his pants, he started talking again. “I liked watching you bent over the stove earlier, baby, I think that's how we'll do this first. I want you to bend over the bed, face down, and spread you legs for me. I don't want to look at your face. All I wanna see is that pretty, wet cunt of yours, waiting for me.”
When I didn't move, he paused momentarily, then continued undressing. When he had pulled off his jeans and socks and stood naked before me, he reached down and grasped his cock, stroking lightly back and forth, his lips turning up into a jeering smile.
“That's fine,” he said, “I'll put you there myself, if that's what you want.” He stopped stroking himself and walked slowly toward me, stopping just short of my nipples touching his chest. Being that close, and being about a foot taller than I am, he had to crouch down to look me in the eyes when he said, “Because I want you to remember this later, baby; you asked for this. You can stop me anytime, but you won't, and so, later, when you think back on this and try to convince yourself it was my fault, somewhere, deep down, you'll know it's what you wanted.”
He stood back up, and almost immediately, walked around behind me. He reached around, and grabbed both my wrists, bringing them to the center of my back, and trapping them in one of his hands, then he shoved me slightly in the direction of the bed. My knees buckled and I reached out to catch myself, trying to regain my balance, but he was already behind me, pressing me into the mattress. I could feel his dick against me, his chest pressed to my back, and his breath was heavy in my ear. I closed my eyes, waiting for the pain that I knew was coming. After all, the last time I had been in this position had been nothing but painful, which he very well knew, from what I had told him about it.
I thought I was as prepared as I could be for what came next when he pressed his lips to my ear and said, “Fuck you, Morgan, if you think this is the kind of person I am.” And I felt him shove off of the bed. The next thing I heard was the slam of the bathroom door and the lock turning, a sure message that I was not to come in.