It's summer 1999 and fucking hot outside - hotter in here, your congested Parkdale bachelor with its sweating white walls, scratched hardwood floors that scorch like sun-struck tarmac.
We're sitting on your bed, which doubles as a couch, tipping frosted bottles of Corona to our lips. A single stand-up fan is just barely blowing. Our skin is sticky, our hair damp. Our heads are hazy.
Outside, a streetcar lumbers by. A man yells loudly a string of angry Christ-related curses. Inside, Ace of Spades, static and all, is on the radio.
I'm 20, and all I want to do is fuck.
You're 27, and all you do is fuck.
You lean forward, shove my skirt aside, place a hand on my knee. Drag it slowly up along my bare thigh. Stare me down. "Show me your tits."
I stare back at you, can feel my irises contracting. I tug at the straps of my tank top, push them down over my shoulders, slide the damp cotton down slowly.
"Touch your tits," you say, and take a self-assured swig of Corona.
Fighting my self-consciousness, I grope lazily, trace my fingertips around my nipples, tug.
Your hand moves further up my thigh, smooth strokes. You bat lightly, an effort to part my legs, but I, wet already, spread them without provocation. Wide.
You lean in, muggy breath on my neck, and move your lips to my ear. "Easy, so fucking easy." Bite hard at my neck. Make me shudder.
"Say it," you say, and push my skirt up around my hips. "Say it." Your hand rubs hard at my thighs.
"Easy," I whisper. "I'm so fucking easy."
Your fingers brush my pussy and I surge with wet. Moan.
"Touch yourself." Your green eyes are swampy, your cheeks flushed.
I reach down.
You smile, lean forward, spread my legs wider and watch as I rub my clit slowly, softly. "Show me," you demand.
Light-headed, I spread my pussy with one hand, rub my exposed clit with the other.
You purse your lips and spit a thick gob of saliva - it lingers briefly on your lips before falling, finally, a giant teardrop that burns like ice when it hits my clit.
I rub your spit into my pussy.
"Faster," you say. "Harder."
I dig at my clit so relentlessly it hurts. Swells. Throbs.
You reach behind my neck and grab a fistful of hair, hard. You knock back some Corona and watch as I search for give in your unyielding fist and unsuccessfully attempt to lean back. You tug my hair harder each time, keep my face close to yours.
Without warning, you slap me across the face and tell me to open my eyes.
I try, but my lids flutter and I can't really focus.
You slap me harder so I almost see stars. "Open your eyes."
When I do, I see you, the curve of your tits in your tank top, the wet spot on your jeans. I reach for you and you slap me fast. "Keep your hands to yourself."
I keep working my clit - hasty, firm strokes. You lean in and spit all over my tits. Rub your saliva into my nipples, while I moan, jerk faster. You prod at my thighs. I feel like I'm going to die of desperate want.
"Fuck me," I whisper.
"Fuck me," my voice rises, as do my hips, begging. "Please fuck me."
You take a final swig of your Corona bottle and move it toward my cunt.
"Oh god." My voice quivers and I tremble in anticipation.
"Fuck me, please."
You smirk and slip the bottle to my pussy lips, tease me with it while I buck and plead. Slide it in suddenly, hard and deep, and I cry out. You retreat some, taunt me with the tip of the bottle. Let it sit there. Make me work for it. I start fucking the bottle, really ramming it.
"You'll fuck anything."
"I'll fuck anything." My voice is breathy, inconsistent.
"You're a slut."
"I'm a slut," I repeat, and fuck the bottle harder.
You slap me again, and without warning rip the bottle out and shove swiftly at my sternum, throwing me down on my back. Lube up. Ram three fingers in deep.
"Does that hurt?"
"Ah-hah," I murmur, roll my head to the side.
"It's okay, you can take it. Just breathe." You keep working your way in. Four fingers. Five. "Fuck, your pussy's tight."
My moans ache with pain, but you say only "Shhhh" and slide in deeper. You get as far as your thumb knuckle and pause, tell me to relax, open up. "You're almost there. But this is really going to hurt."
You put a hand on my chest, rub figure-eights across my tits while I try to relax and take it. You call me a good girl, over and over, while I squirm at the sharp stab and sting. You keep pushing, firmly, steadily, deeper and deeper. You curl your fingers into a fist.
I gasp. I feel so full I can hardly breathe.
We sit still for a minute, you wrist-deep in me, until my breath evens out.
"Jerk yourself off," you tell me.
I rub and push at my pussy, slow, concentrated motions. Your fist burns, and my cunt feels like it's on fire. My clit swoons.
"Fuck my fist," you direct.
I do. Slowly. My pussy blazes. I feel for your wrist and force it deeper.
"Jerk faster," you insist.
I smash my fingers hard and hasty at my clit, and you begin to fuck me with firm, solid thrusts, calling me a good girl, a slut.
I rub faster, feeling breathless, explosive. "Fuck me," I moan.
You drive your fist harder.
"Yeah, fuck me," I beg for more.
You shove your fist deep and fuck me insistently, relentlessly, until my breath climaxes feverishly and I come, loudly, and come again.
When you take your fist out, it's covered in blood. You smear your bloodied hand all over my stomach, lean in, run your tongue along my belly, lick up the red wet. You reach for my abandoned Corona and tip the last of it to your lips.