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Rachel

Dante had changed my life. The day we met in that God awful diner, I never could have predicted what was about to happen to me.

In a matter of weeks, he had become the very air I breathed, and I was about ready to cut off my oxygen supply.

As I stood in my bathroom, looking at my bust lip, the blood colouring my teeth as I ran my tongue over them, checking for cracks, one might think I was full of regret at the choices I had made.

My body was bruised, but my mind was even worse.

The life of an old lady wasn’t for everyone, and it wasn’t something I had made by choice.

I was thrust into this role, and as God is my witness, I fulfilled it more than anyone before me.

It’s not the life for the weak, the criers, or those that needed guiding through it with a gentle hand.

Only the strongest survived, and Dante had taken me to the edge of the cliff, and only my strength had stopped me from tumbling into the abyss.

I could feel his cum leaking out of me, evidence of our latest argument. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel the chilling cool of the gun pressed against my temples as he fucked me harder, daring me to open my smart mouth one more time. Warning me without saying a word.

Anyone else might have stayed silent whilst playing Russian roulette with their lives.

But not me.

I loved it.

I met the challenge in his gaze with one of my own. I toyed with him. I angered him. I thrilled him like no one else could.

I told him he wasn’t shit. I told him his dick game was weak.

I told him he couldn’t get a puppy to submit, never mind a full-blooded woman.

I let him know in no uncertain terms that he was out of his depth with me.

He had more chance of finally finding my clit than he did of getting me to bow down and accept my role as “old lady” with a gracious smile.

I looked him straight in the eye and let him know that his ego had got the better of him, and this time he had bitten off more than he could chew.

That’s when he bit my lip until it bled. And then he fucked me harder when he didn’t get the whimper of pain he was looking for. His hands came round my throat, choking away anything else I could have said.

If he couldn’t silence me with sex, he’d silence me with violence.

That was Dante’s way. He was a walking contradiction. He wanted me to submit to him, but was angry when I did.

He wanted me to be silent and dutiful, and yet his dick was never harder than when I was hurling insults at him and fighting back.

The day I first slapped him, he fucked me for hours, getting off on having me beneath him begging him for more, screaming his name, finally giving him the response he wanted as he inflicted pain and pleasure on any part of my body he could reach.

Maybe you’d be concerned at how often violence appears in our sex life, and maybe you have a right to be. But what two consenting adults choose to do is no one else’s business.

I had no regrets.

I didn’t choose this life, but this life damn sure chose me, and sooner or later, we all must accept our roles on this earth.

We can’t all be Stepford wife material – missionary three times a week, making sure the lights are off and not so much as a toe escapes the confines of the bedcovers.

Barely working up a sweat as our bodies slap against each other.

“Did you cum, Darling?”

“Doesn’t matter to me, sweetness, so long as you’re happy.”

Couldn’t be me, wouldn’t be me.

Some of us needed the thrill of danger. The sweet release as we toed the line between sex and murder. To be fucked as though we were hated.

And make no mistake about it. I was hated.

Loathed.

In fact, I think he may have hated me more than I hated him, and that was really saying something.

I could make an endless list of the things he hated.

He hated that he wanted me. He hated that he couldn’t get enough of me.

He hated that he couldn’t stay away from me, that I consumed every waking thought and every sleepless dream.

He hated that he sought me out, craving my company.

And the more his body craved me, the more he hated me.

It was a vicious circle, and my very being was slap bang in the middle of it, the root of all the problems.

I can accept my portion of the blame. When he first saw me, he thought he was getting the Stepford wife.

The one who would cook, clean, and silently raise his children.

The one who would suck his dick in silence whilst he washed the blood off his hands.

Never questioning, always accepting, and supporting.

Well, jokes on him.

He might be the vice president of this club, but that didn’t come with a side of intelligence.

Dante should have known better than to assume appearances were all that mattered.

He had met his match with me, and it would be a cold day in hell before I let him get the better of me in any way other than sex.

And that’s what truly bothered him. He could get my body to submit by pressing the right buttons, but when the deed was done, and the reality crept back in, I was back to being the stubborn, hardheaded, spiteful woman he had come to hate.

Maybe he had thought that when he took me – fuck it, let’s call a spade a spade, he kidnapped me more like – that he could model me into his perfect woman. If that didn’t work, he’d cast me aside and move on to the next one.

Fat chance of that happening, and we both know it. We just won’t admit it out loud.

The dirty little secret, the reason Dante hates me the most , is that there will be no other woman after me. Whether we like it or not, both of us know deep down that we are perfect for each other. A match made in hell. Two fucked up souls completing the other.

I’ve left my mark on him. I know I’m in there, under his skin, the itch that can’t be itched. The plaguing scratch that reminds him he can’t get rid of me, can’t forget me, can’t stop thinking about me. I know I’m on his mind. No matter where he is, or who he’s with, I’m there, tormenting him.

Consuming him.

And I’ll make it my mission to be a cunt, every step of the way.

Was this healthy? Absolutely fucking not. But I can assure you, when you’ve got a man, built of nothing but solid muscle, heads and shoulders taller than you, screwing your brains out, both of you almost fighting more than fucking… there’s nothing quite like it.

This man could kill me six ways to Sunday, with minimal effort.

I feel the power in his body every time he picks me up and slams my back against the wall.

His huge arms remind me he could snap me in two without breaking a sweat.

And yet he uses that powerful body to slam into mine, fucking me until it hurts, keeping me begging for more.

Yet despite how much I beg, he’s the one under my control, bound by his desire for me. My pussy owns him, and it’s what brings him back for more.

I know some people might be looking at me right now and thinking I was a mess. That I was full of regrets that my own life choices were responsible for the position I was currently in. They’d be thanking God it was me and not them.

Those people were not me.

I looked in the mirror, seeing the blood once more, and I grinned.

I regretted nothing.

And this? This was only the beginning.