This post talks about fucking-like-it’s-fighting, so if you’re not into BDSM/role play/violence it might not be your thing, please don’t read on. I hope those of you who do like this sort of thing will understand why it was so fun for me to write.
I wanna fucking fight you. Want to spit in your mouth and bite and scratch and kick. I want to pummel your chest with my fists while you hold me down. Call you names so hurtful that you wonder if this is still play. I want to be an evil little brat.
We use that word – ‘little’ – so often when we’re talking about brats. Like somehow the very act of throwing this angry tantrum makes me a fucking child. But I am not a child, and this tantrum isn’t childish: this tantrum, right here, is the rage of a full-grown woman. A woman who has swallowed your bullshit for far too fucking long and cannot wait to spit the whole lot right back out in your face.
Bile and bitterness and white-hot anger. Scratches and kicks and slaps.
I want to be a brat.
Hold me down if you can, for as long as you can, and deep down I’m hoping that the act of using your muscles to try and restrain me will cause the blood to thump into your crotch. So I can see the aching pulse of your dick growing hard in your pants and know that whatever I do will be forgiven if I let you come at the end of it.
Call me a brat.
Call me bitch and slut and minx and ‘woman’ in that sarcastic fucking tone that implies being a ‘woman’ is a terrible thing. Destroy my cunt while I wrestle you away. Use thick, firm hands to press down on my tits so I barely have the breath to shriek back at you about what a bastard fucking prick you are. Gag me, then, so you do not have to hear it.
I do not know, when I’m being a brat, how much I am pretending. And when I write this fantasy, too often I focus on your thoughts: whether you’re genuinely playing or you really are this desperate to fuck me. Whether the fight is part of the fun for you, or something to endure because you know I really want it.
Today? Fuck that. Let’s focus on me. Let’s focus on the brat I really truly want to be: the one who doesn’t pull punches. Who fights with all her might. Who opens up the black box of genuine misery and heartache and spite that I’ve kept locked for far too long.
It’s not just my own rage held in that box: would that it were! If it were just my rage, I think I could open it for play. Let a little bit out at a time, so I can struggle and giggle and nibble at you, instead of fighting and snarling and sinking in my sharpened fangs. But no – that box contains hurt from so many many others. Hurt that spans postcodes and continents. Generations. Every brilliant woman who knew me, raised me, loved me, and got punished by a random man for some perceived slight. All the women who swallowed bullshit along with spunk, and hurt hurt hurt for it later.
I want to be a brat so tie me down. Not so I can submit but so I can struggle against my bonds. Spitting and cursing and wriggling until the rope carves angry wet lines into my skin. Whip me not because you fancy wielding it, but because the tails of it are long enough that you can hurt me while you’re comfortably out of reach. Before you slide your dick inside, ensure my wrists are bound so tight that I cannot claw your face.
I want permission to be a brat. When we fuck as if we’re fighting, I feel like I’m allowed to let out a tiny bit of the rage that festers – the rage I feel for all the people I love who’ve been wronged the way you’d wrong me if I let you. All the late-night discussions over gin and dark stories, where I bit my tongue and did not shout out ‘LEAVE THAT FUCKING CUNT.’ The brat inside me wants to find these men and tell them what I really, truly think. That they were lucky to have tickets on the epic journey that was my brilliant friend. Having cast those tickets aside like so much trash they don’t just get to pick them back up again and decide it’s time for adventure.
When I’m being your slut, your submissive, your fucktoy, so often you get to perform on me the kind of power you’d like to hold over other women. The ones you see in my place in porn: spread-legged and whimpering and wet and compliant. Fucked-up and messy – mascara-streaked cheeks and spit pooling on their chin. Inner thighs and labia red-raw from where they’ve been slapped. Part of the fun for you is being able to pretend, just for now, that I will not answer back. That you really are in control, even though I could end it at the drop of a hat.
I perform this for you, and give you a taste of what it feels like to be in power. And because I really really love it, we rarely ever talk about how fucked-up it is that your dick gets harder when you hurt me. That the thing most likely to make your cock thud and spit spunk isn’t when I gasp with pleasure but when I squeal in pain.
So tit for tat, motherfucker. Tit for fucking tat: I’ll be a brat.
As you exert your energy on my gaping, aching holes so I want the chance to exert myself too – fighting you, fucking you, kicking out and scratching and yelling and screaming until my throat is as raw as my cunt. Wriggling against your big hands as they grip my upper arms and hold me down. Your bodyweight crushing my cramping thighs as you pile into me – one hard, rough stroke after another and another and another, my own muscles screaming with the effort of fighting back, getting weaker and weaker and weaker as I fight all the energy out, until spitting in your face is the only thing I can muster the strength to do.
I’ll come at the moment when I realise I’m defeated. When all the fight’s gone out of me.
As it always, always does.