Sometimes I don’t want sweet, sentimental sex. I don’t want to kiss, I don’t want to hug, I just want a rough, hard fuck. I haven’t had angry sex in so long, I could really use a good grudge fuck. There’s something to be said for the passion that comes out of anger… sometimes it is even more intense than the passion that arises from love.
I remember the last angry fuck I had. It was a few years ago and I had been sleeping with a guy for about a year. We never dated, were never seen in public together (unless it was a late-night meet up for a night cap before heading home to the sack), and our entire “relationship” was based on sex and sex alone. One night I’d gotten drunk and started texting him, asking him to take me home. He was at work so I went and sat at his bar to wait for him. I was pretty wasted so he gave me his keys and told me I could go crash at his house. I took his keys, got on my bike, and wobbled my way to his house.
I was somehow able to drag my bike up his front steps and into his half of the modified double shotgun. I tried to be quiet so to not wake his roomate as I drunkenly crashed through the house to his bedroom. It was a pigsty, as usual, but I was used to it. I fell into the bed and starred at the cigarette-smoke-stained ceiling. I felt ill so I got up and hurried to his bathroom, just in time to yack. After I got all of the booze out of my stomach, I felt much better. But when I looked around at the bathroom whose floor I was sitting on, I felt sick all over again. It was disgusting! The sink was covered in stubble hairs and old, used, plastic razors. The toilet hadn’t been cleaned since god knows when. The floor had a layer of funk and the bathtub had a nice, brown ring where the water had stood after many baths. It revolted me. I thought it would be a nice surprise for him to come home and find his bathroom clean.
So I cleaned it. And I hate cleaning.
I scrubbed out the tub with bleach, I mopped the floor, I tossed the old razors and scrubbed out the sink. I cleaned the stains underneith the old shampoo and soap bottles around the tub. I did everything but scrub out the toilet, which was just too much for me. I took care to stack his fishing magazines outside in the hallway so they didn’t get wet while I mopped. I didn’t replace them because the floor needed time to dry.
By the time I had finished, I was filthy and exausted and much more sober than when I started (although still fairly drunk). The sun was going to rise soon which meant my lover would be coming home. I went into his room, shut off the lamp, and quickly fell into a heavy sleep.
I was awoken by my lover coming in the room and turning on the lamp.
“Did you clean my bathroom?!” he asked. He sounded pissed.
“Maybe” I said, feeling groggy and intoxicated.
“I thought you were drunk!” he said, still pissed.
“I was but I couldn’t sleep”.
He let out a heavy sigh and climbed into the bed with me. I tried to kiss him but he pushed me away. I turned my back to him and after a minute or two he put his arm around me and roughly pulled me against him, his hard cock pressing against my back. I smiled to myself, thinking I was about to be rewarded.
He made me turn around and he pulled out his hard dick. He pushed my head down towards it and I gladly put it in my mouth. He loved when I did that, saying I gave the best head, and I enjoyed pleasuring him. After sucking him until he nearly came, he got up and pulled my clothes off of me. He slid on a condom and pushed and pulled me into doggy style before fucking the living hell out of me. We didn’t have sex very often, with us both usually being too drunk to perform properly, but this was incredible. We came at the same time and he collapsed onto my back before sliding out of me and falling on to the bed next to me.
“I thought you were mad at me” I said.
“I was. But I got over it”.
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