Quarrelsome

~ erotica ~



Our best fucks always happened after fights.

We'd start off screaming about something in the living room and soon find ourselves naked in the bedroom, though often we didn't get that far.

Occasionally we'd begin ripping each others clothes off while still in the middle of the argument. Those were fun.

Aggression was not our normal modus operandi. He was sweet, too sweet, when it came to sex. Gentle caresses along my flesh. Soft strokes of his cock in my cunt. Constantly checking in. Worried he might hurt me. Kind and considerate and boring as shit.

That is, until we really lit into each other. Or, more accurately, when I really lit into him. Then he didn't care. Pounded my pussy til I was sore. Pulled my hair. Bit and scratched and flung me this way or that. It was the best sex, the fucking I always wanted.

Towards the end, I started picking fights all the time. Made things up. Got on him about trash or dishes or bills, anything I could think of to get him angry and his mad cock inside me. Since I knew the end was coming, I wanted to be cuming as much as I could before we were done. I was going to miss his hate fucking.

It wasn't the fighting that ended us. It was his sweet manner.

He didn't take control. Didn't stand up for himself. Didn't make his needs known, unless I started yelling. He didn't tell me how much he hated his job. Hated the part of the city we lived in. Hated the ways I picked on him. Even hated my dog. Turns out he's allergic; never mentioned that before he moved in.

When he finally blew up at me, he told me all the things he should've been saying from the start. I wondered why he'd been my boyfriend in the first place.

And then we had our final fuck. Took me right there on the dining room table.

The thing that set him off: dinner. Pizza. White pizza with extra basil. He wasn't a fan of basil. Thought it too aromatic, over powering.

"Should've ordered it yourself," I said, flopping open the box. The savory smell filled my nostrils.

And then he was on me. First I was bent over the table. And then I was on the table, legs spread wide. He used the belt around my dress to drive my pussy onto his cock, fucking me with the ferocity I loved. He put his hand around my neck and growled while he took me. My hands circled his wrist, and I smiled and moaned while he ravaged me. I loved every minute of it.

When he came, he pulled my face down onto his cock and I swallow it all. Then he slumped over, panting, and finally said it.

"I hate fighting. I hate being this guy you want. I can't fight you anymore."

And he walked away.