Sinister Touch (erotica anthology) (2 page)

Annie stamped her foot down hard, ground her heel. She cursed under her breath, ground her back teeth together, frothed at the mouth.

Across from her, equally angry, less monstrous, was Peter; her partner of three years. They were in love, or so the story went.

“Fuck you; you rotten, dirty, stinking pig.” Annie psychically spat at him. She was disgusted, couldn’t help herself. He watched the glob fly through the air and just miss his face by inches.

“You spat at me?” Peter snapped, disbelief in his high-pitched yell.

“I’ll do a lot fucking worse than that!” she picked something up, the first thing that came to hand, and threw it at him. This time it connected, the remote control clipped off his forehead. It took him by surprise, knocked him back a few feet and caused him to release a muffled grunt under his breath.

She stood still, rigid. “Oops,” she whispered under her breath, watching as he ran a hand over his injured forehead. She had gone too far, there was no need to do that, regardless of how annoying, how inconsiderate--

Her eyes flashed wide when she saw that he was charging at her, an explosion of anger and redemption on his face.

They collided hard. Flesh against flesh; bone against bone. She felt an elbow in her side, felt his chin brush hard against her cheek, and then she felt his erection pressing against her.

He kissed her hard, locked his lips tightly onto hers, as if he wanted to suck the life from her. She reciprocated, tore at his clothes, ripping off his sweatshirt, exposing the muscles -- sweaty and tense through their arguing -- and grabbing them, squeezing his flesh until it reddened and bruised under her touch.

She turned him over, lifted herself up and let him bury his head in her breasts. He ripped her blouse, tore it straight down to expose her breasts, pressed together in a see-through black bra. She unhooked it, let them flop onto his face. He kissed them savagely, bit the nipple, ran his tongue and his teeth around it and then set to work on the other breast, the other nipple.

She was wet by then, had been building up over the last twenty minutes. She was ready for him, desperate for him. She clawed at his trousers, exposed his pulsing cock through his zipper. She kissed him hard again, pushed her backside into the air and slipped her hand underneath, repositioning her knickers before sliding on top of his cock.

He went inside in one, shift, lubricated movement. They chorused an agreeable moan of delight. She ginned wryly at him, at his sneering face, at his hands which grabbed at her breasts, her exposed stomach, her flowing red hair. She rode him, feeling his cock inside of her, the tops of his thighs against her buttocks.

She screamed, louder and louder, reaching her climax. She grabbed her own hair, pulled at it, lifted it high above her head.

“You fucking bastard!” she yelled.

“Fuck me!”

She climaxed, shuddered on top of him. She felt him finish as well, felt his cock thrust as it shot his load inside of her. She groaned, relaxed in a saggy heap on top of him, their sweaty, hot bodies forging a fleshy mound.

She could still feel his pulsing cock in her, could feel his juice running down her leg, onto her buttocks, onto his thighs. She pulled up, smiled widely at him.

“I love you.” She told him honestly.

“I love you too sweetie.”

***

Annie payed with herself in the shower. She could still feel him inside of her, still feel the bruises he had left on her body. Before the last traces of him washed away, she fingered herself up against the shower wall, the hot jets of water splashing onto her breasts, her finger -- moist with both of their juices -- rubbing her clit.

She was used to masturbation. It had become her ‘thing’. A year into her relationship with Peter, after they had become engaged and moved in together, the sex had dried up, become boring and stale. They both knew it and neither of them even bothered to get each other in the mood anymore. She satisfied herself in the shower everyday, she suspected he knew, the walls were thin and she was loud, but she knew that he liked to masturbate to porn on his laptop.

It was the porn that had caused their first argument. Tensions were already high, they were both stressed at work, neither had been getting much sleep. She caught him jacking-off to two blonde lesbians and she unleashed her anger on him. They argued, shouted at each other for hours, until they were both breathless, their voices grating in their throats, then, for the first time in six weeks, they had fucked each other’s brains out. It was the best sex they’d ever had. It was rough, it was hard, it was passionate. She came three times, he even licked her pussy for the first time.

They tried again the next morning, both of them hoping to emulate the night before, but it was passionless, boring. It was the arguing, the shouting, the tension, that had sparked the passion and they both knew it. It wasn’t long before they were finding the simplest things to argue about so they could repeat the passionate sex. They argued when he came back late from work; when she burnt dinner; when he left his clothes on the floor. They even argued when he made her a cup of tea instead of coffee.

Last night was the first time they didn’t bother with excuses. They were both more relaxed, work was going okay, they were sleeping better. They had argued a lot over the last couple of weeks so they were both happy in the bedroom department as well. She waited until he got back from work, stood in the doorway when he arrived. They looked at each other, knew what they wanted to happen, waiting for the other person to instigate it.

She wasn’t sure who had hurled the first insult but it didn’t matter. Last night had been the best yet.

***

She never used to make much sound during sex. When she lost her virginity she didn’t utter more than a stifled moan, in shock more than anything else. A few years after that she barely even did that. It wasn’t until she was in her twenties, until she became more sexually active, did her sex life really take off. She began to enjoy it more, began to get louder and louder.

She loved to scream, loved to screech at the top of her lungs in the throes of passion. It added to the enjoyment, added to that blissful moment when her body shook to its core; when the world stopped and the only thing that mattered was her and him, whoever he was. Those screams grew in intensity when she started dating Peter but they died off when the sex became dull, now, with the passion returning, the screams were coming back with a vengeance. She wanted to scream louder than she had ever screamed, she wanted to come better, harder, louder than she had ever come before. She knew Peter could give her that.

A week later she came close to perfection. An argument had started from nothing, cutlery and plates began to fly. She took a knock on the arm, Peter took knocks everywhere else. He fucked her up against the wall, finished her off with his tongue. She had the perfect orgasm, screamed the house down whilst he finished on her tits.

She tried to get him straight into another argument afterwards, eager for more, but he was spent, unwilling and unable.

“What d’you think about...tools?” he asked her later that day, the sex behind them, their wounds healing.

She frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

“You know…” he raised his eyebrows suggestively.

“You mean in the bedroom?”

He shrugged shyly, she waited for a response but one didn’t come. He didn’t like to talk about sex, neither of them did anymore. Talking about it would ruin the spontaneity and they didn’t want to risk losing the passion.

She knew by his shy grin that he wanted to try it, she didn’t object. She was game for anything that would increase the thrill. She was on an adrenaline rush, she wanted more.

They left whips and chains by the bed, to be picked up in the heat of the moment. There were plenty of moments, even more once they started to bring toys into the bedroom. He used dildos on her, she even managed to use one on him, something he didn’t object to.

She loved it, preferred it. It was rougher, harder, dirtier. They gathered a collection of everything, went through an entire BDSM catalogue of toys and tools to use on each other.  She often struggled to walk the next day, he sometimes suffered the same. But it was worth it, she came harder than she had ever come; she screamed louder than she had ever screamed. One of their sessions was interrupted by a nosey neighbor who had overheard the commotion inside the house, commotion that, in his words, had been going on for a long time but had escalated. He thought Peter was beating her, even more so when she showed up at the door, sweaty, her hair in a mess, marks on her faces and blood on her lips. By the time she calmed him down, convinced him that there was nothing to be worried about, that they were just having a ‘private’ moment, the dirty old bastard was ready to join in.

She entertained the idea of bringing others in, thought it might give her the ultimate orgasm, the ultimate scream, but the neighbor was old and perverted. If they did bring anyone in, someone who would enjoy their flair for violence as much as they did, it wouldn’t be him.

***

The toys were getting old. They both felt it. The last few times she had struggled to come, he had seemed disinterested. Then, during a fight in the kitchen about how hot his toast should have been, she produced a knife from the drawer. She was ready to cut him, ready to unleash his blood, and she saw the spark in his eyes that suggested he wanted that.

They took the knife to bed, left it on the bedside table as they fucked. They both wanted to use it.

She wrestled him hard to the bed, nearly drove her knee into his groin, such was her desperation to escalate. She tore at his clothes, ripped his skin and bit into his nipple. He let her, invited her on, begging her to do more, take it that one step further.

“Cut me bitch,” he growled, spitting sprays of angry salvia at his beloved.

“You want this?” Annie reached across, took the knife from the bedside table. The blade shimmered. She kissed it, ran the smooth edge along her lips. She could feel him convulsing, kicking out, desperate for the blade, for her. “You want this baby?” she repeated.

He nodded vigorously, like a snarling animal.

She kissed the shape edge of the knife, ran a careful tongue along it.

He kicked out, thrust himself deeper inside her. She shook, moaned, nearly dropped the knife. She paused, smiled, looked down on him, then he bucked again, and again. He pounded upwards continuously, thrusting himself deep inside of her, until she could feel every inch of him, could feel the rush of heat, energy, light and life inside her body as his pelvis thrust repeatedly.

“Oh my god.” Her eyes rolled in to the back of her head. Her jaw clicked, dropped open. She screamed, unable to control herself, losing herself in a world of orgasmic energy. He continued to pound her, he had relentless stamina, he wasn’t stopping.

When she came it felt like the world was on fire, like her body was attached to the mains; coursing with thousand of volts of electricity. She bucked herself, her muscles contracting and kicking. Then she grabbed at him, desperate for him to finish as well.

He stopped bucking, stopping thrusting himself inside of her with a few trailed thrusts. She heard him moan, heard him groan heavily, a sound that emanated from the tips of his toes. He always liked to make a noise.

She lay on top of him, waiting to feel him shoot his load inside of her, he never did. He had stopped thrusting.

She opened her eyes, pushed herself upwards. Only then did she see the knife protruding from his chest, only then did she see his wide, blank eyes, staring lifelessly towards the ceiling. Her face turned white, her heart stopped temporarily; his had stopped for good.

She had forgotten she was holding it, had gotten carried away with herself. She hadn’t felt it enter him, hadn’t felt the moment she had taken his life.

She reached for the knife, tried to rip it out and then decided against it. She squealed, panicked, threw herself off of him. She chewed her nails, nearly stuffing her entire fists into her mouth. She stared at him, waiting for him to wake up.