Girl on the Net

This is the next post in a series of erotic fiction about emotional fucks, where I’m having fun writing fictional characters who do filthy-hot things that may or may not be very ethical. This post involves a character fantasising about a spite fuck. Her fantasy involves things that – if they actually happened in real life – would certainly not be consensual. If that’s not your cup of tea, please don’t read on, but if you like sex stories that include twisted revenge and powerful anger, get stuck in.

Spite fuck: beg for forgiveness

The room is set exactly how it was in the video. I’ve checked every detail. Rumpled bed, cushions strewn mostly over the floor but with the red and white patterned one still sitting on top of the duvet – we’ll need that for later. I’ve draped his suit jacket over the chair by the wardrobe he inherited from his mother when she died, and his tie – the same yellow tie – is knotted casually around one of the bedposts. As I mentally pause and rewind to make sure the details are right, it occurs to me that I’ve only ever seen this tied around his neck.

With me there has never been any knotting of ties around bedposts, nor any cushions placed under the curve of my back to allow him to thrust his cock deeper. For me, the sheets have never been in this much disarray. Maybe that’s the problem, but maybe not. Maybe I’d have loved to have knotted ties and rumpled bedsheets and his fat hands smacking the flesh of my arse as he comes. Maybe I’d have dug my fingertips into his buttocks to pull his dick deeper inside me. But maybe I never got the chance.

The clock reads 3:34, just like it did in the video. If he doesn’t come home soon I’ll have to set it again – I want everything to be perfect.

I need it to match.

When he comes in, I want him to know – instantly – that I know. That I have seen the video. That I have watched the evidence he so stupidly saw fit to record, and that in the instant I pressed ‘play’ we were over. I want alarm bells to ring the second he opens the bedroom door, and sees me stripped and waiting, arse raised on a cushion and cunt pointing towards where he stands.

Or maybe I want, in that split second, for him to think I am her.

What will he say? It doesn’t matter, really. In my head he mumbles a litany of contrition – perhaps even falling to his knees beside the bed and kissing the softness of my freshly-shaved shins (oh yes, I got every detail. Right down to the pathetically predictable sparse strip of pubic hair on my mound, which now matches hers). I expect he’ll get hard despite the shock – like a dog that’s been trained to respond to a whistle, he’s trained himself to respond to this scene. I know this because I know how long he’s had it.

Five years, give or take. Five years since he filmed himself fucking her on our bed. I know this for two reasons. First: his hair. The pattern of his baldness has changed so rapidly over the years that I can pinpoint the years by observing how far his dark hairline has washed up the shore of his scalp. I’m an expert at it.

More importantly, though: his appendix scar. Fresh and clean, just a few weeks after he had it removed. Funnily enough, although I sat through most of the video stony-faced, it was that which made me cry. The memory of how I’d hurt for him when he was in so much pain. The speed with which I rushed him to hospital, and the agony of watching the clock tick down minutes and then hours while the surgeons got to work.

I remembered the way I had held him, and nurtured him, and loved him back to health. And here he is, fresh scar, fucking a stranger in my bed. Plunging his cock inside her the way he refused to do with me, in case it would burst his stitches.

He was willing to take the risk for her, not me.

So when he comes in today I want him to see me here, naked and shaven and spreadeagled the way she was. I want him to recognise the scene, to weep at my feet, and then look at me with frightened eyes as I haughtily command him to fuck me.

“Fuck me,” I’ll tell him “the way you fucked her. Go on – do it. Get your trousers down and your cock out, but keep your shirt on and open, the way you did back then. I want to see how hard you sweat as you exert yourself on my cunt.”

He’ll whimper and plead, but his cock will be hard anyway. He won’t be able to resist the urge to relive the video, with me. Maybe, as he squeezes the head of his dick and tries to beat a little more life into it, he’ll weep and say ‘I’m sorry.’ Maybe, as he climbs on top of me, and I angle my hips the way she did in the video, he’ll tell me ‘I didn’t mean it. It was a one-off. A mistake. I love you.’ I hope he does. I hope that while he’s pumping away on top of me, squeezing and twisting my breasts and closing his eyes to try and shut out the stone-cold hatred in my face, he’ll mumble and murmur hollow words like they’re a magic spell to stave off the guilt.

I’ll dig my fingertips into his flesh and moan the way she did. Call him ‘good’ and ‘baby.’ Throw in the occasional squeak, the way she did, as if his prick is causing me genuine physical pain. In this order: I’ll clamp my thighs around his waist like I want him to stay, then grit my teeth and wriggle like I’m trying to buck him off, and then order him to put his hands around my throat the way he did to her. Tell him to tie my wrists the way he tied hers, with that stupid yellow tie that my mother bought him for Christmas.

He won’t hurt me. He didn’t hurt her. He doesn’t have it in him to hurt anyone, not directly. His hurts are all done in the darkness, away from prying eyes. It’s not out of consideration, only fear of getting told off. Forty seven years old and yet he’s still a little boy drumming his heels outside the teacher’s office, pretending he never wrote that swearword on the desk. Lying, lying, cheating fucking boy.

He’ll tie me, and he’ll fuck me, and throughout it he will whisper “Love, I’m sorry.”

As I clench my cunt around him: “I’m so so sorry.”

As I buck my hips and writhe and urge him to plunge in deeper: “It was only once.”

Arse pumping up and down, over and over, in a desperate bid to end this quickly, he’ll mumble “Never again. I promise, love.”

These mumbles and sorry’s will wash over me like nothing: like our wedding vows. All I will feel is the rigid, urgent thrusting of his cock, and wonder how many times it wasn’t me. How many thrusts, over a lifetime, went to someone other than me? And how many could I have had in the five years since he made that video?

In. Out. Harder. More.

In – “Sorry” and out “I’m so sorry.” Deep “My love” and hard “I’m sorry.”

When he comes he’ll grunt more sorry’s with each squirt: “Never…” squirt “…ever…” squirt “…again.” And then collapse on top of me with a final sigh, like this fuck has exorcised his demons.

It’s a pleasing image. I like it. I like it so much that when he does finally arrive, the scene he sees is different. I sit on the bed, still naked and spread wide, but by now the clock reads 3:57 and I’m wearing his stupid yellow tie. The door clicks open and he looks on in shock, as I fuck myself deeply with three of my fingers.

He asks me what I’m playing at, and I fuck myself harder. Spitting on my other hand and using it to work my clit, to push me right to the edge of a better orgasm than I could ever have had with him. Pulsing, twitching, waves of pleasure thud from my clit and up my body, deep into the pit of my stomach. Flushing out the hatred, spite and bitterness. The dreams of twisted revenge. Dragging the melancholy out too, and even the last of the self-pity. I feel my cunt twitch around my fingers, and the rush of wetness over my hand, and I wonder if later there’ll be blood.

I barely recognise the man who’s at the door, but I remember enough of who I am to tell him I want a divorce.

This post is available as audio. Click ‘listen here’ at the start of the post, or check out the audio porn page for more sexy stories read aloud.