I had a lot of fun with this one, which I wrote with one of my biggest 2020 writing goals in mind: writing more explicitly queer erotica. In terms of this piece about angry sex, it means a queer cis woman and a gay trans woman exploring some delicious degradation together, which may or may not be reflective of some of my current fantasies.
Content note for angry sex, degradation and impact play – plus an attempt at writing non-verbal consent.
She’s angry when she gets home. I can tell by the way she closes the door – closer to a slam rather than the usual gentle click – and the way her face is carefully blank. She doesn’t say anything, just hangs her coat up and stands in the hall for a minute. I close my laptop and lean against my study door, watching her piece herself together. Yes, she’s angry, and I know exactly what’s going to happen next.
Later she’ll rant about her day. Later she’ll shout and cry and let me hug her. Later we’ll brainstorm ideas over dinner and I’ll make her laugh. First, though, she’s going to fuck me. She’s going to take her rage and her anger and fuck me up with her words and her hands and her toys. She’s going to use me as an outlet for her frustration: it’s going to hurt and I’m going to love it.
The way she reduces me to a fuck hole for her to use is incredibly hot.
She checks first, of course. Even though she knows I love this game, she would never jump into it without making sure I want to play. But we’re talked about this enough that she doesn’t need to say the words. Instead, she kisses me, and I push her away – not like I would if I didn’t want her to touch me but grinning at her. I’m being deliberately bratty, giving her a reason to take that anger out on me.
“Fucking brat. Strip for me.”
There’s no ceremony in how I pull my clothes off. It’s not a slow seduction, it’s a hurried strip. Her eyes don’t linger lovingly, they flash with impatience and glare critically at me.
“Get down on your knees, slut.”
I scramble to obey, feeling the flush rise in my cheeks. I consent to this game – I love this game – but it doesn’t mean that I don’t burn with shame when she treats me like this.
“Spread your legs. I want your cunt to drip. You can’t hide how wet the idea of me beating you makes you.”
I open my mouth to talk back, to push her further. Being mouthy is fun, especially when I know she’ll make me pay for every snarky remark I make. She preempts me, though, picking up my discarded knickers and takes a firm hold of my jaw.
“Open your mouth.”
She stuffs the knickers into my mouth, then pushes her fingers in further so I gag on them. I look up at her, my eyes watering, watching her lips curl in a cruel smirk. She walks around me, inspecting me, and I do my best not to flinch when she smacks my cunt.
“Upstairs, filthy bitch. I’m going to have fun making you scream.”
I try to get to my feet, only to feel her boot on my back, pushing me back down.
“No, don’t get up. Crawl. I want to watch your arse so I can decide what I’m going to use to turn it scarlet.”
I whimper around the knickers in my mouth. My arms and legs shake as I climb the stares, all too aware of how vulnerable I am in this moment. I’ve reached the landing, only a metre from our bedroom door, when she stops me with her boot on my arse again. She pushes me forwards and off balance, so I’m perfectly presented for her to do all sorts of sadistic things to me.
“You’re taking too long. Stay right there: I’m going to beat you.”
I shiver with arousal and fear, and while I can’t see her face I know she’s smirking. I moan loudly around the balled-up cotton in my mouth: letting her know that she can keep going. That I desperately want whatever she’s about to do to me. When she’s angry the sex is rough, it brings out her sadism in a way that gets me off again and again – if she lets me come, that is.
She steps over me, dismissive and annoyed, and grabs something that swishes through the air as she brings it down on my arse. From that first, stinging hit I guess that it’s my belt she’s holding. The thin, red patent one, which she used to bind my wrists behind me while she edged me ruthlessly and ruined my orgasm last night. The belt whips down again and I yelp as it bites into my arse.
“Hmm,” she says, considering the bur “You’re going to take another ten of those, because I like how you flinched there. I don’t think it will hurt you enough, though, so I’m going to get the flogger. And when I’ve warmed you up I’m going to get the cane. Do you think I can make you cry?”
She’s already hard when she starts flogging me, and by the time my arse is red and I’m struggling to hold myself up I know she’ll be rock hard and thinking about how to fuck me. I brace myself against the hard wood of the floor and try to give myself up to the sensations. It hurts and I’m desperate for her fingers inside me, for her to stop, for her to get the cane and make me cry…
“Good girl,” she says, admiration breaking through the stern anger. “Now get up and suck my clit. I might even play with the marks on your arse while you do so.”
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Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.