Gingerbread

(cinnamon)

It’s one thing to say you met someone by running into them on the street, it’s quite another to say you met your current lover because they almost ran into you with their car.

Much to Audra’s consternation I still enjoyed drinking Starbucks coffee; even though she brewed organically-grown, fair-trade-sold, positively-loaded-with-caffeine coffee in our break room every morning. It had to do with the flavorings they used, which were proprietary to the company. Believe me, I’d tried to find a substitute, but it never satisfied. One morning while on my way back to the shop from the nearest Starbucks, I saw I had the right of way to cross an intersection and stepped off the curb, just barely registering the white behemoth in my peripheral view.

A screech of brakes, a slight bump of a massive front grill that caused me not only to drop my coffee, but when it hit the ground it literally exploded, dousing me in hot milky liquid.

“Goddamn fucking maniac!” I screamed at him, not really registering that he had climbed out of the car, a Humvee, his expression one of amazed fear. “What is your fucking problem with traffic laws?!” I think I took a enraged swing at him, because the next thing I knew he was holding my wrist very tightly and his face was mere inches from mine as we stood in the street, oblivious to the collective honking in the immediate vicinity.

“You don’t wanna do that,” he said, his voice completely calm but the undercurrent of menace was unmistakable.

“You almost ran me over, dickwad!” I exclaim through clenched teeth.

“Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.”

“I had the right of way in the crosswalk, it’s not my goddamn fault if you can’t be bothered to obey the law. I’m taking down your license number, so get your hands off me, asshole.”

“It’s not going to do you any good, I’m a cop.”

And with that pronouncement he continued to hold onto my wrist and stare me down.

“Are you trying to intimidate me? It’s not working.”

“Not at all. But if you could calm down for a second I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

I heard within his voice a tone, a certain tone, which promised further adventure. So against obvious reason, still angry, I got into his car and he drove to a nearby parking lot. I gave him contact information and he did the same. I notice his eyes, as their stare pins me to the comfortable leather seat, are nearly as dark as his hair. His mouth seems to perpetually pout.

“So can I take you to dinner?”

“Are you sure you wouldn't rather run me over? You know what they say about once a car has tasted blood.”

He laughs despite himself, and at this he is at his most attractive. The lines in his face are well-earned and make him even more appealing. I like the sudden mirth, it makes me wonder how he looks when he comes.

“Okay, let's have dinner,” I say, and later, when he is pounding me into his mattress and I'm counting the scars on his body out of detached curiosity, I feel as though I've let in a stray dog – one which seems grateful for the attention – but I am uncertain as to his loyalties from one moment to the next.


Sam had told me, smirkingly, that cops were more likely to be sexual deviants than the average person.

“It’s the constant exposure to violence, the capacity to distinguish wrong from right becomes damaged.”

There was no question that Robert was rough – everything in his outward manner portrayed a man with poor impulse control and even less decorum – but I was not prepared for how rough he really was. He stared at me all through dinner as if sizing up his physical advantage. I kept looking at his hands as they held various objects – wine glass, steak knife, cell phone – and although I tell myself that I am ready for this I find myself wincing when he pins my wrists above my head, puts a hand in my hair and pulls until my head is at the angle he desires. I tell myself to surrender to the moment, but I become dazed in the face of his assault upon my body. I remember Sam saying there is nothing like limping to one’s car in the aftermath of a violent fuck, but suddenly I want this 165-pound mass of masculine imperative to get off me, get out of me. My entire body is clenched and I fake it twice so that he doesn’t feel guilty when he finally ejaculates.

Some men are like that, these days. They feel obliged to give you your reward for the privilege of their attention.

The next time, however, something in me craves force and I sigh as his fingers dig into my flesh, gripping my ass as he rams his cock into my cunt from behind. My body threatens to fall over and he growls that I need more pillows.

“Hurry up,” he snaps, gasping, as if he doesn’t even want to breathe if it detracts from his focused exertion.

I position myself again and as he slides into me slowly to start, the friction is so exquisite I let out a cry, which he answers with a low chuckle.

“I just couldn’t wait to get inside you again, oh, you’re so fucking tight, girl.”

I am amazed that my state of mind has completely flipped, and I am enjoying the violence and the objectification, that I crave it.


Robert walks me to the door and pins me against the doorframe with his body, delivering the farewell kiss, a blunt invasion of my mouth by his tongue. His hands go around my neck and pull my head flush to his face.

“If I didn’t have shift you wouldn’t be leaving.”

I can barely breathe, his grip is tight, his thumbs rub against my larynx. But I am not alarmed.

“Maybe you can run into me again somewhere, violating the law,” I whisper, hoarse not only from this, but also the entire night of fucking, wild and blind.

“You’re the one who will be violated, baby.” A ridiculous tough-guy retort, but I am liquid, kissing him messily.

“Oh fuck,” he whispers in kind, rubbing his crotch against me. Heat and desperation rise between us, hands clenching, mouths wandering. At one point we are licking each other’s faces. Then he lets go and opens the door.

“I’ll call you when I clock out.”

This comment is not a promise, but a threat. And as such I know I’ll be counting the minutes, squirming as my muscles recall the feel of being stretched, my pussy the feeling of being completely filled, almost painfully so. I have to turn away and walk out without another word, else risk throwing myself at him because I don’t want to be far from that body, that force of nature.


The moment I found Robert ridiculous came upon the heels of a moment of mutual rapacity. He brought me to a holiday party with co-workers, friends, and his first mistake was to ask me to dress up. I was to be the trophy. Intellectually I did not have an issue with this stance, and he was equally a handsome object in a charcoal gray suit, with open-collared shirt exposing a nice thatch of chest hair. But as soon as we entered the spacious house of his friend the land developer I felt all examinations from the assemblage found me wanting. To his credit, Robert kept a possessive hold on me, steering me through a round of introductions.

“So how did you two meet again?” a woman asks me, and I’ve already forgotten her name.

“He hit me with his Hummer.”

“Now honey,” Robert demurs, “I didn’t actually hit you.”

“Yes you did. You hit me and made me drop my coffee.”

“He was so attracted to you he forgot to stop, I bet.”

We all laugh, but my expression is ice when he catches my eye. He excuses us and we walk down a nearby corridor.

“What?!”

“You’re an asshole.”

He grimaces, makes a sound of frustration, then holds my wrists tightly.

“Yeah we already knew that. Please don’t be a bitch tonight, okay?”

“Let go of me.”

I struggle, but he grabs the back of my neck and steers me to the bathroom, not caring if anyone sees that we’re entering the room together. He locks the door behind him then pulls the lid down on the toilet, sitting down and pulling me into his lap.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to act like a human being and not a macho jerk.”

“You know when you get pissed it does nothing but make me stone.” He shoves me up against his crotch for emphasis. His fingers cradle the back of my neck, his breath warms the patch of skin just behind my ear, where Audra instructed me not to apply any perfume because there are other secretions in that spot. “Now you’ll have to fix it.” His whisper is more like a hiss.

All of my clothes come off, but Robert leaves his pants and shoes on, everything pooled around his ankles. His skin has a tawny flush that heightens the dusk of his body hair, and I am ever aroused by that darkness, it seems so deeply male. He stays my immediate urge to just slide onto his erection, running his thumb over the folds of my labia, as I am turned outward, and we can view ourselves in the mirror mounted on the bathroom door.

“Let me see, let me see,” he whispers, encouraging me to spread my legs wide. He grins at my squirming, teasing “Here pussy pussy.” I watch as his hands move over me, cupping my genitalia, stoking my stomach and thighs, massaging my breasts, as he bites at my neck and shoulder softly. The scenario unfolding makes me impatient and I wrench myself from his hold, turning and taking his cock inside me. He gasps as I do so, his face momentarily transcendent with pleasure. We kiss in our devouring way, and I don’t care that my makeup is most likely disappearing from the sweat and saliva.

As we move, pistoning, and his hands guide me in an exquisitely fluid motion, he murmurs between soft gasps.

“Oh fuck I am so whipped. I’d do anything for this, you know that, right?”

“Say it again.”

“I am pussy whipped.”

“And who is the bitch?”

“I am. I’m your little bitch.”

It doesn’t take long to make him come, after which I climb off immediately and dress. After we are clothed he grabs me before I can unlock the door.

“You still mad, baby?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t make you look bad.”

“That’s my girl.” He puts his nose in my hair. “Damn you smell good!”

No one seemed to have noticed our disappearance, and we mix and mingle a while more, getting drinks and wandering out onto the patio. I occupy a nearby chair and strike up a conversation with the wife of one of Robert’s co-workers while he joins a cluster of males. He lights a cigar and I watch him surreptitiously, having henceforth refused to acknowledge that I found him especially sexy in that activity, though I did buy him flavored cigars which smelled infinitely better than the usual offerings. I learned that trick from my sister-in-law. The level of ambient noise rises and I realize I can hear his conversation perfectly, but he is unaware of my eavesdropping.

“Dude, she’s a nympho. Loves my cock.” This bit jumps out at me, figuratively.

“Yeah, you get better sex if you stay single.” This from the guy next to him. They’re both smirking in an especially smug fashion.

“You ain’t kidding. This girl can take a pounding, let me tell you. None of this ‘you’re too rough, you’re hurting me’ bullshit.”

“You lucky bastard.”

And there it was again: that profound sense of detachment. I would have to leave this distraction behind and await evidence of the charm yet again. But not without one last violent fuck, the accompanying ache reminding me that pleasurable pain is still pain when placed in its’ proper context.