I Fucked Him Out of Rage

Chapter 01

I dated this guy for three years, and in the beginning, that jealousy he showed felt like care, like protectiveness; I even thought it was sweet when he said he wanted to keep me safe, until I realized that wasn't protection, it was a fence, and I was slowly learning to shrink to fit in the space he approved of. I started pulling away from friends, canceling plans that always made me feel good, watching what I posted and what I laughed at, measuring my words so I wouldn't light a fuse that always seemed ready to blow. The cycle was predictable: he'd pick at nothing, the fight would explode, I'd justify myself until I was out of breath, a few hours later he'd come back with wet eyes and promises to change, and I, tired and scared of starting over alone, would accept it like it was love and not exhaustion.

This time it was worse. At work, Fernando, handsome and pushy, mistook politeness for an invitation; I said no more than once, explained I was in a relationship, asked him to stop, blocked him, then unblocked thinking a clear talk would fix it, and repeated the "no" in every way possible. Even so, my boyfriend grabbed my phone without asking, opened my Instagram, and started digging through message after message until he stopped at those ones where I made it crystal clear I didn't want anything. I read them with him: "It's not cool for you to keep pushing, I'm taken." It was written there, plain as day, straightforward. Still, he looked at me like I'd committed a crime, erased every line that didn't fit the story he'd already decided about me, and with the firm voice of a judge, called me a slut.

I broke down right there, not because of the insult itself, but because of the certainty that pierced my chest: no matter how right I am, how much I explain, how much I shrink to fit his limits; when someone decides who you are in their own head, the truth doesn't save you, it just hurts. And in that moment, with my face hot and my throat closing up, I understood it wasn't about jealousy, it was about control; it wasn't about love, it was about breaking me until I doubted myself.

When your head's all messed up, you don't think straight. I sat there stewing over the life I didn't live. The friends I dropped along the way, the parties I skipped, the places I never saw, the mouths I didn't kiss out of fear of sparking his jealousy. It hit me with this hunger for life that clawed from the inside, a craving to make up in one night for everything I'd swallowed in silence while his voice hammered nonstop in my mind: slut, slut, you're a whore, slut and cheater. I never cheated. Never. And yet there I was, soaked in tears, mascara running down my chin, trying to breathe between sobs and figure out why the truth wasn't enough.

Exhausted, I grabbed my phone with a steady hand. I called.

"Fernando?"

"Hey, didn't expect you to call. Changed your mind? Wanna go out, maybe dinner, or hit a club?"

" No, Fernando, I don't want that."

He laughed, confused.

" It's Saturday night. If it's not work, then why'd you call?"

I took a deep breath. I tasted the bitter edge of the name he'd slapped on me, stuck to my tongue.

And I flipped the switch.

" I want to fuck. I want to ride you. I want to sit on your face all night until I can't anymore."

I got ready like it was a ritual. Long shower until my skin was warm, scrub that left my body glowing, quick shave, perfect nails. I pulled my hair back to show off my neck. I dug out a dress from the closet I hadn't worn in years, my old reliable "man-eater." I wanted to be the exact image of the slur he'd thrown in my face: a slut!

I set it up right at his place because I knew time was a truce. I didn't want to think, didn't want to second-guess. When Fernando opened the door, I felt his eyes rake over my body, that obvious once-over he always did. He tried to crack a joke, stumble over his words, but I was faster. I pushed the door shut with one hand and shoved him with the other, steering him to the couch.

"Shut up," I said low, no rush, letting the command sit in my voice. My hand on his chest was firm, an order.

His eyes went wide, confused, a hint of fear like he'd never seen this side of me.

"What the hell, crazy?" it came out of him, scared.

I breathed, wiped away a lingering doubt trying to creep in, and said it like I was shedding my skin.

"Today I woke up a slut."

I straddled his lap against the fancy, expensive couch. In the kitchen, the smell of sauce wafted strong. The table set for a dinner that wasn't happening. The apartment screamed single guy who decorates to impress but barely lives there. I wasn't there for dinner.

I adjusted my body over his legs and gripped the hem of my dress to hold it in place. I hiked the fabric up my thighs, slow, giving him a hell of a preview. Fernando's gaze dropped without shame. His hands, unsure, hovered at my hips.

"You're not wearing panties?" his voice came out rough, crazy with lust.

I leaned in close to his ear:

"Panties for what?"

The kiss hit wild and I let it, not because it was romantic, but because the anger burned and made me hungry. I grabbed his face, nipped lightly, used my mouth like I was reclaiming territory. He squeezed my ass hard and his other hand came around front, hot, finding my pussy. I arched back and made room, rode his fingers at my pace, firm friction, straight-up, feeling my smooth mound slide over his palm like I'd been built for it today.

"Like that," I guided, pinning his wrists right where I wanted them.

I slipped the strap off my shoulder and let my tits spill out, the fabric hanging loose. I pulled his mouth to me, rubbing my nipple over his tongue until it hardened, pressing his head hard against my body.

"Suck," I said low. "Hard, baby."

He obeyed. The suction came deep, rhythmic, and I kept moving over his fingers, hips loose, anger and arousal mixed in the same drive. Every pull of his mouth on my tit I answered with my whole body, like I was squeezing out from inside the word he'd tried to stick on me. I made noise because I wanted to. I led because it was mine. And every time I ground down a little harder, I remembered: today I chose.

I lifted off, pulled his hand away from me, and nodded at the couch.

"Lie down."

He did without a fight. I undid his belt, unzipped, freed his already hard cock in my hand—nothing special, to my disappointment—and climbed up the back until I positioned my body over his face. I gripped the base tight and, no preliminaries, sat on his mouth without a care.

His tongue came hot and direct. I ground down at my own rhythm, rubbing my smooth pussy over his nose and mouth, demanding pressure, drowning out the old name they'd given me. When his suck hit right, I leaned forward and took the head of his cock in my mouth, slow just for the first second, then deep, all the way, determined. I wanted to hear the moan caught in his throat while my hips marked his face.

I rose and fell on his face with anger and precision, every lick answered with more of my throat on him. Saliva started dripping down my fist, his tongue shook against me, and I squeezed tighter, swallowed deeper, let the wet sounds of my up and down fill the room loud. When he tried to guide my hips, I grabbed his wrists and pinned them to the cushions.

"I set the pace."

I sat back on his face, heavy, grinding my clit against the tip of his tongue, demanding. I dropped down on his dick again, deep to the limit, and came up grazing my teeth lightly, giving back the pressure building between my legs. He gasped. I didn't let up. I filled my mouth again, hand tight at the base, pumping along, while my body rubbed hungry over his face.

I alternated without mercy: I offered myself and took, I rode his mouth and devoured his cock with the same hunger. When his tongue circled faster, I sped up in response; when I sank my throat deeper, I ground harder on his nose, crushing a moan of my own into the cushions, making my control crystal clear.

I felt the vibration of his almost-there and paused just a second to breathe in his ear:

"Not yet. Me first."

I stood, caught my breath, and gave the order without hesitation:

"Up. On your feet."

He rose stumbling. I turned my back to the couch, braced my arms on the backrest, and arched to expose myself as much as possible. I tugged the dress up around my waist and gave him the full view of my ass.

"Fuck me!" I said, looking over my shoulder.

He came from behind, hard, urgent. I gripped the edge of the couch with white-knuckled fingers as he filled me. I set the rhythm with my hips, fast, deep, only pausing to shift the angle that made me see stars. The room turned to slapping skin, short breaths, and the relentless creak of the cushions.

When I felt my clit throbbing, I reached down and rubbed in the same beat. He groaned hot against my neck, out of control, hands firm on my waist. I spread my legs wider, arched higher, took every thrust with a twisted smile celebrating the building ecstasy.

The phone buzzed in my bag, that familiar ring cutting through the air thick with the scent of sex. I knew who it was before looking. I stretched out without breaking rhythm, found my cell on the corner of the couch, and swiped to answer on video. The screen lit up my sweaty face. There he was: the boyfriend. Eyes wide, surprise stuck mid-question.

I kept the camera high, catching my face and shoulders bouncing with the impact. I didn't look away.

"Look at you, after all that talk about me being a slut…" I stared right at him, steady, but barely getting the words out; from hate and pleasure. "Look what you turned me into."

Behind me, Fernando shuddered. I clenched my teeth and sped up my hand on my clit, my whole body begging now. My soon-to-be-ex opened his mouth, but no sound came. I gasped, pushed back with my hips, held his cock deeper, and let it come. The orgasm hit me like a hot wave, burning from my lower back up to my throat. I came staring at the screen, eyes locked, letting my moan fill the call.

I felt Fernando pulse inside me and spill as my body still shook. I breathed, let the camera drop slow to the couch, ended the call with a sharp tap, and let out a short, satisfied, clean laugh.

I straightened my dress, still panting, and thought with the calm of someone who'd reclaimed her own name.

Revenge done, and Fernando? He wasn't even that good.