hate sex (is what you call it almost like you're trying to convince yourself) would go crazy with ex bf simon.
when he texts you at work that he's landing in 2 hours, you realize you forgot to block him after the breakup. that'd been almost a year ago. the last message you don't even bother reading. simply delete and block.
i'll see you at home.
when you finally go home after working a grueling corporate job that always leaves you with frayed nerves and your teeth on edge, you stand by the door, instantly realizing something's wrong different.
mud-caked boots sit by the door. the lights inside are on and when you walk in, you find out why.
simon's sprawled on your couch, asleep, his large frame making it seem like a child's bed instead of living room furniture. his snoring scrapes over your already tender nerves, thinning the already wisp-like thread of patience you're barely dangling from.
you grab a cushion and toss it at his head. (you do not miss the way he snores. it's like a hibernating bear in a cave. resounding. grating.)
to your astounding surprise, he doesn't. instead, he groggily asks what's for dinner. when you bark out, "nothing. i'm exhausted and going to sleep", he gets up with an agility no man his size should possess and blocks your path.
you've always loved hated the way he makes you feel small.
"either we eat takeout or i eat you out." that solves that. you've got boundaries to keep. maybe he'll eat his fill and piss off.
he doesn't. he eats you out anyway, legs perched on the kitchen counter as he slurps up your slick like a starved man at a bountiful feast. doesn't care that you're pelting his broad back with your small fists, slurring how much you hate him.
he thinks your ire is endearing, like a spirited kitten that needs to expend their energy before settling down for the night. he makes you ride him on the couch, the burn of him stretching you feeling as intense as very first time he took you.
"tight cunt's forgotten me. it's alrigh', i'll carve out a space in 'ere jus' f'me." (again.)
when you sit flush on his thighs, balls pressed against your arse, he bucks up, feeling his cock in your throat, the oxygen stolen from your lungs.
"show me how much ya hate me."
(somewhere down the line, when your hair is damp with sweat and your neck's marked purple, he tells you that even if you don't like him, your cunt loves him. so much so it's gripping him like it never wants him to leave. so he doesn't. stays over for a night. then two. a week. a month. until it's time to go to work again.)