R/T/M by Sean Douglas Page B

eye part of wincing.
          Ram!   “Him?”   Ram!   “Or me?”   Ram!
          Finally she let out a blast of air and a sob without the crying she sucked in a gasp of air and yelled, “You!   Okay?   You!   You fucking asshole!”
          Several subtle beautiful things happened in simultaneity.   I pushed myself up into a straddle again and unclenched my fist.   Her head hit the pillow with a “flumph” sound and her hair spread in tousled strands across her shoulders and face and the pillows.   I felt a fleeting sadness, nostalgic for when I thought that the way her hair strewn across my pillow was beautiful.   I’d wake up in my bed and I’d find one of her stray hairs left behind on my pillow or on the sheets or on the floor and I’d think of her and smile to myself nostalgically.   That was then.   This is now.   Nothing would ever be the same.
         “There.   That was easy wasn’t it?”
         I had won.   I had broken her.   I wasn’t unnecessarily cruel.   I only hit her once, and even then not anywhere it would really hurt.   The only places she would feel it were her asshole and her pride.   She did what anyone does when they find themselves in an inescapable situation.  They struggle for a while, but then they give up and resign themselves to it.   Like monkeys in cages that masturbate themselves until they’re raw or dogs in kennels that lick themselves or gnaw on their legs until they’re a danger to themselves.   I had won.
          I had stopped fucking her when I sat up.   Now I resumed the steady rhythm that I had started with.
          She put her forehead down on the pillow.   Even though her eyes had duct tape covering them she didn’t want to look in my direction.
          I kept moving my hips back and forth, fucking her ass.
          I said, “Say you like it.”
          She said, “I like it.” in a dull flat voice.
          She didn’t like it, but she said it anyway.
          It was the definition of irony.
          The next time you think about the definition of irony, I hope you’ll think about this.
          Maybe you will.   And maybe you’ll press your lips tight to avoid a bitter smile.   And maybe you won’t.
          I said, “Say you love it when I fuck your ass.”
          She said, “I love it when you fuck my ass.”
          If she was in a humorous mood, she could have said, “You love it when I fuck your ass.”, but she wasn’t in a humorous mood.
          Then it became like it always was.
          Her resigned.   Just taking it.   The moment had passed.
          I closed my eyes and concentrated, thinking up a more arousing scenario in my head to compliment the physical sensations of my body.   I made it.   I came.    I groaned.   I clenched my dick muscles to milk out the last of my jism while I was still inside her and I pulled out.
          She clenched her ass to keep my semen inside her like she always did.
          I cut the tape binding her wrists to her opposite forearms behind her back, and sat at the foot of the bed, facing the doorway, watching her out of the corner of my eye.
          She rolled onto her side, swung her legs out over the side of the bed and sat up in one fluid motion.   She ripped the patch of duct tape from across her eyes and stood up without looking at me.   She crumpled the tape into a ball and walked out of the room naked, dropping the crumpled ball of duct tape into the waste basket by the door.
        I heard her walk to the bathroom and heard the bathroom ventilation fan go on which happened every time anyone turned on the light.
         She came back into the room and sat on the bed and gathered up her clothes.
         While she was gone I had lit a cigarette and I just smoked and watched.
         She put her clothes on and gathered up the few possessions of hers that