Hate Fuck

His laughter burns a hole through my chest, and my hatred for him radiates off my skin. My fingers clench, the tips rub against the sweat of my palms, and my entire body is damp with contempt.

In the corner of the club, he sits at the end of one of the VIP booths with one arm resting on the back of the seat; he raises his other hand with a frosted glass of brown liquor to meet several others. His stupid, straight white teeth gleam next to his permanent five o'clock shadow. He looks tanner than last time. It's been, what, two years? The usual crowd fills the rest of the table, both the beautiful and the talented. Absent my company; I'm sure they've blossomed into outstanding human beings. Woo-who.

I'm burning alive and at risk of collapsing into my glass of whisky. I down what's left of my drink and head to the far end of the bar. My head spins before I can sit, and I collect my balance against the edge of the bar. This dress feels tighter, and I can't catch my breath. I feel like I'm suffocating.

In the restroom, I splash cold water on my face and neck. The heavily painted black door muffles the music behind it. Red tiles and matching dim lighting create a feeling of a sanctuary in hell. A chuckle erupts out of me and bounces around the empty room.

The door creeks and I hyper-focus on cleaning up my mascara lines than the intruder in my holy place. There is no way I can stay here now. My ruined makeup, my blotchy face, and I reek of anxiety. I text one of my usuals to start rolling a blunt. I could use a smoke and a fuck.

"Hey, sexy." A male voice booms.

My heart races as my face sees none other than Satan himself, my ex. "God, what are you doing in here?" Beads of sweat form along my brow, and I brush the moisture into my hair with my hand.

"What are you doing here?"

"In the restroom? What do you think?" My head is inadvertently shifting with each syllable. He has some nerve to follow me in here.

"The men's room? I have no idea what you could be up to in here." He chides with that same gloating smile.

My eyes dart around to the now obvious evidence of urinals and stall availability. "Fuck off."

He puts his arm in my way as I reach for the door handle. "Where are you going?" A cold shiver reverberates up my spine and spreads out to my limbs, causing goosebumps and hard nipples.

"Away from you." I spit back. If only I could assemble a bit of acid venom to blow onto his pretty face.

He bears towards me, and I stumble back. He takes both wrists in his hands, lifts them above my head, and presses me against the wall. "Why would you do that?" His words are heavy, and I can almost taste his drink on my lips.

"Stop it," I beg breathlessly.

"It's been a while. I just want to see how it feels." One hand slowly descends my elbow, arm, waist, and hips and then crosses my thigh before slipping up my skirt. His fingers slide my panties over and enter me. That familiar touch makes my pussy spaz in anticipation.

I want to say, "You're such a dick. Why don't you go back out there to her? To the girl you wanted more than me." But moans replace my complaints and hisses. My heel hooks onto the edge of the trashcan. All I can muster is, "Fuck... I hate you."

"I hate you too, baby." He squats down and licks my cunt, pushes his fat tongue deep inside me while slurping me into his mouth.

He stands up with his dick out of his pants and pushes me in front of the sink. Our reflections look back at us as if out of a horror movie. I bend over, and he latches onto my hips and fucks me hard and fast. His cock feels perfect; every thrust puts me closer to climax.

Nevertheless, when I look up to the mirror and see him behind me, my pussy clamps tighter as if trying to break his dick off inside of me. He moans louder and fucks me even harder. His lips form an 'O', and his face twists to resemble a chipmunk. I reach between my legs and pull swiftly on his balls to stop him from cuming.

"You fucking bitch!" He hollers as his hand crashes down on my ass cheek, sending a sharp crack sound into the air.

"Me first," I retort.

"Me first," he mimics with a high-pitch. He grabs my hair and pulls my torso back towards him. "You're going to cum, little girl when I fucking say."

I stare him down through the mirror's reflection. I spit on my fingertips and rub my clit while he pumps into me slower but deeper.

His cock jumps inside of me, indicating that he's close. He shoves my self-serving hand out of the way and viscously grinds my clit until I feel my knees buckle with a waterfall of cum from both of us run down my inner thigh.

I push him out of me and grab an abundant amount of hand towels to clean up. Do men just not wash their hands?

"Can I get a couple of those?"

I hand him some crumpled, used ones. "Better get back before your girlfriend starts to wonder."



"Fiancée. I asked her to marry me on New Year's."

"You're fucking disgusting."

"Hey," he snarls, "You said 'no.' I'd have never cheated on you."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart. Good luck with that marriage."

He grabs me, holds me tight, and forcibly kisses me. "I'll call you after the divorce."

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