Just A Little

Something I’m working on, or one of many things more accurately. More intense language than I’d ever use in real life, but felt right with the character. Just playing around with more first person POV because it’s good writing practice.

The pain reverberated along my spine, drawing hot tears from my eyes. It surprised me with how good it felt, how it made me feel, and even more so that I wanted him to hit me again.

God, he did hit me, but I wanted him to. When I say I was asking for it, I mean I literally begged. Me, I begged him to hit me. Because something inside me needed him to make me the pliant female I never thought I’d be.

I’m a pretty hard-core feminist. Not the bra burning, latent lesbian, “men are nothing but misogynistic assholes” type, but I’m serious about women’s rights and equality. I push for that equality inside the boardroom and the bedroom both.

My mantra is be the woman who could fuck as well as she got fucked, if not better. A woman doesn’t have to be Susie Homemaker or do any of that lame shit to get a man off if she doesn’t want to.

The backlash of my stringent beliefs is many guys were hesitant to take me on, or out for that matter. I never dressed the butch, not with my ass length black hair and fascination with corsets. No, my attitude, my sneer kept them away. Fine with me. I just got the cock when I needed it and left them to screw around with each other.

But it’s always that one guy who messes you up. Preston turned my righteous feminine anger on its ear.

He was the antithesis of everything I stood for as a feminist. Seasoned high power attorney with a penchant for trophy girlfriends. Preston had salt and pepper hair and smug smile that screamed rich, male entitlement. I fucking loathed him the moment I saw him at a conference I was attending for my company. The man wore arrogance like a tailored suit. Everything I hated and then some.

He approached me at the hotel bar that first night spinning some practiced bullshit about knowing exactly what I needed. I took perverse pleasure in telling him what an asshole he was in explicit detail. The bastard just smirked, his eyes caressing my body like he knew me, and said he’d catch me later. I hissed like the Wicked Witch of the West that it wasn’t fucking likely.

But it was like I couldn’t get away from him. I figured out his name by the afternoon the second day and I’m sure he knew mine sooner than that. He was in all my sessions, at every restaurant I went to, and always found a way to insinuate himself into my airspace. I was fuming by the end of the week-long conference and ready to stick a six-inch high heel up his tight ass.

Oh yes, I’d noticed his beautiful body, and that only pissed me off more. Guys like him deserve an ugly mug to go with that entitled attitude. It wasn’t fair he was the type of guy with the great ass and broad shoulders that automatically made my panties wet. I wanted to damn him for his good looks.

That last full day I thought I was going to get away with not having to talk to him again. I’d leave with something to bitch to my girlfriends about without shredding the poor guy with my claws, you know. But he wasn’t that easy to shake.

He stepped into the elevator with me after the last session, catching the closing doors like he didn’t know I was in there. I swallowed the nasty words I wanted to utter and moved out of his way.

“You come to these kind of conferences often?” He pressed the button for the top floor, making sure to stay right in my personal space.

“Do you make a point to talk to women who obviously can’t stand you?” No sense letting him think he had even the slightest chance.

He laughed. It was a deep, low laugh that shot straight to my pussy. I had to grit my teeth, pissed that he’d found anything I said remotely funny and that I’d reacted even a little to him. I kept my eyes straight ahead and waited for the elevator to stop.

“But I know you want me.”

My head whipped around, indignant at his assumption and strangely aroused by his smug confidence. “Fuck you,” I snapped out.

His breath caressed my face as he leaned in. “I’ll let you, but only if you get on your knees and ask real nicely.”

Unable to stop myself, I let my hand lash out. The sound of flesh impacting echoed through the small space. My haze cleared, bringing with it the realization of what I’d done. He’d turned his face away, the red print of my hand rising up on his high cheek.

To his credit, he didn’t hit me back then, but his smile was a touch dangerous enough to cut through my lingering anger. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.” His husky voice made me shiver. “You meant to do it, and I can see in your eyes you’d like to do more.”

He crowded me against the wall, the hard mass of his body pressing me into the metal. He wound his hand through my hair, pulling until he’d exposed the line of my throat. I could’ve fought him, should’ve pushed him back because he was the prime example of the type of domineering guy I fucking hated, but I didn’t. It was like my natural urge fight disappeared under an assault of lust.

“I know what you need.” Those words again. I knew from the way he held me he might, and the way my heart raced told me I’d like it.

“You…” My words trailed off as the doors slid open.

He stepped back, leaving me dazed and slick with arousal. I leaned heavily against the wall for a moment.

“Come to the lounge. 6:15 sharp.” He lifted a perfectly arched eyebrow at me, challenging me.

“Fuck you.” My comeback lacked its usual strength, and that alone hastened me off the elevator, away from him. I refused to look back at him as I charged down the hall, but his words reached me nonetheless.

“See ya later.”


  1. Wonderful stuff… Glad I came back to find it! “He laughed. It was a deep, low laugh that shot straight to my pussy.” Isn’t it amazing how certain things can cut through us like that and get down into our guts?

      1. And it isn’t always the obvious thing, right? Sometimes it’s the way she holds her pen when she’s writing a note for you or that song she plays when she’s making pasta or something else seemingly totally not sexual, right? (Or “he” for that matter.)

I like it when you talk to me

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