Image by the wonderful Stuart F Taylor
The problem with writing a non-fiction blog is that sometimes the characters can get boring. I really like the guy I fuck, so I can’t really sink my teeth into stories that have darker emotions attached. So recently, on a bit of a holiday from my normal blogging, I wrote a whole bunch of erotic fiction pieces based on different kinds of fuck. Hate fucks, pity fucks, spite fucks and so on. This one is a revenge fuck.
I will see you again when I’m sixty, and dripping with diamonds. When the lines on my face tell a story of a life that’s been very, very well lived. You’ll see me across a crowded room and wonder why every inch of me seems to sparkle: it’s fun, my dear. That’s what’s sparkling: fun.
After forty years of being nourished by the kind of love you’d never have dreamed of giving me, my skin will positively glow. You’ll ache to lick and kiss it. To brush your nose up against the scent of my neck, or run your hands over the silk of my dress. You’d do almost anything.
Except say ‘Hello’, of course, that would show too much willing.
Even at sixty, you’ll be reluctant to make the first move, in case you give the wrong impression. You are as eager as you are terrified to appear eager, and that’s always been your biggest fault. That you know what you want but are frightened to take it, in case it makes you look small. So when I meet you again, in forty years time, I’ll smile at you from across the room and give a wave that’s as insignificant as you are.
You look tiny now, and that surprises me. I tower above you in confidence if not in stature. Where life seems to have worn you down like a pebble, it’s nourished me and helped me grow. I’ve stretched my roots across continents.
You imagine that were we to fuck it would be just as it was in the past: me looking up at you with wet eyes and desperate love, begging you to nourish me too. It won’t be like that at all, but that’s how it will seem. In your excitement. In the moment when I click my sparkling heels across the parquet floor of whichever embassy we’re dining in tonight, and smile at you in that familiar way – the way that used to make you think you were worth so much more than I was – it will all come flooding back. Your ego will feed your heart, which will pump the blood into your cock, and you’ll remember how useful I was for relieving this kind of pressure. How good I was at stoking the fire, and then quenching it with kisses and the wetness of my cunt.
Perhaps I’ll make a joke about the way we used to be. I’ll give a laugh that fizzes like champagne as I reminisce about what a silly girl I was. And you, oblivious to the fact that this is a test – oh, definitely a test – as you slobber over the sun-kissed skin exposed by my plunging neckline, will snort-laugh and nod along. You’ll agree with me, mockingly. As if the young girl I was at twenty has disappeared forever, so it’s OK to talk behind her back.
When I fuck you it will not be for love, but for revenge. To show you that the woman I am now loves me so much better than you ever could.
I will take you back to my house, in a car driven by a silent man in a uniform and hat. I will take you upstairs past portraits of beautiful men and women who have loved me over the last four decades. When you ask about them I will tell you only their first names, then give a secret smile as I recall the fifty ways each one of them fucked me.
In my bedroom, you’ll grab for me with fumbling, greedy fists – as if you still own me the way you did when I was twenty. And I’ll take a step back, tilt my head to one side, and smile. Place one perfectly-manicured hand on your cock, and squeeze it tightly through your trousers until you gasp.
I will tell you I’m not that girl any more. Then I will show you the woman I’ve become.
I am sixty and covered in diamonds. Filled with life and nourished by love and watching you from the safest distance – across acres and acres of time. Perhaps you seem small not just because you’ve shrunk in my estimation, but because I’m seeing you from so far away. You’re a distant speck on the horizon of my life, one I’m only inspecting you because I’m curious to see whether it will provide amusement for the twenty-something living in my heart.
I will not let you fuck me the way you used to – like a rutting bull, staring into the distance and shoving yourself into me as I lie passive beneath you, waiting for you to dispense the pathetic dribble of love that was all you thought I deserved. No.
This time I’ll order you to strip. I won’t lift a finger to help you undress, but I’ll use them to pinch the tip of a condom before rolling it down onto your straining erection, reminding you how times have changed. When you’re suitably dressed I’ll slip my silk dress onto the carpet and order you to sit your chilly, naked bottom on the stool at my dressing table. Gloriously, when I straddle your straining prick, you’ll see my whole body from every angle: me, wearing nothing but diamonds, riding you, as you beg me for more.
Don’t hold back – enjoy it! Drink in every single part of me: my breasts, my neck, my hair. The curve of my buttocks as they meet my waist. Each crease and mole and wrinkle and glistening bead of sweat. Every single inch of my body: the same, but different. Better. More whole. Inhabited by someone who knows its value.
When we fuck I will not take off my diamonds.
I’ll keep one hand on the back of your neck to keep me steady, another hand spit-lubed and busily working my clit. If there’s one thing you taught me it’s that. All the nights when you’d hot-foot it out of the house before someone found out I was your dirty little secret – I didn’t realise at the time, but I was in training for the rest of my life. I rubbed myself over and over, until I came and then wept, came and then wept, over and over and over until I was an expert in my body. Until I loved my body. In the absence of love, I learned pleasure. And that wasn’t a bad deal at all.
So I’ll ride you – hard – slamming myself right down to the base of your cock, and watching your face grow redder as you try to hold back your climax. Seeing the blue vein pulsing at the side of your forehead like it used to, I’ll lick the sweat from your cheeks and clench my cunt tight as if to crush your cock inside me. Inevitably, you’ll beg me to slow down, grasping for just one more minute of pleasure. One more minute of pretending things might go back to how they used to be – with me at your feet and you in control.
I slow down, but keep on rubbing my clit with the same urgency – the urgency with which you used to fuck me. As I work, my nails will jab the skin of your stomach with a casual viciousness. Perhaps you’ll mewl or whimper, or maybe you’ll bite your tongue, remembering all the times you used to suck firmly on my nipples or touch fingertips to my clit, and how you’d tell me to ‘sssh’ if I ever dared cry out for more of it. Perhaps the words ‘needy’ and ‘bitch’ are still ringing in your ears, as they are in mine, and this is the point when you realise the kind of fuck we’re having.
I doubt it.
As I come around your cock I’ll make no sound at all. For all the times you accused me of ‘squealing’ or ‘wheedling’ or ‘whining’ or ‘mewling’, this time I will make no sound.
When I lift myself off your twitching prick there’ll be a moment – just a split second – when you look down at it, then up at me, aghast. As if the fact that I would leave you unsatisfied isn’t just outrageous but inconceivable. Your dick hurts – it aches – there’s a glint of precome leaking from the tip and so you fight the urge to order me to remove the condom, lick it off, suck it clean. Get on with it, you prickteasing bitch.
In that moment I’ll see all the ways you used to knock me down, and feel a rush of the breathtaking, bonecrushing hatred that my twenty-something-self had to live with every day. Except this time it isn’t me I’ll hate – finally my rage will have found the right target.
I stand behind you at the mirror, kiss your neck and smile. And in the reflection of three pristine glass panels you’ll see how a life of joy has etched itself onto my face. Those creases by my eyes form the ghosts of evenings past – spent laughing with friends and flirting with lovers. The lines around my mouth drawing it upwards into a smile, haunted by the pleasant echoes of other people’s names cried out with pleasure.
When you see the story that life has written on my face, you’ll try so hard not to frown. But it’s too late – far too late. Because forty years of sneers and cruelty have done their work already.
I can read the story life has carved on you, and it’s a greater prize – more beautiful – than any of my diamonds.
This story is also available as audio porn. Click ‘listen now’ above or head to the audio porn page to hear more sex stories read aloud. If you liked this, there’ll be more in the new year so subscribe for updates when new blogs go live if that’s your sort of thing. And if you hated this revenge fuck and think she was a little bit mean to this poor guy, don’t worry – you’ll get to read his side in another story.