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Satn Slippers

Boxing Day
By Doxy Wringer ©


Author's Note: This story may not be duplicated or re-posted on another 
website or in any medium without the written consent of the author. 
It is a work of fiction, and intended as a pleasure derived from the 
viewpoints of both the most tender and the most carnal hungers 
that swell within the human animal.

I  sizzled in brimming lust, turning my head to one side and thrusting my open mouth backward. His kiss was so rough it hurt, and I tasted the blood from his cracked lip. With a sinful roar, I bit solidly into the fleshy tenderness of that wound and latched on tight. 

Pit viper. Pit bull. A creature of the pit, I was.

"Fucking cunt," he breathed angrily into my mouth, his hands reaching up to twist my nipples violently. I whimpered, but did not let go. Thus began the last battle in the war that simmered beneath our shallow surfaces.

I sank my fangs in deeper, and he contorted my rock-hard nipples with merciless hands.

It was an unfair match, and after only a few moments, I released his lip with a tormented yowl. His hands immediately grasped my sport bra and yanked it down under my full tits, baring their red, pulsating, nipples to the cold of the room. 

Propelling me forward against the wall, I heard him give a grunt from behind me. Then a click which I only had a moment to identify as his pocket knife. Before I could utter a protest, he'd slipped the point of the blade through the ass of my capris and knickers. He wiggled a finger into that tiny slit and ripped them open the rest of the way with his bare hands.

"You have a delicious ass, Jinny," he growled in almost feral loathing behind me. "You've always had a delicious ass." 

One strong forearm pressed across my back, smashing me hard to the wall. My sore breasts mashed into the cold, exposed brick while his free hand began to blister my ass with one brutal slap after another. 

"Sodding, bloody, whore," he snarled into my ear. "Where in fuck's sake do you come up swinging and biting at me?"

I took each blow with a guttural rumble of acceptance, refusing to scream, even though my body jerked under the force of each hit. 

"Tell me you want to get fucked up your delicious ass, slut," he ordered harshly. "Tell me you want to spread your whore legs and have my cock stuffed tight up your virgin bum." 

I wouldn't answer him, and as my ass and his hand started to grow numb, he realized I wasn't going to bend in that direction. Wrenching my hair, he maneuvered me around.

Without warning, I swung both fists, connecting first with an uppercut to his chin and then boxing his left ear. He responded with a snarl of utter fury and slammed his body forward, crushing me between his tall, muscled form and the unforgiving brick wall. I did scream then, struggling to keep the breath from being knocked from my lungs.

"Bloody fucking radge." He sneered, grasping me by the wrists. My beloved vintage boxer's gloves turned traitor on me. Without access to my fingers, I couldn't claw his face off as I ached to. And he managed rather effortlessly to bind both my wrists in one of his large hands.

Shoving one of his legs between mine, he kicked my feet apart, until by thighs were spread wide. Had he not held me up by the arms, I'd have slipped helplessly into a painful straddle. 

"Tell me what a rutting whore you are," he commanded with an arrogant leer. I glared defiantly into his eyes for a few seconds, and then the flat of his hand slammed down.

This time he wasn't walloping my fleshy rear; this time the hard paddle of his palm stung flatly against my partially exposed clit. I did scream them, my whole body bucking and recoiling as he punished my pussy.

"Rat-shagging-bloody-bastard!" I screamed into his face. 

His hand slammed down again. And then once more. I began to use expletives I hadn't even known were in my vocabulary. 

His pitiless hand lifted back once more.

"I'm a rutting whore." I breathed through clenched teeth.

His smirk was nearly unbearable.

"A dirty, cock-loving whore," he prompted with amused satisfaction. 

"A dirty cock-loving whore," I repeated, spitting each word into his face like a voodoo curse.

He drew his fingers threateningly over my stomach. "Make a few up. Be creative. Don't make me hurt you to inspire you."

I tried in vain to cause his body to spontaneously combust with just the power of my burning eyes. When that didn't work, I gritted my teeth and began slowly. "I'm a filthy, fuck-loving little slut."

"Whose slut are you?" He squeezed my wrists for emphasis. 

I began to calculate the odds of parole if I bathed in his blood after I killed him. "Your slut, Guy. Your cock-hungry, wet-pussied guttersnipe." 

"Good," he praised condescendingly. "Tell me you want it up your tight cunnie. Beg for it up your virgin bum."

Our eyes locked in communal wrath. Never before had I realized the itch to murder and the ache to fuck could be so utterly entwined.

"Shove that cock of yours deep into my cunt and stab me with it," I growled hotly. "Poke my pussy raw, and then when you're done ram that slab of meat up my ass and fuck me until I can't feel." 

It was going to backfire on him. Yes, he was getting what he wanted to hear, but he was getting one unmanageable beast of a hard-on as well.

Control slipped from his face. He let go of me to fumble with the fly of his jeans and I seized on the opportunity to completely clock him, boxing both his ears at the same time.

He screamed with an almost feline howl of pain and fell swiftly to his knees, his exposed, fat, swollen cock clutched and protected by both his hands. With bare feet, I delivered a sharp kick to his shoulder. My heel cracked against his collarbone. He dropped flat on his back, writhing. His moans of agony rang in my blood-thirsty ears like Mozart arias. 

I dropped onto him, straddling his hips and delivering blow after blow to his face…his chest…his ribs. There wasn't enough strength left in my body to do any real harm. But it was enough to get him good and stunned. I simply delivered weakened punches, jabs, and shots, the whole time, my ass wagging back and forth over his pulsating erection.

He was somewhere between consciousness and punch-drunk stupor when I finally leaned forward over him, my damp, dog-tired body too angry to give up unsatisfied. 

"Reach down there," I ordered him with a gravel-coated throaty voice. "Reach down there and shove that cock inside me."

My gloved, ineffectual hands took a staunch position on his chest as I felt him blindly rub the tip of his slick steel against my over-sensitive clit. My whole body stiffened in a morbid, mingling rush of expectation and revulsion. 

When finally that rigid flash of hardened flesh struck within me, I threw my head back and bayed like a wolf in triumph. Pounding my hips down, I jack-hammered his stocky length into my rapacious puss. My tits bounced up and down in rhythm. My body jerked in greedy pleasure. I took it from him while my gloves slipped and slid over his clammy chest. 

I felt him starting to twitch and distend inside me, and I'd be damned if my domination of his body was going to have him cum before I. Pressing one glove between my thighs, I rubbed the hardened sheepskin glove to my tender red clitty. 


Holy orgasm, Batman!

I stood up the minute I felt my body crest, screeching aloud as I climbed to shaky legs. With my teeth I began to chew at the laces on my gloves, working them rather easily and quicky loose. The scent of my own sex thick on them, the gloves fell to the ground as I reached for the glass of water Lil had so thoughtfully prepared for her nice little hamster, (pit viper) of a flatmate.

Glancing at the floor, I watched Guy curl onto his side, nearly fetal as he cupped his sore cock and balls. I had given the fellows a rather rough ride. He pumped gently with his hands, but still cried out in obvious discomfort. Yet it was clear, the pain of wanking off a tender cock was the lesser of two evils. Blue balls might have set him back a week.

He came in a wicked mess all over himself while I crossed the room and shoved my hand down his back pocket. He stiffened, but didn't offer any protest as I confiscated his wallet and keys. 

I realized his nose was now bleeding to match his lip, and, while I unwound my spare house key from his ring, and plucked my photos from his wallet, he tried several times to sit up with no luck. I pilfered the cash he had brought over with him. It would cover new knickers and capris, and possibly the pair of Moschinos I'd had my eye on for a month or so. 

Then, shoving his keys and his wallet back into his pocket, I wrapped my fingers in his brown curls and gave a nice, hard yank. His scalp made a ripping noise which nearly matched his shriek.

"Up you go, Cottonmouth. You're being thrown out of the snake pit. You can do up your trousers outside." I half-pushed, half-kicked him up the stairs, across the den, and out the front door. He slipped on the icy walk, but held his balance, stuffing his retracting, limp cock back into his pants as the cold hit him full-force.

How is it that you can pander to delusions for months at a time, but clarity and understanding rush in the moment you deliver yourself from the slavery of a destructive relationship? Three months of dramatics and razor-toothed dialog and I couldn't even muster up a single heartfelt emotion over watching him retreat out of my life except…relief. 

I assumed I would cry in the shower while I scorched the stink of sex and sweat off my raw body, but it seemed I didn't have a single tear to shed. By the time I was toweling my hair dry, I was telling myself that everything happened for a reason and I would understand it in time. While gathering everything Guy had ever brought into the house into a large shopping bag, I even muttered aloud about how I had known from the start that he wasn't going to take me anywhere I really wanted to go. 

I might have tossed his things into the bin if I hadn't been feeling so self-enlightened, but it was, after all, Boxing Day.

The campus chapel was running a drive for clothes and food. I decided Guy was in a giving spirit. Cocooning myself into a winter coat, I toted the overflowing parcel of t-shirts, jumpers, and corduroy to a place where it would do some good. The tender, abused parts of my body had no affection for the cold, but I considered it a strange sort of penance. I couldn't smile back when the peppy little volunteer took my contraband and thanked me - shuffling Guy's belongings into the appropriate piles.

Turning back for home, I didn't glance up from the concrete walk. The university grounds would only be milling with miserable creatures like myself who had nowhere to go for the Christmas holiday or mark-obsessed neurotics like Lil whose family was close, and drove back and forth the day after to get a jump on next term's projects.

As usual, I wasn't looking where I was headed and crashed arse-over-tit right into another body.

"Damn it all anyway," I muttered from the wet ground. "Excuse me, please. I'm sorry. I know I'm a menace to society, but I truly didn't see you…" My apology drifted off as I scrambled to my feet and raised my line of vision to observe my latest victim of serial clumsiness. 

"You're American. And here I was feeling all alone." 

He was a six-foot dark-eyed dream, and my mind was screaming at me to have none of it. There was no such thing as fate. I'd just gotten rid of one worthless man, it was too soon to even consider looking at another one. Even if this one was dreamy…and had the kind face of a patient man…and was proffering his hand to help me up.

"My name's Bertram, but I go by Rummy. Old family name. There's no hope for it." In a manner that was neither obtrusive or condescending, he reached to take Guy's box from me. "Let me take this before you end up mowing down half the campus. Do you have a name?" 

Our eyes locked and there was a mutual warmth exchanged.

Jinn and Rummy. 

Hadn't I just insisted there was no such thing as fate? It was the kind of introduction that began fairy tales.

By the time Rummy and I were married just after graduation, I had no need for the punching bag anymore. Although, sometimes I still keep the gloves on during sex. 

Just for the thrill.



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