Pulling me to the living room, he plunked me down on the sofa, and pushed up my skirt. I would have protested the way he was getting my living room couch soaked, but I wasn’t going to say anything to upset him. It was a “dump f**k”, so I call screwing that happens more from necessity than desire, fast, without much consideration of the other person. It’s the kind of s*x meant solely to release pent-up energy, for that one tiny moment of bliss when the rest of the world is forgotten.
My job was to yield, which I did willingly. I had my own need to fill, and submitting to him was part of it, the only way I could think to support him. Every bit of violent release poured into me; and I took it, hoping it could take away his hurt.
His hands were all over my thighs, kneading them so hard they
