Tag Archives: rough sex

Erotic Fiction: Spar

Originally, this story was called “Rough”. I wrote it years ago and always had a soft spot for it. I dug it out not long ago and realized how green I’d been when I wrote it, so I set it aside,  figuring its time had passed.

 Then I did a post about sex and intensity. As I wrote it, “Rough” kept coming to mind. When I pulled it out again, I realized that it contained pretty much everything I’d written about in Technicolor Sex, it just needed teasing out. So I decided to give it a tease.

 It’s still a young story, but now it’s closer to what it originally wanted to be.  Plus, I like the new title. Rough sex can take lots of different forms, but sparring is something specific. At its best, sparring is a dance; a meeting of equals; a give and take. For my money, there’s nothing quite as promising as an even field and room to play….

“Spar” by Malin James

A guy once asked if he could have “the honor” of licking chocolate off my breasts. He was fondling a strawberry at the time—an obvious hint at the pleasures to come. A lot of girls would have melted, but the thought of his tongue sliding over my skin made me want to bite it off. Literally. Off. I politely declined and went home.

I like rough sex. My perfect night would end with both of us bruised, bloody and possibly scarred for life. Candles and chocolate are not for me. I like a fight. Which is fine in theory, but finding someone you can scratch that itch with is harder than you’d think.

I don’t like thugs and I don’t like jerks. I want a nice guy who loves dogs and calls his mom once a week. I don’t want a guy out on bail for assault; but finding a nice, well-adjusted guy who’ll laugh at your jokes and choke you out is, to put it bluntly, pretty fucking hard.

That’s why I started kickboxing again. If I couldn’t find a nice guy who liked it rough, then at least I could beat the hell out of a bag. That’s when I met Mike. He was there every time I went to the gym. Turned out the gym was his.

After eight weeks of mild obsession interest, I signed up for a private lesson. I didn’t really need it, but by then I didn’t care. I don’t like pining (I’m awful at pining) and I needed him out of my system. Besides, I’d exhausted my supply of sparring partners by then, so at least I’d get a workout.

When I walked in that evening, the place was empty except for Mike, who was beating the shit out of a bag with the kind of single-minded intensity that makes my belly clench. He stopped when I came in. My belly stayed clenched.

“Hey,” he said, taking off his glove. “I’m Mike.”

He extended his hand, and I took it. I liked the way it felt—strong and solid, but not overbearing. This man was a man with nothing to prove. My belly clenched again.

“Hey,” I said. “Marie.”

Crooked smile. Lean muscle. Steady, calm gaze. He was very, very present. His eyes felt like the edge of a cliff and I took a running leap.

“So, I’ve booked an hour. What do you offer?”

He was still holding my hand when our eyes locked. It should have been awkward, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t awkward at all. It was the kind of blood-rushing, cunt-swelling turn on that sinks right under your skin. Cue music. Fade to black. Except this wasn’t a movie, so skip the fade to black.

“It depends,” he said. “What are you looking for?”

“A challenge,” I replied.

His hand tightened and relaxed, an instinctive, light pressure, like knees brushing under a table. We were having a conversation. I tried to keep my face calm. Do you want this? Yes. Do you want this? Yes. Are we doing this? Yes. I smiled and squeezed his hand. Negotiations were done.

“Sure,” he said. “A challenge. I can give you that. Need to warm up?”

“No. I’m plenty warm.”

We circled each other, testing. He threw a left hook and I dodged. It barely grazed me, but I caught enough to know that he hadn’t tried to pull it, and that, my friends, was hot.

We’d been at it for just a few minutes when I decided to move things along. Tucking my shoulders in, I drove him back against the wall, but I’d underestimated Good Guy Mike. He wasn’t above playing dirty. To my snarly, feral delight, he picked me up by the waist and pressed me into the wall.

(I don’t have to tell you that sweatpants won’t hide a hard-on. All I’m going to say is that by the time he pinned me, I knew everything I needed to know, thank fucking god).

“Now what,” he said, grinning at me. He looked like a wolf daring me to throw a stick.

“Now this.”

I grabbed a fistful of his hair and bit his bottom lip. He growled and bit me back. Then his tongue was in my mouth and he caught both of my wrists. Yes…yes, yes, yes….

But I still wanted more, so I (very, very sweetly) kneed him in the gut. He swung me down hard, just like I’d hoped. I landed on the mat, but before I could roll away he’d pinned me with his weight.

Now, I’m not tiny. I’m fit and strong and tall, but Mike was so quick and so big that the sheer, immovable weight of him made me relax. Fighting him was like running at something you know won’t budge, and that’s why you do it – for the sheer, crazy joy of not holding back. Mike was so strong, so reliably strong, that I didn’t have to hold back.

“Gotta get you out of these clothes….”

He yanked down my pants and I tore at his sweats. The gym was a fishbowl and the doors were unlocked, but you couldn’t have paid me enough to care, not with his mouth on my tits, sucking and teasing with his rough, hungry tongue. I groaned and spread my legs.

He slid into me, deep and hard. I pushed my hips up, slick and open, wanting more. The way we fucked wasn’t tender. It was raw and rough and real, but under the bites, we were watching, gauging, asserting, retreating…. The give and take made me high.

We were wet and slippery with sweat. I tasted blood, but I didn’t know whose. Red welts. Dripping salt. Fists in hair. Hands on necks. Teeth and nails and blooming bites. When I came it was almost too much. My nerves felt like hooks in my skin, my lungs, my swollen cunt. I came and kept coming. I couldn’t stop coming. I sank into my body and pulled him in deep.

I felt his mouth on my neck, his teeth on skin, light pressure, harder pressure…. It started all over again. I came as I watched. I watched him and I waited. You can do that if you breathe. You can come and watch. Focus. Breathe. I watched his face and breathed.

He wrapped his fist in my hair, and I let him. He marked me, and I let him. He saw me, and I let him. And when he came, I saw him too.

We were quiet for a long time after. Gradually, I looked down at our bodies as we lay back on the mats, sweaty, panting, bruised. I hurt everywhere a person could hurt and it felt glorious. Like a brand new, shiny day.

“So,” he said, touching my jaw. I could feel a bruise forming. It’s a beautiful feeling, when you like how you got the bruise. “Can I take you to dinner sometime?”

I gave him a satisfied grin.

“It depends. How do you feel about dogs?”

“I love ‘em,” he said. “Lost my Sadie last year. I haven’t had the heart to get another. Someday. Maybe soon.”

He looked away, embarrassed. The man had clearly loved his dog.

“In that case, dinner would be great.”