Disclaimer: written for a friend who wanted this fantasy to be set in a story. As always get consent.
My boyfriend stares at me with blood-injected eyes. He scrutinizes my roughed up and beaten face. He's red, his open mouth is trembling in a stupid manner, like if he wanted to say something but he's overwhelmed by the events. I am wide smiling at him, triomphant, satisfied. His expression says everything: "How dare you".
I have spent all night outside and I have just arrived home in the morning. I smell like other man, my hair is unkempt, my lips are swollen with punches, one of my eyes is blackening terribly. I feel alive as my body buzzes throbbingly with pain. I have screamed, I have bleed, I have been violently manhandled.. and I have moaned all the orgasms of my body without any remorse or retention.
And all that my boyfriend knows. He guesses, he imagines, he burns of jealousy inside. His brain is losing sanity, his guts are melting with anger, his knuckles are white with fury.
He avances towards me, and grasp me by the shoulders, violently, he looks directly at my eyes; he cannot stop staring the one that is swelling and darkening, my plump purpled lips grins shamelessly at him.
He puts one of his hands on my neck and menaces to strike me with the other. I know he won't do that, he loves me the fool. He feel powerless, hopeless, watching my smiling face, daring him, challenging him to do so. My mind and body are sending him a clear message: Hit me, strike me, make me see stars, make me regret fucking other men than you. But he won't do it, the fool.
He opens my coat and undress me, standing before him my beaten body reveals the marks and traces of a night of passion. I have stripes of canes, red bumps, bruises on thighs, one of my tits was bitten. My nipples and my sex are swollen and reddened. I have sperm oozing from inside me and running down my thighs.
He is mad with jealousy. Steaming with anger and incredulity. I stay exposed, I turn myself so he can admire better the scratches on my back, the hickey on my neck, the bruising of strong hands choking my neck and pulling my hair.
My telephone beeps with incoming messages. He pounces over my handbag and picks it up. He hands it to me to unlock it.
I receive a lot of messages with photos and videos of the night. Me being groped, molested, smacked, tied up, abused, fucked four ways. My boyfriend keeps watching them sweating, shaking, the telephone in trembling hands, steaming jealousy building pressure inside him.
And I notice it, in his trousers, his enormous erection, his evident arousal in his breathing, the way he bites and licks his lips. I approach him and he hugs me, his hand cuddling my head, fingers burrowed lovingly in my hair.
Because I know him. I know that jealousy is his biggest turn on. I put my hand on his throbbing sex, I will soon suck him with my swollen lips and he will fuck me in such way to erase all the traces of the man of last night. He will adore that, to reclaim his girlfriend once again, to tend to my bruises, to make me wail of pleasure, like every time it had happened in the past.
For he is no sadist and won't beat me the way I would like, because he says he loves me, the fool.
But I will keep making he mad of jealousy, because he's my man and I love him even more, me, the fool.
