I was smoking a menthol cigarette, swigging malt liquor from the bottle, bitching about Happy Meals and government approved cheese and that shit turned him on so he threw me over his shoulder (“YOU JANE!”) and carried me down to the basement. There was a black leather couch. He threw me on it. Fuck! It was cold.

“Stay right there. Don’t move an inch,” Trevor said.
“What are you gonna do? Spank me?” I asked.
“I know you’d like that. Don’t tempt me.”

Trevor turned on the oil rain lamp and the disco lights. He put on the new Unfortunate Mustaches album. He was setting the scene. His will be done. Kingdom no can come soon enough, baby.

He told me not to move but me being me I disobeyed, anticipating a good hard thrashing. I stripped out of my slutty black lace dress. No bra. No panties. My nipples all pink and puckered. I was ready. I sat up, crossed my legs, put my face in my hands, raised my right eyebrow when Trevor came at me all naked and fierce with intent to harm with intent to damage with intent to put me in my fucking place with his merciless lust, his blood gorged cock at the ready. I yawned.

“Oh, that,” I drawled.
“You’ve been dying for it. Starving for it. Praying to iguana gods and jellyfish demons for it. You’ve crossed deserts and tundras on your hands and knees for it, your clit chiming like a gong.”
“Fuck you for knowing me too well.”

I ended up begging for it which is usually how it goes.
I demanded.
He supplied.
And then we ate a pizza.