Our Violent Arguments

I knew I had fucked up the moment I walked in the door. The way he sat on the chair, feet propped on the table, thick, veiny hands folded together, eyes cold and regarding me head to toe. His gaze crawled up and down my body, looking at every inch of my outfit with a judgement that made my stomach turn.

"Kara." He says my name in a tone that makes me want to cower, but I don't. "Do you have any understanding how men's minds work?"

I'm at a loss for words. I stand there, holding his gaze.

"Do you know how men perceive you when you dress like that? Where the fuck were you?" His words are harsh, but his tone is smooth and collected, his gravely voice low yet sharp.

"You're not my father," I snap back. Definitely not my most mature move. "Just because I'm eighteen and you're twenty-seven doesn't give you parenting rights."

The moment the words came out of my mouth, I regretted them. He stands slowly, and deliberately begins to walk towards me. I step backwards subconsciously until my back is against the closed door.

"Say you're sorry," he murmurs softly. Eyes locked on mine, I feel the hairs at the back of my neck raise.

"I'm not saying sor--"

My voice is cut off as he shoves two fingers into my mouth and down my throat and his other hand wraps gently, but firmly, around my neck, pushing me against the door. He towers above me, looking down at me. "Somebody didn't raise you right," he says in that condescending tone I know so well.

In a burst of anger, I shove him away from me violently, my nails digging into his arms. His strength is unmoveable - I feel like a child trying to push a semi truck.

To my surprise, he lets go of my neck, and his thick wet fingers slide from my mouth. But I can tell by the look on his face that he's not done.

"If you were a smart girl, you would've bitten my fingers," he snaps, and I feel a hard slap across my cheeks which instantly brings tears to my eyes. I look back up at his chiseled face, trembling.

"I fucking hate you," I hiss, the toxicity of my own voice surprising me.

"Say that again," he warns, his voice dark and low.

"I. Fucking. Hate. You," I snarl between my teeth.

Suddenly his hand covers my mouth, the back of my head slamming into the door. He flips me around so my back is to him, his hand on the back of my head, my face squished against the door. My ears ring. He pins me there with one hand, and I hear him undoing his belt with the other.

"Stop," I choke on a broken whimper.

He forcefully wraps his belt around both my wrists and they are trapped behind my back. I look behind me and our eyes lock. I shake my head, eyes filling with tears.

With a look of defiance on his face, he pulls out his hardness, thick and full of veins just like his hands. I never knew how it fit inside of my tiny body. He always used it as a weapon.

With one hand on the back of my head, shoving my face against the door, his other hand begins to slide up and down his hardness. "Lick it," he commands.

I struggle against the binds. "You're fucking sick," I sob.

"Lick the fucking door," he commands quietly again. Ashamed, I start to lick the door, kissing it as if it was another man.

"Wouldn't your daddy be proud," he purrs, his hand working up and down his hardness. Disgusting. I feel shame rise in my chest, but I ache between my legs. "His little girl, being slutty for a grown man and for a whole fucking --" he interrupts his speech to slap my again - "club full of men."

I flinch as his hand strokes my face. "I didn't even dance on anyone," I sob.

He turns me around, lifting me up against the door, my legs straddling him, my skirt riding up to reveal my lacy white underwear. My hands are still locked behind my back, painfully against the door. He holds me there, his cock dangerously poised at my entrance.

"Tell me what you said again," he commands.

"I said I fucking hate you," I scream. He pushes my underwear to the side.

"That's not how you talk to me," he whispers.

"No," I whisper. "Please stop. Stop."

He enters my tightness, pushing in slowly. I feel like I'm ripping in half. He covers my mouth and I scream against the rough palm of his hand.

He starts to work in and out of me. I feel like he's in my stomach, ripping apart my organs. He works into me expertly, the taut skin of his abdomen grinding against my clit. I feel his dark pubic hair press against my stomach, over and over.

"Say it again," he hisses, removing his hand from my mouth.

"I fucking hate you," I repeat, suddenly crying.

He pushes into me hard and slow, enunciating each word to match his rhythm. "Say. You. Are. Sorry."

"I'm s--"

He shoves his fingers down my throat again, silencing me. "Who taught you to choke on a man's cock?" He asks sharply. "Answer me."

"You," I cry desperately. My voice breaks, and is muffled around his thick fingers invading my mouth.

He gets even closer to my face. His fingers leave my mouth, but with one hand he crushes my face into a fish shape. Our eyes are locked. The other hand is on my hips, raising me up and down, holding me against the door.

"Who fucking taught you how to take it like a good girl?"

I'm full on sobbing. I can hear it in my voice and feel the hot tears running down my cheeks. "You," I whimper.

He releases my face. "Open your mouth." I obey, and he spits into my mouth. I swallow, a pang of humiliation marking my heart.

"Who. Fucking. Owns. You?" He asks, his calm quiet voice slowly getting louder, pushing into me in time with each word. "Who's spit do you swallow? Who stretches out your tightness till you beg me to stop? Who's come to you take every fucking day?"

"Yours," I whisper.

"Say it," he growls.

"You fucking own me," I whisper.

"Louder."

"You fucking own me!" I scream.

"Shhhh," he murmurs, putting his hand over my mouth again. This is a sick game. He begins to pick up speed, his abs grinding into my clit, taking me closer and closer to a place I refuse to go. "I own you," he says sweetly. His eyes darken more suddenly. "So tell me how the FUCK I don't have parenting rights," he hisses, his voice the loudest I've ever heard it. "Tell me."

My voice is muffled underneath his hand, my attempt at words unrecognizable.

"I can't hear you," he murmurs. His eyes flicker with dark pleasure. He knows what he's doing. "If you don't answer me clearly, I'm going to put a finger all the way up to the knuckle in that little ass," he purrs.

I scream against his hand, begging with my eyes. He works into me faster and faster, but still rhythmic and calculated.

"That's not a good enough answer," he says. I feel his thick finger at the entrance of my ass, starting to push in. I struggle against my binds.

"Kiss my hand," he says. I start to feverishly lap at the palm of his hand, the hand that silences me, doing everything and anything to get him to stop. Instead, I feel his finger push up to the hilt. I can't believe it fits. I choke on my own screams.

Instinctually, I bite his hand.

I barely hurt his thick, calloused skin, but the look on his face as he pulls his hand off my mouth is priceless.

Until it isn't.

His surprise fades to a dark, deep anger. He starts to push a second finger into my ass, his hardness pushing deeper into my tightness at the same time. Reactively, I start blubbering.

"I'm sorry," I whimper. "I'm sorry. Please don't. Not two."

"Sorry to who?" He asks sharply. He holds his fingers like a gun, dependent on my answer. I tremble and I think, don't make me say it. Please don't make me say it.

He pushes his second finger in up to the first knuckle, and I say it.

"I'm sorry, daddy," my hoarse voice cracks. The phrase, which could be corny in some contexts, rolls off my tongue raw.

His eyes light up. He gets off on my embarrassment. I know he does. "I'm going to come inside you," he says, smooth and commanding. "And you're going to come for me."

"No. I won't." I am still defiant.

"Say sorry again," he murmurs. He pushes in, over and over.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," I moan. The friction on my clit is too rhythmic, too calculated - I feel myself heartbeats from coming. He gets closer to my face than before; his open mouth so close to mine.

"There we go," he murmurs, seeing it in my eyes. "There we go. Come for me." He eyes locked on mine, he grinds against me.

"No," I whimper; and it that moment I come, my tightness gripping even more around him, a small noise of broken pleasure escaping my throat.

He bares his teeth, eyebrows knitting together, as I feel him fill me up, owning me from the inside.

He falls against me, and I against him, both of us breathless. Our chests rise and fall.

He gathers me in his arms and carries me to the bed, laying me down. He feel him unlatch his belt from around my wrists. He lays beside me, watching me carefully with his eyes. I am weak. I can barely move.

His hand reaches out to touch my face. I flinch.

"Shhh," he says, genuine concern on his face. "It's over."

I gaze up at this man, this loving and perfect man who becomes a complete animal in a heartbeat. "I know," I whisper, my voice sounding smaller than normal.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "I do it because I love you. Because I'm protective. You know that right?"

A strange, misplaced comfort engulfs my entire body. A wave of tiredness creeps up my spine.

"Answer me," he says, his tone gentle.

"I know it's because you love me," I repeat.

"Say it again," he says, his voice aching with love. He watches my every move.

"It's because you love me," I repeat. My eyelids are heavy, and I close them. I feel his caring eyes watch me as sleep overtakes me, my mind and body tired as it always is after our arguments.