Twenty-six-years old. 

     They'd been drinking since noon, and god damn it, this woman was a cock teaser. Half the time Sondra acted like she didn't want anything to do with him, and the other half she sucked on his tongue while she jammed her hand down his pants. That shit continued right up to the time they were both naked and drunk and thrashing around under the covers of his bed. He'd go to kiss her larger-than-average breasts, and she'd moan and groan, then turn away so he couldn't do it anymore. He'd fondle her clit, but before he could slip a finger in she'd move her body in such a way that said, fondle my titties a little more first. 

     Finally, he went to enter her, and, again, she pushed him away, like, please, get your timing right. We're far from being done with foreplay.

     And that did it.

     He'd had enough.

     Maybe she wasn't ready to fuck yet, but he sure as fuck was.

     He stuck himself inside of her, and he began his strokes.

     "Hey!" Sondra punched his shoulder. "Hold it!"

     But he didn't, couldn't. He was too drunk and too close to a climax to stop, and fuck her anyway. He was no fucking puppet, no fucking sex toy she could manipulate and control, so he fucked her with his anger and his superior masculine strength and the compulsive need to make the end of his dick spurt cum into a woman's cunt.  

     "Hey!" 

     Now Sondra was truly pissed off, truly not wanting to be part of the sex act entirely. She fought to break free from him. She kicked and tried to push him away with her hands, but he held tight to her shoulders.  

     "Get the fuck off me!" she yelled, and this time she cried furious tears. She tried to bite at the arms that held her shoulders. 

     Two more thrusts, and Adam's body stiffened from the orgasm that overcame him.  

     He rolled off of her.

     "Fuck you!" she roared. 

     Okay, okay, Adam thought. You're making way too big a deal out of this. I just lost control of myself for a couple minutes there, that's all. I'm drunk, okay? But, even then, even at that, he knew it'd stick with him, that night. The guilt over what he did would haunt him, like all profound guilts did, at those times in his life when he was at his weakest and most vulnerable, those times when he absolutely hated himself. 

     He dressed and stumbled outside. The night was hotter than most summer days because of the fire, the blazing red flame that now seemed to be everywhere, consuming everything.   

                                                     CONTINUE