Punching bag

I had him there you know. right in front of me. sweating like a pig. not that I have ever seen a pig sweat… Have I even seen a pig up close? I think not. I think I could count the times I’ve been out of the city, but I rather not. Somehow it would make me feel like I haven’t lived enough. But he has… I am making sure he has lived more than most.

The apartment is cold, nearly empty and he is shivering. I should put up some curtains… but then I don’t really care. I am the one fully clothed. I hit him repeatedly in the forehead, not with force. The gloves are not making the damage on his pretty pale sweaty face, but he is receiving a pounding from having his head bouncing off the wall after each blow. he grunts softly, its kind of a rhythmic trance we are in.

yet slowly I get harsher…  maybe angrier and angrier at him… part of me wants that he would resist in some form, but the fact that he takes it with some quiet dignity makes it so exciting. Finally I gather all my strength, which isn’t much, and punch him in the nose. at first it seems nothing happened, but surely seconds later its bleeding and he collapses on his knees.

I hold his chin and force him to look up. His teary eyes are closed and his long back hair covering face is getting sticky with blood.

I’m satisfied here, pull my hoodie up and get my things inside the bag and get ready to leave.

-Please…- he manages to say. – You promised.

I shouldn’t, but he has a sexy sleepy voice. So I go back and force his head to the ground. I grab the white waistband clearly visible over his jeans and pull. he voices an orgasmic pant as the fabric stretches easily over his back… and with as much ease rips over his head.

don’t piss yourself this time. I mutter as I get my keys.

I leave his skinny beaten body there.