CN: This is a story about consensual emotional sadomasochism. It is entirely fictional. Well… almost.


He is such a man, almost laughably so, wearing masculinity like a Crombie coat. Laughable to you at least, you who have always been drawn towards a certain feyness in a man- a cigarette held at that certain angle, a Bambi eyelash, a rack of vertebrae revealed when a jumper is pulled off and the t-shirt beneath rucks up with it. This man is nothing like any of that. Square and compact, his beard the colour of an orangutan’s hide, he smells of ink and whiskey and his tortoiseshell eyes glimmer with constant argument.


When he is quiet he gives the impression of disdaining you- when he speaks he confirms it. When he speaks you hear the timbre of his voice and there’s no mistaking how he feels; he wants to fuck you but wishes he didn’t. He wants to fuck you until you are a shuddering, sweat- glistened heap of flesh, and he is disgusted by you- not so much it seems by the things he wants to do to you as your willingness to be debased by him. He loves seeing your face coated in the thick, glutinous saliva his cock forces from your throat but recoils from the glee you take in the coating.


He is either silent or disdainful and it drives you crazy. Sometimes he will wrap your hair around his fist like a boxer preparing to pull on his gloves, furl you into his arms and press his mouth to yours. As you breathe in a lungful of the dense spice of him every one of the questions you’ll never ask him falls out of your brain- Why are you like this? Why can’t you be nice? Why are you so… vile? – silent, like dead leaves falling to the ground.


He stands with his feet proudly rooted to the earth as you lathe his arsehole with your tongue, your arms encircling his thighs, lets go low urgent moans and bucks his hips as you press your finger into the tight black grip between his buttocks. He bares his teeth as you beckon an angry propulsive splash of white from his cock into the air, but when he recovers his breath he will turn to you and whisper not thanks but insults in your ear, to dampen any pride you feel at conjuring such explosive results.


Which of you hates themselves more for wanting this, you or him? You wonder this briefly as he ploughs into you, laughing as he closes his eyes so as not to look into yours. It’s hard to submit to this level of contempt, sometimes, and while you don’t intend to throw up a wall of defiance, occasionally it just happens. 75 or 80 or 85% of the time you follow orders, cast your gaze floorward, respond by rote as required, but sometimes his distant contempt forces words from your throat that you wouldn’t ordinarily say. You let go a little chuckle when he impugns your intelligence, casually contradict his statement that you are a bimbo, a brainless fuckdoll, all tits and throat and canvas for cumsplashes. You briskly recite your academic achievements and he’s silenced, showing perhaps something approaching respect in that silence- although that’s probably just wishful thinking.


You rely on him being a living wall, a human fortress. He lets down no drawbridges, just throws hot oil down from battlements. You’ll never break down his defences, and wouldn’t try even if you had the energy. And besides, you are in all honesty uninterested in his weak spots, his tender places, his underbelly, if such a thing exists. You want the attack; you want to know you can absorb the blows.


You think about that one boxing class you went to years ago, remember holding square padded cushions at chest height as a woman your size jabbed her inexpert fists and you absorbed the energy of the punches. How strong that made you feel in the overlit basement gym, all mirrors and echoes and un- English whooping. You recall the swagger with which you rolled down the street afterwards; I can take a hit, you sang silently to yourself, and another- and another.


But this is not a woman your size- this is a man, with fists harder and larger than hers, with a head full of wrath and that wall around his heart. If you ask him to stop, he will of course stop. If you walk away he will let you go. You’ve talked about that, have agreed the parameters, and you trust him to stay within those boundaries. But after all this time you must acknowledge- perhaps there really is no gentleness in him. Perhaps he is nothing more than cock and fist and battlements.


Perhaps he is just fight, and perhaps it is the fight you need; perhaps gentleness would curdle in your belly like turned milk. Maybe you do not feel worthy of gentleness. Maybe you are yourself half woman, half fortress- maybe your own ramparts are what make the two of you such a good match, even if not a lasting one. You search for gentleness but what would you do with it if you found it? You’d spin on your heel if anyone even tried.


But then. You remember that one time when he watched you bent over in pain, curled like a comma in cotton bedsheets to protect a cramping womb. He watched, angry and bewildered to see you in pain that he had no hand in causing. You saw his hand stretch out towards your shoulder and then retract as if in a panic. A second. A second of unthought tenderness, less even; it frightened you. It wasn’t in the script the two of you have written together. Silent words, written in disappearing ink.




I’m a lover, not a fighter, you used to joke, and it was true, you thought, until you met him. He arrived and suddenly you were fighting. He arrived and you became someone new to yourself. For all the fighting though, all the tiny moments of rebellion on your part, all those moments where you piped up to defend yourself or struggled womanfully to silence the next defence before it could spill from your lips, all of that was nothing against the unfolding that happened when he looked at you. The speed with which you hit your knees that 75 or 80 or 85% of the time, the deliberate and unpractised grace with which you bowed your head, the unfamiliar heaviness which overtook you when you heard the thrum of his voice.


For all that you asked why he was like this you never needed to ask why you wouldn’t walk away from the rain of barbs he lobbed across the room, across the bed- because that intoxication set your jaw shuddering, set pins and needles fizzing in your extremities, made your temples throb like a kick drum.


There is safety in the unsafety of it. There is no duplicity in it, the way he touches you. There’s nothing beneath the surface to surprise or shock. Your breath is a necklace of quiet gasps and your blood fizzes, but your feet are as solid as his on the ground. There is hatred- Disdain? No, hatred- but it’s honest. The two of you collide and it is predictable, the collision of it. The sky is grey and the stars are hidden and you hate each other, but it will end when it needs to. You feel confident of that.


You lie on your back beneath him, your chin in the heel of his left hand as he pushes your thighs open with the other. Your cunt is sodden, spit dries on your slapped- red cheeks, your neck is collared with his come. Without a word he collides into you. It will end when it needs to. You will dance like a bantamweight away from him to the opposite corner of the ring, duck beneath the ropes and out of the arena, away from him and his battlements.


Until then you thrust your chin up at him and grin. He closes his eyes and you laugh, whisper: ‘look at me, you fucker. Look at me’. He opens his eyes and stills his hips. You stare at each other for a second, pupils dark and dilated, and then he lifts your pelvis towards him with his hand and the two of you collide, again and again and again.


20 thoughts on “Hatefuck

  1. This is absolutely magnificent writing and this line…. oh this line is something I wish I had written “your neck is collared with his come”

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.