Up In Flames

Prologue

I rode her ass, slapped her skin, and fucked her hard enough for her to be crossing the carpeted bedroom floor. I yanked her ponytail, her screams echoing through the room that was three times the size of my entire apartment.

I fucked her with anger. Angry with her for being apart of the 1%. Angry with her for being birthed decades before me and having it better than me. Angry with her husband for having this good woman lying next to him every night. Angry with fate and statistics, knowing most people in marriages were unhappy and undersexed. Angry with her children for having the perfect mother. Angry because no matter what, they were connected, they were family, and they stuck together. I was so damn angry.

"Beyo—Baby! Ah!" Her tears dripped onto the floor and my tears mixed in there somewhere as I slapped her harder, leaving a huge handprint on her flesh. "Fuck!" We scooted across the floor until we couldn't go anymore, our bodies hitting the wall beside her closet door. I placed my hands on the wall and fucked her rougher, faster. Her head hit the wall repeatedly until she lifted it, screaming for me to show her mercy.

I lifted my leg and rested my foot beside her body before driving deeper inside her. She gasped, scratched the wall like a cat, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. She was done fighting it, ready to give in and let orgasm take her on a carriage ride.

She gripped the edges of the wall. I kept digging into her and her cheek slammed against the wall. I yanked her back by the waist, letting my anger take over. We sounded like we were in the middle of an exorcism.

"God!" She cried and I could see her hot tears. She crumbled, her body losing its life, and she gave orgasm its wings. I refused to let her go, kept myself buried deep inside her until I felt my climax at its peak, pleasure numbing my emotional pain.

I cried with her, my hands gripping her waist even harder, pinning her down to the floor as we came apart together. I pulled out of her, releasing on her back still holding her down.

My anger had subsided. I moved away from her and laid on my back beside her, breathing hard and allowing my harsh movements to finally catch up with me. My knees were carpet burned, my skin was sweaty, and my piece was flaccid, drained completely.

She hadn't moved, her knees still pressed to the floor, her body stuck in its orgasmic state. "Oh my God," She mumbled and her body finally dropped, exhausted. She rolled over toward me. "You're feeling a way."

"I'm good."

"I'd believe that if you didn't ride my ass from Texas to Timbuktu," She said and we both laughed some. "You were so intense. You tried to kill me."

"You sound like you liked it."

"My vagina has never been this sore."

"Why can't you just say pussy like the rest of the free world?"

"It's a dirty word. A word that should be abolished if you ask me."

"You liked it when you met me."

"In that bar you're barely old enough to get into? I remember."

"Old lady."

"Little girl."

Silence replaced our pestering, my anger resurfacing. I remembered her husband kissing her face and lighting up the way a man does when a man loves a woman. I remembered her children, her twins that mirrored my age but resided within their estate, close to their nest. I remembered her, the side of her that I tried to hide from myself. She was a family woman, a woman that was leaned on, a woman that was loved on, a woman that held the home together.

She had built her life from the ground up, found a man that loved her beyond reason, and brought forth two beautiful lives with said man. She had sacrificed her body, her time, practically her entire life for her family and she was reaping the benefits of all that love and adoration. Her cake was sweet.

My anger was my sadness, my longing, my jealousy.

Of her, I was jealous. Her life was well lived and far from over. She had the means to do what she wanted, the love to do it with who she wanted to do it with, and a village that supported her decisions the way a mother blindly supported a misguided child.

I didn't fit here. I didn't belong. My face hadn't been plastered across a huge home for simply being loved. I hadn't been applauded for being a good daughter. I didn't belong here.