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Rated: XGC · Other · Erotica · #1891589
A night in which life's success is translated into sex. (854 words)
I Come First
By Citan Seadix
854 Words


“Asshole,” she grunted, swinging open the front door and tearing away her ruby heels. “Pure asshole.” She reached into her burgundy hair, hurled the diamond hair clip into the dining room then stormed deeper into the dark house.

The shadows guarded Jemma’s actions from her husband. He strolled through the door after her, smile still stretched. His hand sheltered the trophy, a gold figurine with the inscription Best Actor Award. “I can’t remember anything I said on stage, Jem.” He pushed his manicured hair back from his face. “Once they called my name, I completely blanked out.”

Jemma ripped open the refrigerator door. “I remember the shit you said,” she mumbled. I was last in your speech. I should’ve been first. Her mind already settled that in the car. As a wife, she wanted her name first as evidence that he loved her more than he loved success. As an actress, she wanted the success he had—or even an inkling of it. Industry leaders always took note of the first name in a winner’s speech. Meaning my name should have been first, asshole, she continued in her mind as she snatched a beer from the refrigerator.

His footsteps entered the kitchen. Jemma shut her eyes and gulped.

His loud kiss on the trophy ended her love for him. His slap on her butt initiated the hate.

The beer bottle shattered across the marble floor. “Fuck, Clay.”

“I’m sorry, baby.” Clayton threw his trophy across the countertop. He rushed open the lower cabinet, found kitchen towels and quickened to his wife. His way down to her feet stopped at the hand hard-gripping his penis. “W—What are you doing?” he uttered. The clench intensified around his scrotum. He searched for balance and discovered the refrigerator door.

She smirked. Fucker can’t even get his dick up. Leading man my ass. I’ll show this farm boy who the hell he should’ve thanked first. She wrapped his tie twice around her fist and yanked him down to her lips. She remembered the putrid pig smell he had brought to Hollywood three years ago. You probably fucked pigs back in Texas. You lucked up fucking me.

Only two seconds of kissing passed before she felt his smile rise. That boyish smile… So what? There are a million smiles like his in this town. She reached up with the tie in hand and added his jaw to her grip. She sunk her teeth in. The stale blood from his lip snaked around her tongue; her smile answered his wince. I made you. His suit jacket ripped off in her hands. With its descent came his erection. A hard dick means nothing. I’ll fuck you like the bitch you are.

She tore her panties at the side. He uncaged his penis from his zipper. I’ll show you, farm boy. The open cabinet endured her weight as she mounted him. You’d still be living in your truck if it wasn’t for me. She rode him…rode him like he was the weakest horse in the stable.

He pulled her head back, and for an instant, pulled back her rage.

I can’t let him have me; not anymore.

But his strength oscillated her on his wide girth.

She pushed his head back and tongued his neck wildly, seeking for a way to regain control, a way to pleasure him more than he pleasured her. Teeth clenched as hands seized his neck. Go to hell.

He turned her in the air. Shit. Put me down. She landed, bent over the counter; he entered her from behind.

His hand on her back restrained her as his penis hammered at her emotions. Her hands found the edge of the counter. She fastened to the marble as if it was her wall of hatred. You’ll never have me again.

Her wetness snuck down her thigh. Her body was beginning to anticipate his next thrust. No. Her tongue wet her lips. Her butt welcomed his second smack. Please stop. Her arms shook but followed his rapid intervals. Her breathing was next in submitting to his determination.

She hated him, even despised the gold statue staring down at her from the end of the counter. Why? The burn in her eyes was the last to wade, but wade it did. Why do I love him?

He pounded her hard, as hard as his will had pounded the streets of this film industry. Hollywood was tough, a world penetrable two ways: knowing someone who already made it and hard work. The latter he always possessed; the first was her gift to him. Even three years ago, the first day he entered her father’s film production studio, Jemma knew that the trophy would one day belong to this man. At that moment, she began to mold his forms of deficiency into a figure of victory.

Now, as his wife, she had no other choice but to return to love and remove all jealousy. She pushed back rhythmically on him. She celebrated with him. She screamed with pleasure, succumbed to wetness, and surrendered her body’s ultimate round of applause to Clayton Taylor.
© Copyright 2012 CitanSeadix (citanseadix at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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