Your fingernails scrape my scalp as you grab a handful of my beautiful chestnut hair. Although I had provoked you, I still wasn’t prepared for the turn from verbal to physical. Your palm cracks into my cheek, snapping my head to the side, and I wince as you twist my hair and drag me behind you, subtly kicking off your shoes as you hurl me through the door. I run/stagger a few steps, my scalp seething, and then stop, turning quickly to face you.The hate that I have had for you for years rushing to the front of my brain all at once, fueling a wave of adrenaline, feeling my heart surge and my fingers curl.
“You and your wife will need adjoining hospital rooms, slut,” I hiss, evidently having the same thought as you, for as you start to tie your hair back and slip the strap of your whore-dress down over your shoulder, I’m already peeling off my tank top and kicking off my white low-top Chucks. Fast, really fast—-this isn’t a strip-tease, and I have no desire to put on a show or win over fans. All I want to do is hurt you, hit you, and humiliate you, not necessarily in that order. My denim cut-offs go flying to the side, and in less than a minute, I am in my leopard-print bra and thong. My 5’2” 99-lb body is tight and toned, and although I am not boasting a whole lot (any) of rippling muscle, I know I’m fast and I’m tough. My toes curl into the mats underfoot as my fists open and close, eyes narrowed, ready to finally tear into you.
