The first blow connected with their eye socket, a beautiful strike. It was like he had been taught in school, old pugilism lessons coming back to him in lightening slivers. His body moved slowly of its own accord. Left. Right. Left. Hook. Jab. Uppercut. Punches reigning down onto his opponent. Was opponent the right word? Some might say victim but he would say that he was justified in what he was doing. He was delivering justice. He was doing the right thing; he was standing up and being a man.
There was a sense of unreality in the scene, it was slow and the sensations were strange; some were present and more intense, some were absent. If this were a film, he reflected, then the images would come in snap shots and there would be no sound track to add to the mood of the moment. Possibly the colour would be slightly sepia in its tone, like a Guy Ritchie gangster movie, adding an untold facet to the action.
He felt slightly removed as though he was watching this from afar. His knuckles were warm from the beating but they were not sore despite being bloodied. Was it his blood? He was not sure but it felt good. It was not a feeling of warmth that he was experiencing, nothing of that nature, nothing so trite. It was an incandescence that exuded from his core. Behind his tensed stomach muscles came pure light and energy that filled him. An ecclesiastic joy; a divine righteousness in what he was doing. This was not wrong, it was meant to be.
The energy that he was generating flowed from him and into them by way of the beating. His left hook connected with their mouth sending a crimson spray across the wall. It came with a resounding click that registered as their jaw breaking. No more would lies come forth from their mouth as their mandible hung at a weird angle, tendrils of bloodied drool sliding from their face. They would not be doing much in the weeks and months that were to come: nose broken, one eye already swollen shut, one ear bleeding – he was not sure how he had done that but he felt a smug superiority as he observed it.
The pride and vigour of this deliverance was making his cock hard. To suggest that he was surprised would be too strong, it was just a physical thing that happened. He contemplated thrusting his dick into their mouths and spraying his cum down their throats in a final act of violation. Grabbing a fist full of hair he wrenched them up to their knees from their sprawling state. A pathetic, whimpering moan came out of their face. It might have been pleading for him to stop but it was hard to tell. He didn’t care, it was not up to them to make him to stop; he was in control, he would decide, he had the power now, not them.
Holding the hair he shook it and smacked their head against the wall gently, it was an almost tender act after the violence of the last few minutes. It left a bloodied circular stain on the bedroom radiator. Then he let go, allowing his life size marionette to fall to the floor. Removing his hard-on from his pants he slid his hand along its length, delighting at the feel of it. Warm and solid, it felt great as his movements speeded up of their own accord his orgasm edging ever closer. It was fast and violent like the pounding had been. He felt his climax judder out of him as he watched the white fuck rain down, landing softly in their hair and on their battered face. It felt complete, he felt complete. He had finished.
“Fucking bitch,” he stated as he spat on his wife’s prone body. Without another thought he folded his softening penis into his trousers; he turned and left the room, feeling right and justified in his behaviour.
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Reining: Author's Note
Those who know me, know that I do not condone violence against anyone. So why write this piece? The mind is a dark and wonderful place and I want to explore it with you. I want to show you different sides to things, with this story I wanted you to see inside the mind of an abuser, how they would think. Bad guys are rarely all bad and good guy are not always a paragon of virtue. If we like or understand the mind of a baddie, does that make us bad by association? Does it make us sympathise with them and thus tainted like them? Food for thought. It is not to my mind an erotic story, but it is wicked.