"You wouldn't dare!" Phil gasped, vainly trying to push his hand away from her fly.
"Just watch me." Jack grabbed her hand and pulled it above her head again. "You been fucking around on me from the start. You don't care who you give it to - who cares if I just fucking take it!"
He raised himself above her and forced Phil's jeans down with his left hand, then undid his own pants. His cock flopped against her belly. He took it in hand and positioned it between her legs, then pushed it inside her. She was so dry she thought at first he had torn her open.
She turned away when he tried to kiss her, but he grabbed her hair and twisted it with one hand, slapped her with the other. "Don't fuck with me!" He forced his mouth upon hers.
Phil closed her eyes as he pushed deeper inside her, pumping up and down, while he tried to force his tongue into her mouth. "Uh," Jack grunted against her lips, "uh."
And Phil thought: It hurts ...
And slowly - while Jack fucked her with an almost mechanical rhythm, as if he was only following through on an idea, or a concept, of what he should be doing - slowly, Phil's pain spoke to her, awoke within her her own anger and strength.
Phil had been a tomboy as a kid, wild and nearly fearless. She'd hung out mostly with boys, running with them, sometimes fighting them. Phil had learned to fight well enough that she had never feared the night. She did not avoid dark streets or empty parks; she had punched drunks and flipped construction workers the bird without ever feeling threatened. She walked everywhere, swinging her arms with confidence, knowing she could handle whatever or whoever came her way.
More than once, she had laughed at Jack, made fun of his height, of his small, wiry body. When they were getting along, she would sometimes carry him about the apartment, like a hairy bride being carried over the threshold.
She couldn't believe what he was doing to her, couldn't believe he had such strength ...
Phil had never been in a fight like this; she no longer cared about fighting fair.
And so, she opened her mouth to his. His rhythn sped up, his grip on her wrists loosened, as if in triumph and he pushed his tongue past her parted lips.
And so, she closed her mouth. She bit down hard on his tongue.
She ignored the iron, salty warmth that filled her mouth and - astonished - she felt she could, if necessary, bit right through his tongue.
Confidence flowed through her body like a drug; she decided to make him hurt.
A moment after she bit, as if the neural signals were slowed, Jack spasmed atop her. His cock shrank and slipped from her cunt, slapping like a deflated balloon against her thighs as he struggled to free himself. With a reserve of strength she hadn't imagined she had, she scissored his waist and squeezed, while still biting down on his tongue.
Very soon, Jack stopped struggling. He lay atop her like an animal caught in a trap, motionless, waiting for whatever would come next.
Phil opened her mouth and freed his tongue, then reached round the back of his head and pulled it down, hard, butting his face. She flipped him over and got atop him, jamming her knees into his belly. She grabbed his hair in both hands and smashed the back of his head against the floor. Jack moaned, but didn't struggle.
It wasn't enough. She reached down between her legs, found his balls and squeezed them, digging her blunt nails into his scrotum. Jack choked back a scream, emptying his lungs, his dark eyes filling with tears.
After a moment she let go of his balls and leaned in close to his ear. "Are you satisfied now," she hissed.
Jack just moaned.
Phil rolled off him and they lay there - Jack moaning on his side, Phil lying on her back, her knees pulled up, trying to catch her breath - a long time. Outside, cars passed and occasional voices floated up from the dark street.
Eventually Phil groaned and forced herself to stand. "Oh ... shit." She struggled to pull up her jeans. She managed the fly, but her hands shook too much to allow her to manage the button. Frustrated, she sank into the couch. Jack still moaned on the floor near her feet and Phil aimed a weak kick at him. He didn't even seem to notice. Phil sighed and struggled to do up the buttons Jack hadn't ripped off of her shirt.
"Oh shit." Still shaking, she picked up a half-full beer. She drank a little of it, then sat back and began to take inventory: her head throbbed, her arms ached; her cunt was raw and tender, her face throbbed and her right breast pulsed with a deep-seated agony. She touched it gently through her shirt, glad she couldn't see it.
She looked down at Jack, wondering why she no longer felt angry. Instead, she felt a sort of exhausted relief.
Jack had never been nice, but their relationship had been passionate - a lot of sex, a lot of shouting, even more drinking and doping. They had had fun together, she thought, but Jack had a vicious mean streak she was glad to be done with.
She lit a cigarette and wondered why she took no pleasure now in seeing him lying in pain at her feet. And when, several cigarettes later, he sat up at last, she said almost easily, "You look like shit. You look like a fucking piece of shit."
"Man ..." Jack struggled to his feet. His voice was hoarse; his broken nose made him sound even worse. He steadied himself against the coffee table then stood straight. He looked down at himself, gingerly touched his balls with a shaky hand, wincing at even that light contact. "I'll be lucky if I ever fuck again."
"The rest of the world will be lucky if you don't," Phil said.
"Shit. One lucky break and you think you're so fucking tough."
"I'm not the one with the broken nose. Asshole." But Phil wavered. She stood up, rage and grief, the memory of his attack, all threatened to overwhelm her.
Phil drew a deep breath, allowed her anger to come out on top. She kicked his knee as hard as she could and Jack crumpled to the floor.
"Jesus Christ!" He rolled away from her, then got unsteadily to his feet again, watching her carefully.
"What the fuck was that?" Phil shouted. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"What are you talking about?" Jack asked, rubbing his knee.
"You raped me!"
"What do you care? You don't give a shit who does you! What's one fuck more or less to a slut like you?"
"You fucking bastard," Phil said quietly. She took a step towards him.
Jack stood his ground and they stared at one another a few moments. Then Jack looked down and Phil followed his gaze. Half-hard, Jack's cock was rising, pointing at her.
"I don't believe it," Phil whispered. She stepped away from him, stumbled back onto the couch.
"Me neither." Jack touched his shaft. "It hurts."
"You're lucky I don't cut it off," said Phil.
Jack ignored her. He pulled up his pants and hobbled to the couch, wincing with every step.
Phil elbowed him as he sat down. "Don't touch me!"
Somehow, despite his evident pain, Jack grinned. "You always did like it rough," he said. "Come on: let's go for sloppy seconds." Phil just raised her arm and shoved her elbow into his face. Jack howled and buried his nose in his hands.
"I told you to keep your fucking hands to yourself." She drained her beer and reached towards the case for another.
"Get me one too?"
"Get one for you?" Phil was surprised to find she could laugh. "You have a hell of a nerve. Fuck you, Jack."
"Fuck me? Fuck you!" He somehow managed to sound at once smug and offended. Contemplating the full bottle in her hand, the considered hitting him with it, on general principles.
"God. You really are stupid, aren't you?" she said. She kicked him - not especially hard - then stared down at him. "You raped me and now you have the nerve to ask me for a god damned beer!" She suddenly found her eyes had filled with tears. "Get the fuck out of here, Jack."
"Pull up your pants, get your shoes and get out," Phil said quietly. Her grip tightened on the bottle in her hand and she advanced on him. "I mean it," she said. "Get out now."
"Oh Phil ..." Jack's arrogance fell away. His eyes too now filled with tears. His mouth quivered, like a little boy suddenly realizing he is in real trouble. For a moment, Phil felt a sudden urge to go to him, to comfort him - to tell him it would be okay, that all was forgiven. It was as if the fight had happened to someone else a long time ago, as if it was already becoming a story, an anecdote; just another drunken incident slipping into the meaning past, more sound, more fury, more nothing.
She shook her head. "No." Speaking the words purged her of softness. "No!" She swung the bottle against the wall so hard it shattered, spraying beer and glass onto the floor. She turned to Jack, brandishing the broken bottle like a dagger. "Get out," she said.
Jack looked scared. He struggled to his feet and pulled up his pants, wincing as he closed them around his injured cock and balls. "Phil, I'm sorry ..."
"It's too late for sorry," said Phil. "Just get the fuck out. Now."
Phil slashed at his. The broken bottle caught his arm. Blood welled up, soaking his shirt. I could kill him, she thought, amazed.
Jack stared at this latest wound for a moment, then nodded. "I'll go," he said and bent for his shoes.
"Just get out," said Phil. And Jack left, limping and bleeding, his shoes in his hand.
And Phil stood in the middle of her apartment, taking in the damage; staring at the garbage, at the blood; at the broken glass and the gaping hole that had been a television, at the holes in the walls. And she knew she could not stay here any longer.