We circle each other, wary and burning. There is nothing of love in this. This is an act of brutality, of demanding everything that we have no right to demand of each other.

I am the one to draw first blood. I force you against the wall, your breath panting humid against my throat. The weak bones of your wrists shiver within the confines of my constricting fingers and you struggle, trying to twist your delicate frame away. But there is nowhere to go, there is only the unforgiving solidity of the wall and the unrelenting pressure of my body. Still you continue to fight and I silently endure the viciousness of your teeth attacking anywhere you can reach, the sharp little bones of your knees raising bruises on my legs when I fail to restrain you tight enough to prohibit your movements.

It isn’t until your energy fails that you begin to cry, the heavy weight of your face going limp on my bloodied shoulder. The salt of your tears stings in the wounds your teeth have gouged but now I do not mind. When you weep I know you have reconciled yourself to what you know will happen.

I do not release your wrists as I cautiously move back, because you are wily. I learned my lesson well in the past when I released you and you suddenly turned on me, sharpened claws and vengeful teeth. I never make the same mistake twice and so I keep a tight grip on you as I reach to hold one wrist in each of my hands. I draw your wrists behind you and walk you ahead of me to the bedroom.

Your head is down, shoulders slumped with defeat. Your wrists still shake within my hands, and I know your sobs continue because I hear the wet, choked sound of your breath rasping in your chest. Your despondent acquiescence is what I needed and the pulsing begins, the desire rising within me volcanic and overpowering.

We don’t make it to the bedroom. I put both your wrists into one hand and use my other to push down on your shoulder, forcing you to the floor, those hard knees colliding with the hardwood. Your gasp of pain makes me smile as I fall to my knees behind you and lift your skirt above the satin-clad expanse of your backside.

I hook my fingers into your panties and pull hard. You cry out at the sensation of the hems biting into your skin before the fabric pulls apart at the seams with a purring rip. I revel in your clogged sigh as I unzip my pants and let them fall around my knees. This is the moment I savor the most, more powerful in some ways than even the release of orgasm; this is the second before I claim you and make you mine once again.

There is no need to wet myself with saliva; your cunt is oozing, showing the lie of your tears. When I enter I go so fast that you’re pushed off-balance, your face going into the floor, your startled yelp muffled by the wood. I hold a wrist in each hand now, keeping your arms to your sides and lifted just behind your back.

I fuck you hard, my strokes vicious. Your fingers rise to steal around my wrists, gripping onto me to pull me deeper, nails slicing into my skin. Keeping your face against the floor doesn’t prevent me from hearing the low, growling sound of your laughter.

This is the only way you want it, this way that absolves you from responsibility; you can tell yourself later that you didn’t really have a choice. I forced you, as I always do. We both pretend there was never a first time, never a time when you whispered in my ear exactly what you needed me to do.

There is no waiting for you to come. Right now there is only my need and your passivity and so I possess you until I am done, gasping and trembling against the heat of your skin.

After that exertion I am the weak one. You are able to pull your wrists from my hands and I am too drained to protect myself when you turn. The blood from my torn shoulder has dried on your forehead, a darkened and crackling smear, and it is joined now by fresh scarlet on your fingers as you shred my skin.

My pained moans excite you as you kneel between my limp legs, and your crimson fingers disappear from my sight. Your breathing speeds, speeds, until I wonder how you are getting any oxygen at all; but then you are done, your victorious scream ripping the air.

After a few moments we look at each other, eyes luminous in the aftermath. There are no words exchanged, no caresses or gentle touches. There is no room for that between us. There is only space for our passion, our savagery, our ferocity.

Ours is the fury of tigers.