That having been said, this piece is the beginning of something… I am not sure what. It’s dark, but not too dark. Any ideas where I should go with it?

The divorce was hard, harder than anything I ever want to go through again. My ex was angry, and spiteful, and, in the end, got everything: the house, the car, and both daughters. I crashed on my friend’s couch for a month before I could afford a place of my own. During that time, I barely left the house except to go to work, and there my performance dropped off. I had an understanding employer, luckily, but I did have more than a few sit downs with her to “try and work through the issues here at work.” I seriously thought about moving home to where my mother still lived, as she suggested a few times. With my dad gone, she was alone in a big house and had a lot of jobs that she needed help with, or just simply could not do. I relegated the idea to the “absolute last resort” pile, just ahead of male prostitution. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mom, but she can be overbearing.

Look at me, diving into the story without any background. My name is Randall Barker. I am 35 years old, had been married for twelve years, and have two daughters with my ex-wife, Sandy. She is 32, a bit on the heavy side, and a total slut. I am not being insulting; when we were married, she had a different lover about every month, sometimes two or three at a time. She slept with the husbands of all her female friends, and all her male friends whether married or not. She left a few of them to their own divorces because of her libido.

Our daughters, Alyssa and Angela, were kept away from her behavior. She never brought men home (to the best of my knowledge). It made the three of us closer when she went out partying. Our closeness did nothing for my trapped sexual desires, however, but I muddled through. Once, Sandy caught me jacking off in our bed when she got home. I could tell when she had been playing around; she kept her panties on so the cum wouldn’t leak out on to the bed. She stood there, glorious breasts heaving in anger, calling me a pervert for pleasuring myself. I told her someone had to, since she was getting her jollies elsewhere. She shut up, but that was almost the end of our intimate lives.
I had finally had it when she refused to come home one weekend after I had been hurt at work. I filed papers, and for the next year, we went from one court date to another. I gave everything up to end the destructive cycle we were in. It was three months after our divorce was finalized that things began to… change in our relationship. We argued still, but it usually dissolved into arguments about our daughters. At one point, I was dating a woman ten years my junior, and my ex referred to her as “the little girl you are seeing” and refused to call her by name. Did I mention she could be fiercely jealous? Yeah, she could be.

As it turned out, she had been seeing someone regularly (much more regularly than she was even seeing me when we were married) for about a year before I even filed paperwork. He knew she was married, and either didn’t care, or got some thrill out of it. She wouldn’t move in with him, even though she didn’t have enough to keep the house well on her own. She figured if she moved in with him, they would get married, and that would be the end of the alimony I was paying. The bad part was that he lived about three hours away, and that was a long trip, especially when you have two children. She had apparently promised him that she would be faithful; that and she had lost all her friends once the word had gotten out about the reasons for the divorce.
It came as a bit of a surprise when she called me late on a Friday night. The tone of her voice was… conciliatory.

“Hey Rand, how are you?”

I bristled, waiting for another attack. She hadn’t called me Rand since before I filed, “I’m… fine. How are you, Sandy?”

“I’m bored, and lonely. The girls are at my parent’s.”

“Um, okay. I’m sorry you are bored. What can I do for you?”

At this point, I need to explain a few things. Sandy, although a sex crazed 32 year old, had been a sex crazed 23 year old when we met. As far as I could tell from her stories, she had been sex crazed as long as she had known about sex. She lost her virginity at nine to a boy down the street, a “strapping young boy of eleven” she would brag, and had fucked her way through the end of grade school, through middle school, and high school. She was damn lucky she never got pregnant, since she lived in an abstinence only school district. In the end, she finally learned how girls get pregnant and started on the Pill. In other words, the woman had not gone more than a week without in nearly a quarter century.

“I don’t want you to think this changes anything, but I want you to come over and fuck me silly,” she said. Her tone was matter-of-fact.

I was a bit taken aback by this. Did she really think I would, given everything that had happened? Damn right, I would. To be honest, it was the sex that made me marry her in the first place.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I drove like a man possessed. When I screeched into the driveway of the house we had bought together, anger was the last thing on my mind. My pants were already too tight for me to concentrate, or even remember what we were arguing about. She had never changed the key, or asked me for my copy. She was notoriously forgetful, so she said that as long as I respected her space, I could keep the key for emergencies or for when I watched the girls while she worked.

I let myself in, but the living room was empty. As soon as I closed the door, I heard her call from her bedroom.
“Up here…” she called down the half flight of stairs. I had always loved our split level.

I walked down the hall to the door to what was once our room. She lay on the bed, to foot of which was facing the door. She had thrown on my favorite negligee, and I could tell by the little bit of her ass I could see that she had not bothered to put on anything under it. She was reading a book, one of the trashy romance novels that were little more than porn anyway. I don’t think I had ever seen her reading one of those before, so I figured she must have been pretty hard up.

My ex is a short, slightly plump woman. Many men today scoff at the curves she has in favor of the heroin waif look. Me, I prefer a woman without bones sticking out. It just looks unhealthy to me. She had long, blond curls, although her natural color was a dark red. She only colored the hair on her head, saying that anyone who saw any other hair she could be honest with. She normally kept any other hair shaved, so the freckles were the only clue.

She set the book across her ample breasts and looked at me. “Hey there,” she said, looking from my face to my crotch and back again, “I see that I still turn you on.”

“Always,” I said, the back of my mind screaming that every second I was there, I lost a bit of respect in both her eyes and my own. For once, we didn’t even exchange many pleasantries. She spread her legs slightly, and I could just barely see the small folds that lead up to her pubic mound. My cock was at full attention, and I undid my belt and zipper to let the beast free. I suppose it was the anger that drove me to not even start slowly with her. I stripped my clothes as I approached her, cock aimed like a missile towards her soft regions. I climbed up onto the bed, and then moved on my hands and knees up to her.

I lunged forward, my cock bouncing off the lower rim of her pussy. If it had been any other time, she would have complained and pushed me off of her, but we were both too far gone for that. I thrust as deep into her as I could, her curly red hairs tickling near the base of my cock. I didn’t wait for permission, or any other sign from her. Frankly, I didn’t care.

What followed was a willing rape. I fucked her with long, hard strokes. She put her hands on my chest, a sign to slow down and go easy, but I ignored her. The anger came rushing back about the divorce, about the pain she had put me through, and I was pushing it all into my hips and cock, spearing her with it like she had speared me over the twelve years of our marriage and one of divorce. I could actually feel the sides of her pussy scraping my dick as I fucked her. This was not making love, this was pure, animalistic fucking.

I forced myself to pull out, but I wasn’t done with her. I lifted her off the bed, flipping her over. She was almost a rag doll in my arms, either from lust or fear, I couldn’t tell. She put her legs under her, ass in the air, and I plunged my rock hard member into her, probably deeper than I should have. She gave out a half hearted yelp, but I refused to be stopped. It was at that point that I had one conscious thought; I didn’t want her pregnant, so I was going to cum in her ass. She had rarely allowed me anal sex; She claimed that my cock was two wide, but I just didn’t care by that point.

I slid my cock out of her savaged pussy and took aim at her ass.

“No…” she whimpered, “stop…”

Her pleas drove me on. I pressed the head of my pole to her puckered little asshole for a moment, and then shoved it into her. She screamed.

The scream cleared my mind for a moment, but the angry buzz was still there. I was deeper in her ass than I had been before. It was tighter than anything I had ever experienced. I knelt there, balls deep in my ex-wife’s asshole, trying to figure out what the hell I was doing. The complexity of our relationship was trying to get into my mind, but the anger was a hot, pulsing thing behind my eyes.

“Oh god, Randall. Get your cock out of me,” she complained, her voice a bit strengthened by my hesitation.

Looking back on it, it was probably the absolute wrong thing to say to me if she really wanted me out. She had no way of knowing that, but her words made my anger flare, and I knew there was no going back now.

I began pounding her ass with all of the anger-fueled strength I had. I was going to paint her little brown hole white, and was going to do it when I wanted. I didn’t give a damn about her pain, her desires, or her. I could feel the beginnings of my orgasm, and willed it back. I was going to make her assfucking last as long as I could. I felt the orgasm build, though contained, and knew I was going to spunk a gallon and a half into her.

I grabbed her hair, yanking her head, shoulders and arms up off the bed. She had been burying her face in her pillow, but I wasn’t having any of that. She reached out with both arms, trying to find a purchase. I was so close to my orgasm, and it was so intense, that I lost control, throwing her back down to the bed as the first fire hose squirt shot out of my dick. She fell back into the position she had been in: ass in the air, arms around the pillow, face pressed in but off to the side so she could breathe. I kept cumming hard and fast into her, and I grunted my triumph with a guttural sound that surprised even me.

It felt like I came for hours. Before my cock was down, I pulled it out, and let the last few streams shoot out on to her crack. It was almost as if my dick had been holding her up; a moment after my last splash of jism coated her crack, she collapsed onto the bed.

I was still on my knees, rigid pole sticking out from my body. My orgasm hadn’t diminished my erection at all, and I felt like a conqueror.

In my haze, I looked down at my cock, sticking out like a flagpole. I had planted my flag in her ass, brown, white, and red. There was a small amount of blood mixed in for good measure. Not too much, mind you.

“You know,” she said, slightly hoarse, “if you had fucked me like that when we were married, I would never have gone out with other guys.”

I ignored her last attempt at control, got to my feet, and began getting dressed.

“Where are you going?” she asked, pleading in her voice.

“Home,” I said. I didn’t feel the need to explain any further.