The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place where lost souls found each other in the haze of cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey. Caleb sat in the corner, his broad frame cloaked in shadows, nursing a drink he didn’t want. He watched the room like a predator sizing up its territory, his dark eyes scanning past the laughter, the careless ease of people who had never carried the weight he did.
Then he saw her.
She was laughing at the bar, her golden hair spilling over bare shoulders, her lips red as a wound. A white woman, draped in privilege, unaware of the way the world had always let her float while men like him had to claw their way through it. She didn’t see the eyes that followed him when he walked into a store. She had never tasted the metallic bitterness of humiliation when a cop’s hand pressed too hard against her back.
But she saw him now.
Her gaze flickered to his, something electric passing between them. He wasn’t surprised when she slid off her stool and made her way over, the scent of perfume and something sweet trailing behind her.
“Buy me a drink?” she asked, tilting her head, her smile practiced.
He chuckled, a low, dark sound. “I think you can afford your own.”
She laughed, unbothered, and ordered something too expensive before turning back to him. “You looked lonely.”
“Maybe I am,” he admitted.
And just like that, she was his for the night.
Her apartment was small, neat—sterile in a way that told him she had never truly suffered. She locked the door behind them, looking at him with the kind of hunger that had nothing to do with knowing him, only with wanting to taste something forbidden. He knew her type. The ones who whispered about men like him when they were alone, who let their fathers tell them to stay away, who clutched their purses a little tighter when they passed a dark-skinned man on the street. But now, in the privacy of her own home, she wanted him to devour her.
And maybe he would.
She reached for him first, fingers threading through the collar of his shirt, pulling him down like she had a right to. He let her—for a moment. Let her touch him, let her believe she was in control. But he had no interest in being controlled. His hands shot out, gripping the fabric of her blouse with a roughness that left no room for hesitation. The way he pulled it from her shoulders was not slow or gentle, but savage—like an animal tearing at its prey. He wanted her bare beneath him, wanted to see the skin that had been so untouched by his kind, wanted to mark her as his in ways she would never forget.
Her breath caught as he yanked the blouse over her head, tossing it aside like it didn’t matter. His hands were everywhere, on her skin, over her breasts, down her thighs—rough, burning. She moaned, not in protest but in something deeper, something dangerous, and he could feel the pulse of her heart quicken in response to his touch. She wanted this. She had come for it.
He didn’t care to be gentle. He didn’t care if she was trembling. His fingers moved to the button of her skirt, unfastening it with a speed that matched the pounding of his heart. The soft hiss of fabric against skin was all he needed to hear before he ripped her skirt down, not bothering with anything delicate. She wasn’t delicate. She was just another conquest to him, another body that wouldn’t break under the weight of his anger.
She stepped out of her skirt, standing before him in nothing but her underwear, eyes wide with a kind of fearless hunger. She didn’t seem afraid. But then, she had no reason to be. Not yet.
He looked at her like she was a puzzle he couldn’t wait to solve, his breath ragged as his hands returned to her body. His fingers traced the line of her waist, the curve of her hips, but when he reached her breasts, he wasn’t tender. His hands gripped them, squeezed them too hard, and she gasped, a shudder running through her body. He liked the way she surrendered to it, the way she opened herself to him like she knew exactly what he wanted.
“Take it off,” he growled.
Her hands fumbled for the clasp of her bra, and he caught them, pulling them away from her chest with force. She was bare before him now, her skin flushed, her breath shallow. Caleb could feel the rage still smoldering inside him—rage from a lifetime of being dismissed, overlooked, rejected by a world that was never meant for him. And this—this woman—this white woman—was just another reminder of how easily she could be taken, how easily the world gave her everything, and how hard he had to fight for every scrap.
He didn’t ask for permission. His hands moved down, grabbing her panties and pulling it down her legs with the same aggressive force. Her body shook beneath his touch, her skin slick with heat. And yet, despite the brutal way he moved, there was something in her eyes that told him she wasn’t afraid. She wanted it. She wanted him.
He stepped back for just a moment, eyes never leaving hers as he unbuckled his pants, quickly slipping them off, revealing his hard, angry need. She didn’t hesitate. Her hands were on him instantly, gripping him, feeling the heat of him against her palm, her fingers desperate to touch him as much as he wanted to claim her.
Her body trembled as he lifted her, her legs wrapping around him as he pressed her back against the wall. She gasped, but the sound was filled with desire, not fear. He pressed his cock into her, his body seething with fury, with every hurt he’d ever felt. The anger flooded his chest as he claimed her in one hard, unrelenting motion.
She cried out, but there was no pain in her voice. She moved beneath him, her body a writhing contradiction of tension and pleasure, her nails digging into his back. And Caleb didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. Not until the anger that had been building inside him for years was finally unleashed, was finally allowed to explode into something more primal than mere sex. He tore into her, his body moving with a force that was both violent and desperate, and he could feel the way she gave herself over to him, body and soul, in a way that made her as much a part of his fire as he was.
Caleb moves with fury, his body driven by something deeper than lust—a need to reclaim power, to carve out some fleeting sense of control in a world that has denied him dignity at every turn. He looks at the woman he is impaling—brunette, soft, oblivious, her world so far removed from his own. She moans, lost in pleasure, unaware that to him, she is not a person but a symbol, a momentary conquest in a lifelong war he never chose to fight. He doesn’t love her. He doesn’t even like her. She is simply here, a means to an end, proof that he can take something back, and tonight he was going to take more than her pussy.
Caleb lifted the woman effortlessly off his cock, spun her around in the air like a rag doll, and lowered her back down, pressing his stiff rod against her anus. The woman protested as he uses her body weight to forced his monstrous cock in her rectum. He scream did not govern Caleb’s motion as he starts fucking her ass with the same intensity as he had fucked her pussy.
Working through excruciating pain, she eventually accepts her fate as a hole that Caleb is using for his pleasure.
After what seems like an eternity, Caleb dis-impales her, drops her to the floor, grabs a handful of her hair, and finishes himself in her mouth. She gags as his cum filled her throat. His final command to her was simply “Swallow.”
She woke up to a cold pillow beside her, the sheets twisted and abandoned, as if he had never been there at all. But she knew better. Caleb had left in the dead of night, his absence a quiet kind of finality. She sat up slowly, running her fingers through her tangled hair, trying to shake off the ache in her chest.
Her husband’s voice echoed in her mind. She’d known for years that he knew what she did when he was out of town, the way she snuck away for these nights of brief, fiery release. She thought it was just the tension, the suffocating weight of her perfect life—husband, house, image. He’d never confronted her, not really. She wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t care, or if he liked the secret they shared.
But Caleb wasn’t like the others. There was something in the way he held her, something in the fire that licked at the edges of his touch. She had seen the way his eyes flashed when they spoke, the anger he wore like armor. She wasn’t just a distraction to him; she was a vessel for something much deeper, much darker than anything her husband could offer.
She slid out of bed, stepping into the cool silence of her apartment. She could still feel the burn of his touch, with bruises to match. It was too much, too dangerous—and yet, she was already longing for more.
And maybe that was the problem.
She walked to the kitchen, her mind racing with thoughts she couldn’t outrun. Caleb had torn something open inside her, something raw and untamed. She knew she couldn’t go back to her husband with that fire still burning. There was a part of her now that couldn’t forget the way Caleb had made her feel—the way he’d made her feel alive, for the first time in a long time.
But she wasn’t sure if that fire was one she could ever control.
And maybe she wasn’t sure she wanted to.