She was short, and insane, and her tongue was like a big dark snake in his mouth.

She writhed under him, her denim-sheathed legs locked on his back. Each fruitless thrust was met with a groan of lust, or frustration. Or some ill-spawned, guttural child of the two.

“Fuck me.” Her mouth at his ear.

“No.” His hands gripping her hair.

“Fuck me.”

“I like you too much.”

Her nails tore at his chest. Later there would be marks, and someone would wonder where they came from. “Listen,” she said. “I can make you fuck me.” She said it like it was a magic trick.

He stopped, stood. Her eyes met his, and they swam with power.

“Yes you can.” He said this from somewhere far away, some more chaotic planet. Her jeans were gone. He was not sure when that happened.

His khakis came off, and then his boxers. He had been wearing them for three days, and he hoped that it would make her not want him. But her eyes smiled, and she held out her white hands in a gesture of hopelessness.

He knelt to her, and their world ended.