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Well, ********. I stomp into the house, ripping off my boots as I move through the first floor and throw them at the chinese vase sitting on the table in the music room. The sound of shattering is music to my ears, in my current foul temper. I hear the sound of the piano stopped, and I heard Alana's voice behind me, asking what was wrong. She thought nothing of a vase quite possibly worth thousands of dollars, and here I was, fired from a job I'd had for over a year.

Because I'd been late to work too much, and my option to keep my job, was to ******** my 50 year old boss. <******** door behind me slammed as I stalked into my room, locking the handle, and I could hear the baby start to cry in the room across the hall. Her footsteps stopped outside my room, and I could swear I knew what she was thinking: Baby, or my baby? finally she gave a soft sigh, slipping into the little Kamil's room and picking him up. She was probably sitting in the rocking chair right now, being all motherly, and it just made me angrier.

I tore off my hose, and peeled out of my top. The red t-shirt felt dirty- HE'D touched it, and ******** if he hadn't gone for the groin too while he'd had me pinned against the wall. The skirt was the next to go, and the black underwear. And out the window with them. Maybe I should take a cue from Nakkie's book. Be a nud- No. No ******** way.

And look who had a foul mouth tonight, hmm? Me. I blamed it on my former boss.

Who, ugly as he was, had heated something in me. I was raving tonight, pent up energy forcing itself into a need. To be with someone in that primal, needy way Samsara had taught me, only once. To feel strong hands fighting me, as I ripped my nails down his back, to feel- ********!

The bathroom was of course my place of choice to go for a situation like this, and I stepped into the glass shower and turned the water on. Cold. Like ice. It didn't help. It scrubbed the dirt away, but it was all still there, the burning. The needing. Fingers and raw desire could only slake this need so far, before I was left floating again, drowning in my need.

I stalked out into the room, dripping. I hadn't even bothered to towel dry. I always had options. Crout went out every night, to places where I could have someone- have them have me. No names, no looking down on me for needing to feel... needing to be taken.

Should I have just ******** him? I stared into the mirror for almost 20 minutes. No. No, I shouldn't have. He would have been soft, wouldn't have been able to give it to me like I needed it. He would have wanted to be gentle, and pretend there was love with it. And damned if I was going to keep my job through letting some barely hard old man coo over my pretty a**. Suck wrinkled old man- no. I needed someone young and strong, and forceful. Who could fight me in those little struggles I love-oh god, the sensation of fingers biting into your wrists and your hips, and knowing you're going to lose, and they are going to have their way with you, and though you can bite and struggle, they're going to be inside you, and going to take from you, and all you can do it surrender- and win.

Win me.

For a night.

It was sick, I knew, but it didn't happen often. Most the time I would be happy with a gentle lover, maybe even be willing to top, though I'd never enjoy it as much, I didn't think.

But not a night like tonight.

I dressed carefully, in my ******** boots, that laced up the back of my legs to my upper thighs. They were one pair of boots that could not be coming off me at all tonight, black leather and sexy as ********. A black skirt that barely brushed the top of my boots was next, and black underwear strategically placed so I wouldn't hang out, but so that they couldn't be seen. The straps on the hips made it difficult for underwear. And of course, it was topped off with a plain leather bustier, designed for females, like most my clothes. But ******** if it didn't look good on me! The buckles in the front meant easy access, and it was cut high enough at the bottom that I could slip on a belly chain for a bit of sparkle against the plain leather.

Stepping out the door, I could see Crout just leaving his room. He glanced over at me with a raised eyebrow, but didn't say a word. Neither of us had to, he knew what I wanted. He shook his head as he shut the passenger door to his car behind me and went over to the driver's seat, sliding in himself. He never dressed up for the clubs- why bother? His eyes had the ladies and gentlemen at the club begging for him to join in the fun. Black jeans, tight as sin, and a black t-shirt that showed off every muscle. His idea of dressing up.

I was picked up fast, and beyond that, the night was a blur. I remember drinking, and drugs, anything to make me feel better. Spinning around the floor with a muscular man almost as black as Samsara, before the back room. A man with bright blue eyes. and a vague fight- someone didn't want to play safe. Crout had to interfere, he told me later, I was so boozed up and down for the count I couldn't even speak up for myself.

But ********, I remember the morning after. There were bruises all over my legs, and my wrists were almost purple. There was a handprint on my cheek, I must have gotten too feisty for someone's taste. And god, I was sore all over. My lip was cut, probably from when I'd been hit, and I swear, I looked like I'd been battered. And felt good, like something in me that had been building had been forced out. But it wouldn't happen this way again. It would be days before the bruises went away. I couldn't let myself get so frustrated, so needy I'd let this happen to me. I loved the violence, but this just hurt.

That day was spent in fights with Crout, mostly, who called me damned irresponsible and all sorts of names, and said flat out he'd not interfere if I got that shitfaced again. An STD would serve me right, if I let one more guy come at me unprotected. As for the bruises- well, he'd gotten me out of there before one of the guys into knives decided I looked pretty bleeding. Apparently, get me drunk, horny, and angry, and you can do a lot of things to me that aren't particularly appealing when I'm conscious.

The next night I went back again- for the sex. What good was therapy you didn't remember? I was on my knees in the bathroom for him, then he took me back to his place, tied me up, and ******** me. More than once, I believe. And I got to fight, screaming and struggling, until I was reduced to a shivering, needy mess, and then he kissed me, and let me go. I don't even know his name, just bright red hair and big brown eyes.

Curled up on my bed, hours later, everything was quiet. I was relaxed, comfortable. That anger that I had, the need, everything inside me was cool and calm. Placid. The next morning, I decided, I'd get up. Look for a new job, maybe one employing some of my various talents- and not my oral ones. Like dancing. Or maybe I'd see if anyone was needing a secretary, or hell- Maybe I'd try and hire on at the mall again, in a competing store to my old job.

It was 2pm before I ever fell asleep, but I slept like a baby.