Dread. It’s Fantastic.

With several years and two different blog names, Roissy has been prolific. However, I feel as if there are just too many posts, and even though I’ve started starring really good ones in Google Reader, I’m sure I’ve forgotten some really good ones. I’ve had to rely on memory, or a catchy title. Even so, there’s one post that stood out to me the most: this post called dread. It’s fantastic, and it resonated with me when I first read it, because I realized I had unknowingly used it in a previous long-term relationship, and recalled how powerful it was. Now, I had the chance to plan and scheme the dread, and hone some Sir Stephen sadism.

Besides a consistently warm hole, FemFan provided food and shelter in my time of need. Whenever I got tired of angel hair pasta and store-brand spaghetti sauce in a can, I could go to her place and she would order whatever: pizza, Chinese, it didn’t matter. Hurricane threatening to devastate the DMV? I had a place to wait out the storm. If she didn’t drive to my place to pick me up, she would pay for a cab. When I couldn’t afford metro fair to get to work, she would give me money. So when I couldn’t afford to get to the airport to fly to a funeral, or food to last until payday later that week, she gave me enough cash to hold me over. But I didn’t tell her that I hadn’t paid my phone bill, and AT&T followed through with their threats and cut it off. She knew when I’d be returning (a couple of days), and I got my parents to pay my bill so my phone was back on, but I saw the opportunity to stay silent for the rest of the week. She never failed to text me every day, multiple times, so I knew silence from me would send that hamster spinning.

While out of state, she texted me a couple of times before the phone was cut off, but who responds when out of state? I didn’t receive any texts from her when my phone was turned back on. It had been off for only a couple of days, so I guessed she sent five or six random “how’s your day going” and “what’s up” texts before she just gave up. Honestly, I was happy not to get any more annoyingly lame texts from her, but I still wondered how much she was wigging out. I’d find out that weekend, when GMAC called me on Saturday. He called to tell me about the previous night, hanging with Hot Mess, FemFan, and the rest of the FemiCunt Clan.

“Hey man, your girl was worried. She kept asking if I had heard from you, or if you said anything about her.”

“Ha, my phone had been off, but once it came back on I didn’t bother texting her.”

“She was crying at the bar. It was bad, man. She kept saying how you were going to leave her, and how this had happened to her before.”

“Really? HAHAHAHAHAAAAA.”

I’m not claiming that this was all part of the plan, but once I was headed down that rode I just kept going. And that road led me to employ some tight game, and for her to dread the worse: pump and dump. But once I knew it was working, I texted her to see what was going on. Obviously she asked how soon I could come over.

There were so many opportunities that I took advantage of. After we hooked up the first night, I told her that she had some prickly pubes and had to “shave that shit.” Of course she complained, and said that she always left her bush hairy (it wasn’t like a 70’s porno, but it was still too much). So the next time we banged she had it shaved reasonably well so it wasn’t a problem. “I did this for you,” she said. Of course she did, but for some reason she felt that once was enough. My dick thought differently.

I was at her place one Saturday evening. She wanted to show me off to her friends, so I let her. But not without a quickie. Once we got to the bar, we had a good time drinking, dancing, and all of that boring stuff. Since we were horny, we left early and went back to her place, ready to bone again. She got on top of me and started sliding me in.

It felt like my cock was entering the asshole of a porcupine. A million sharp pointy needles surrounded my dick, and I used all my strength to stop myself from crying out like a pansy.  Whatever strength I had left I used to throw her off me, so I could check and see how much skin I had salvaged.

“Jesus! I told you to shave that shit!”

“I know I know I’m sorry I forgot! I’m so sorry!”

A strong case of smack-a-bitchy-itis overcame me. You can’t mess with a man’s cock without consequences. But thankfully something reminded me that she was a feminist, and to be careful. I told her I was going to sleep.

After a few minutes I could feel the inner turmoil bubbling inside of her. “I’m really sorry,” she said, finally, struggling to hold back tears. “Just… just tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it. I don’t want to lose you.”

I laid there for a couple of moments, thinking of how I could extract what I wanted in her moment of vulnerability. But I wasn’t depraved enough then, and I couldn’t think of anything. “I already told you what you have to do,” I said. “OK.” From then on I knew I had to shove it in her ass.

After FemFan moved in with FemFatty, she had me come over. She didn’t bother to tell me that she didn’t bring along her old bed and was waiting for a new one to arrive. Instead of a large comfortable king size, there was a comforter laid on the carpet, with another comforter on top, for added comfort, I guess. I told her that I needed to iron a shirt for work the next morning, but she didn’t have an ironing board. “You mean I should have asked you if you had a board before I came? Seriously, who has an iron but nothing to put the clothes on?” I slept on the floor, and ironed on it as well. Even in my poverty I slept comfortably and wore crisp shirts to work. But the next morning I awoke cranky thanks to the hard floor, and my shirt looked ridiculous. I told her I wouldn’t be coming back until she added the amenities that are common in third world countries not in Africa. A new bed arrived by the end of the week.

How she sounded during sex depended on if anyone was around. If FemFatty was in her room with the boy, FemFan was pretty silent. But when it was just the two of us, my persistent poundings produced all kinds of yelling, screaming, and expletives. I prefer my women to let the neighbors know my name. She told me about how FemFatty talked about hearing us one night. “She was like, ‘well, it sounded like really good sex!’ I don’t like it when she talks about us.” I asked her why not, but whatever she said didn’t make much sense, and there was no way I would remember it. But I do remember one night when we were banging on the new bed; the headboard kept clanking against the wall. She told me to stop, because we were making too much noise and she didn’t want FemFatty to hear.

“Just not too hard,” she said.

“Uhh, yeah, OK,” I said, and started again, harder and faster than before. No roommate matters more than my own nut. But she stopped me again:

“No, no, we can’t, it’s too much noise!”

“Fine,” I said, and rolled off her to go to sleep, visibly pissed off.

“I’m sorry, we can keep going, we just have to be slower and quiet.”

“Nah.” I could hear her holding back the whimpers.

Honestly, it wasn’t that big of a deal, but I had to deny her sex again to set her straight. Punishment, and ways to do it, crept into my thoughts from that night forward. I became more critical, and voiced my displeasure more often. “You’re really demanding,” she told me one day. “Yup,” I said. Punishing her became important to me, after sex, food, and the cash that she would give me. Whenever pounding her pooper, I went harder and faster when she begged me to be gentle. It was fun.

She knew my birthday was coming soon (I must have let it slip). I sensed that she wanted to do something special for me. So she got some details about it and forced her way into my schedule. It wasn’t as if I had anything else going on, since I could barely afford to ride the metro, but I knew that if we did hang out on my birthday, it would be a big step in her mind. The few days leading up to my birthday I thought about how to get out of it. She’d probably be hurt, but at that point I’d rather stay at home, jerk off, and get a good night’s sleep. The night before I texted her:

Let’s do (the night after my birthday) instead

Did someone give you a better offer?

Yeah

When I arrived the following night, I could tell that she was disappointed that I flaked. I guess she thought she was important enough to occupy my special day. But I didn’t anticipate what was waiting for me in her room: a bag of gifts. “Oh, you got me gifts…” I said. “Open them!” Great, I thought, I have to carry this bag on the metro back home? Of course the bag was some feminine teal color. But it wasn’t the color that got me worrying. I started worrying what could be in there, and what it would mean. I couldn’t believe that she bought me stuff like this. After all this time of instilling dread in her, she was throwing it back at me. Of course she didn’t realize it. She just wanted me to know she cared. But she was flipping the script. I felt sick.

I looked inside the bag. “Oh no! You got me… a… Snuggie?” I quickly searched my brain, examining all the interactions that we had had. How did she know I liked Snuggies? Did she read my post about Snuggie Season? Does she know I had a blog?? Then I remembered that I brought up the snuggie in some offhand comment, something about that and a thong being sexy. She ran with it. It wasn’t just some ordinary Snuggie, either. It was the Snuggie Deluxe.

But that wasn’t all. “Keep looking in the bag,” she said. I did, and pulled out a book: The Snuggie Sutra. I hope she doesn’t think we’ll be defiling that Snuggie together.

“The Snuggie Sutra? Haha… wow.”

“I knew you’d like it!”

I won’t lie. I looked forward to pulling this out one day, but not with her. With this act of genorisity, I knew her feelings for me were strong, but she was clearly trying to force me into an actual relationship that society expects from two people boning so often. I felt the dread I instilled in her coming full circle. She would have to be punished for it.