【Her · Little Bitch】
The day we made it official it was drizzling; I stood at his apartment door dragging a suitcase stuffed with clothes. After finishing my freshman year, the school said dorm living was no longer mandatory that summer, and just two months past my twentieth birthday, I moved my whole self into his turf. The moment the door opened he didn’t take the suitcase—instead one hand hooked around my waist and hauled me, case and all, into the room, like carrying a little animal he’d just picked up. Even on tiptoe I couldn’t reach his chin; standing together, the top of my head only came to his collarbone—later we measured it, we differ by twenty-four centimeters.
His name is Zhou Yu, a javelin thrower by training, shoulders broad enough to fill half a doorframe; standing in his shadow my whole body went dark. I’m one meter fifty-five, forty-two kilos, wrists so thin his thumb and forefinger could ring them with room to spare. He loved gripping that stretch of wrist and yanking me over, strong enough it felt like he’d pull me apart, yet I couldn’t budge an inch. In those first days living together I still put on girlfriend airs, thinking we’d at least ease into it, but the very first night he overturned every illusion I had—the way he lifted me onto the bed wasn’t carrying, it was hauling an object that belonged to him.
That night he circled me from behind, one big hand covering my whole lower belly, pressing me back against him. I could feel a rock-hard thing jabbing into the small of my back, scalding even through my nightdress. “From now on you live here,” he said by my ear, voice pitched low, like laying down rules for a dog, “the rules of this house, I set them.” I should have talked back, but his other hand had already slipped into my nightdress, palm rough enough to scrape skin, covering one whole breast—my breasts are small, one hand could hold a whole one, and one twist of his fingertip rubbed my little pink tip hard. My retort turned into a gasp I couldn’t swallow.
【Him · Athlete Boyfriend】
She’s so thin it makes me itch inside. The first time I lifted her whole body up, I barely used any strength and she was already airborne, both legs dangling and kicking, like a cat picked up by the scruff. I trained javelin for six years, the spear I throw flies sixty meters, and holding a body this soft and limp, only one thought filled my head: this thing is mine now, I can do anything I want to it.
She’s absurdly sensitive. I just circled her in my arms, laid my palm on her lower belly, and she started trembling, her breathing all in a tangle. I touched her chest, those two small mounds just enough to fill one hand, the two tips prickling hard the moment I rubbed them, her whole back arching to grind against me. I looked down at her—face tilted up, eyes wet, lips pressed together, wearing that look of wanting to hide and wanting it at the same time. Right then I decided I wasn’t going to spoil this girlfriend nicely. This body of hers is born to be bullied for my fun.
I flipped her over and pinned her beneath me, one hand scooping her ass and hauling her up, the other clamping that thin little stretch of neck—no force, just circling it, letting her know that throat was in my hand. Her eyes went wide at once, yet she didn’t cry stop; instead a wave of heat surged below and smeared against the base of my leg. I laughed. This woman doesn’t say it, but her body confessed long ago. “What do you call me?” I asked. She bit her lip and stayed silent, so my palm tightened a fraction on her neck, and she went soft, voice trembling as it leaked out through her teeth. After that one word, there was nothing girlfriend-or-not left between us—from that day on she was the little bitch I keep at home, and I was the sole master of this house.
【Her · Little Bitch】
I’d thought living together meant splitting chores, fighting over the remote, bickering over who does the dishes. Instead my live-in life goes like this: his morning wood tents the blanket into a pole, and the moment my eyes open I have to burrow under the covers to serve him; he comes back from ball reeking of sweat, and hugging the clothes he peels off leaves my legs weak; when he’s in a good mood he drags me over to play with me, and when he’s in a bad mood he drags me over to play with me all the same. This body of mine became a thing he could pick up to amuse himself anytime, and what shames me most is—day by day I couldn’t do without this feeling of being crushed.
He’s outrageously strong. The first time we did it I hurt so much tears just fell; that thing of his is far too brutal for my size, yet one hand clamped my waist and pressed me riding up and down on him while the other hauled my ass down, and I had no room to dodge at all. He likes violent thrusting, pulling out to the shallowest then ramming to the deepest in one stroke, driving my whole body up toward the headboard. And I’m sensitive as hell—every stroke whited out my vision; it clearly hurt, yet down below I was a sloppy swamp, the wet sounds squelching for him to hear every bit. He’d lean to my ear and laugh: “Your mouth cries pain, but down here you welcome me plenty.”
From then on I gave in. What I moved into wasn’t a boyfriend’s home, it was a master’s territory. Every inch of this house began running by his rules—me included. The bitch’s career began with that big hand hauling up my ass and clamping my neck. And the most spineless part of me is that I savored every bit of it.