“I don’t think I can keep doing this anymore, Laura,” he says.
I watch myself looking back; Laura’s face in the mirror behind his head. She is beautiful, sort of. She has a dusting of pale freckles on even paler skin. She smiles at him even though I feel like crying. She is confident. Her eyes sparkle cruelly. “Some slut has convinced you she can love you more than I do?”
His face falls, hurt. I want to scream that I didn’t mean it. I know that he would never betray me like that. I know he loves me, he just doesn’t know how to handle me when I get like this.
He turns to walk away, but Laura puts a hand on his shoulder. He glances back, maybe hopeful that I am hiding in there somewhere. Laura pushes away the desperation. She strokes his cheek and says, “I will miss you, Mickey.”
I’ve caught him. He can’t look away. Laura moves in for a good-bye kiss. I hold on to his hair, treasuring the way my fingers feel, encased in his dark curls. He gives in, for now. His tongue is angry, forceful as it presses into my mouth. I groan, needing him to take it back, wanting him to stay.
He grips my waist, kissing me even as he tries to push me away. I slip my hands under his t-shirt, run them down over his back, fumble with his belt. He moans some muffled protest which I ignore. I pull him backwards, stumbling over the edge of my into a heap. We wrestle. He tears some of the buttons on my shirt, but it won’t open all of the way. It is one of those stupid designs; sewn up half way. He gives up, shifting his attention to my mini-skirt, then ignores it completely, going for my underwear, already soaked through. I half-expect him to make me cum with his fingers – that’s what he normally does. He likes to draw things out like that; turns him on. This time, though, he just pushes my skirt up, pulls my knickers off and throws them away somewhere. I have already unzipped his jeans. We fuck like somehow it will make a difference. When it’s over, I’m in tears and he just gets up and searches through the pile of discarded clothes for his pants.
Laura lies there, watching him dress, her clothing in tatters, her skirt still bunched up above her waist. Then slowly, she sits up and straightens herself out. She walks over to the mirror, takes a brush off the dresser and ignores him completely. She hears the door slam, the characteristic rev of his Audi Q7, the roll of his tires on the gravel as he drives away, out of her life. She wipes away the streaks of mascara and carefully retouches her make-up. He is gone, she thinks, but it will be okay, there are plenty more fish in the sea.
Wordcount: 496
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Challenge 1: Her Artist Boy
His room is full of colour. He likes to paint. The evidence is on the floor, on the walls, in his hair. Flecks of white and gold and orange. Warm colours, like his smile, like his eyes as he watches me spin in wonder, taking in every little detail. His desk is clear, the pencils and brushes in their correct place. His bookshelf covers one wall, squeezed to overflowing with doorstep sized novels, notebooks and sketch pads.
Fingers trace the spines. He laughs, saying, “I haven’t read half of them. Do you want to borrow one?”
The novels are not so interesting. His heart is in his art. Some of the sketch pads are old; from middle school. He blushes all the way to his ears, seeing those old, clumsy lines. Later books only make him blush deeper. Hips and legs and breasts, beautiful, bold, growing in confidence.
He sits on the bed, watching. His white shirt is unbuttoned, white singlet beneath tight enough to be enticing. He smells good, like something deep and warm and safe. Outside, sunshine beckons, a weekend made for walking and swimming at the beach. Where would he normally be, on such a day?
He has chocolate eyes with little golden flecks, like caramel. His laugh is a hot, bubbling spring as he says, “You are like no one I have ever met…”
Sitting on the too soft bed, with a duvet covered in little space ships, there are a few tentative touches. His hands are shaking. He leans closer, breath minty and cool. Words roll off his tongue like honey.
“My beautiful Susie,” he says. “I think I love you.”
Love.
His kiss is neither sloppy or dry. He tastes good. The room blurs as we sink into the perfect moment. Head spinning, skin aching, clinging, desperate and needing. He loves and he wants, but he holds back.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“Who were you drawing, in that book?”
The silence is not uncomfortable. His face speaks for him. He is telling the truth when he says, “You, of course.”
Another kiss and he says, “I would love to know how close I was…”
“Close enough. You missed a mole or two.”
“Where?”
“It’s a secret.”
“A treasure hunt?”
“Maybe.”
He is gentle, paying special attention to each button on my shirt. Layer after layer are discarded on the paint speckled cream carpet beside his single-sized bed.
“I found one.” He points, then tickles. Squeals of laughter, tumbling off the bed. Half dressed, vulnerable but safe too. He drinks me in, sketching in his mind through those chocolate eyes. Savouring the moment. There is no hurry.
“When did I get so lucky?” His voice is husky, hungry. He kisses in new, exposed places, ticklish places, warm and wet places. He wins moans and happy squirms. How does he know what to do?
His fingers massage, tease, slick and smooth. His lips press against my cheek and whisper, “It has always been you.”
“Why?” He is the handsome one, the brave one. He is the heart throb, the wild, passionate artist, the subject of crushes and unrequited hopes. Could he really be telling the truth? After four months together, there is still uncertainty, doubt, disbelief. Who is the lucky one?
“There is a light in you,” he says, voice low and trembling. “You glow with it, your faith.”
His dick is hard, straining, but without permission, he ignores the discomfort. How can he keep his head, full of all this emotion? The last barriers between us removed, he still waits, protecting us both, our hopes and our dreams, as he retrieves a condom from his desk.
Wordcount: 612
Fingers trace the spines. He laughs, saying, “I haven’t read half of them. Do you want to borrow one?”
The novels are not so interesting. His heart is in his art. Some of the sketch pads are old; from middle school. He blushes all the way to his ears, seeing those old, clumsy lines. Later books only make him blush deeper. Hips and legs and breasts, beautiful, bold, growing in confidence.
He sits on the bed, watching. His white shirt is unbuttoned, white singlet beneath tight enough to be enticing. He smells good, like something deep and warm and safe. Outside, sunshine beckons, a weekend made for walking and swimming at the beach. Where would he normally be, on such a day?
He has chocolate eyes with little golden flecks, like caramel. His laugh is a hot, bubbling spring as he says, “You are like no one I have ever met…”
Sitting on the too soft bed, with a duvet covered in little space ships, there are a few tentative touches. His hands are shaking. He leans closer, breath minty and cool. Words roll off his tongue like honey.
“My beautiful Susie,” he says. “I think I love you.”
Love.
His kiss is neither sloppy or dry. He tastes good. The room blurs as we sink into the perfect moment. Head spinning, skin aching, clinging, desperate and needing. He loves and he wants, but he holds back.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“Who were you drawing, in that book?”
The silence is not uncomfortable. His face speaks for him. He is telling the truth when he says, “You, of course.”
Another kiss and he says, “I would love to know how close I was…”
“Close enough. You missed a mole or two.”
“Where?”
“It’s a secret.”
“A treasure hunt?”
“Maybe.”
He is gentle, paying special attention to each button on my shirt. Layer after layer are discarded on the paint speckled cream carpet beside his single-sized bed.
“I found one.” He points, then tickles. Squeals of laughter, tumbling off the bed. Half dressed, vulnerable but safe too. He drinks me in, sketching in his mind through those chocolate eyes. Savouring the moment. There is no hurry.
“When did I get so lucky?” His voice is husky, hungry. He kisses in new, exposed places, ticklish places, warm and wet places. He wins moans and happy squirms. How does he know what to do?
His fingers massage, tease, slick and smooth. His lips press against my cheek and whisper, “It has always been you.”
“Why?” He is the handsome one, the brave one. He is the heart throb, the wild, passionate artist, the subject of crushes and unrequited hopes. Could he really be telling the truth? After four months together, there is still uncertainty, doubt, disbelief. Who is the lucky one?
“There is a light in you,” he says, voice low and trembling. “You glow with it, your faith.”
His dick is hard, straining, but without permission, he ignores the discomfort. How can he keep his head, full of all this emotion? The last barriers between us removed, he still waits, protecting us both, our hopes and our dreams, as he retrieves a condom from his desk.
Wordcount: 612
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