She missed his wall; his hall. That place he always threw her against when she came into his apartment.
She missed feeling small and afraid. She’d grown up too much, become too jaded, too brave to feel so little.
She missed the anxiety and hunger she felt walking down his block. She missed his pretty cock. She missed the fear that was particular to being in his elevator.
The fear wasn’t about what he’d do to her, she knew he would hurt her and fuck her and use her like a doll. The fear was that she wouldn’t be good enough, tough enough, pretty enough.
All those fears went away when she was against his wall.
She didn’t cover her scars or chubby parts because he would only slap her hands away. She didn’t have time to be embarrassed about her razor burn or that her roots were showing, because she was too busy blushing about the dirty names he called her. She would fall into the whirlpool of humiliation and pleasure and dizzy confusion.
She didn’t have time to apologize because his cock was in her mouth.
She longed for all of it all.
And more than that she knew some other girl was in that hall, against that wall. His thick cock was inside of someone new and his hand was around someone else’s throat.
Perhaps it was strange that the longing could make her come so easily. Remembering that wall in that hall was almost as potent as thinking of another girls face, mascara running down her cheek, pressed against the wall as he fucked her. The humiliation and the jealousy and the heartbreak were poisons and aphrodisiacs.
The sadness kept her wet all day.
“Promise?” she whispered.
Her pink t-shirt was pulled up, as was her bra. Her thick black rimmed glasses were almost falling off and her bangs were in her eyes. Her breasts were big, pert, the imprint of the lace of her bra left pink and red patterns on the soft skin. Their eyes locked and she squeezed one breasts hard as her hips swayed. Her eyes were thickly rimmed around with black makeup and the corner of one eye was smeared.
She was straddling his legs as he laid back on the couch. She moved one hand down and grasped his cock again, biting her lip as she played with it.
We were going out for drinks. That was all. Just to see if we were both alright. This was after our break up and after the crying.
We eyed the subway signs as they passed the window. All the numbers going up. Our hands found each others, but she wouldn’t look me in the eye. Somehow we didn’t stand when the stop that would take us to drinks came. Somehow we were back at my apartment again.
The kissing was furious, contagious, biting, hungry. My hands on her, noticing the changes, how she was thinner, how she was a little more aggressive now, like she was showing off. Trying to prove she wasn’t that little girl anymore.
I needed a lot of things all at once and sitting next to her on the couch I wasn’t getting any of them fast enough. I pushed her down, pulled at the buttons of her jeans and slapped her hands away, though I wasn’t sure if she was trying to stop me or help me. I pulled her denim, along with her panties, down to her knees and held her down as my mouth found her cunt.
She tasted the same. It made me hard the same way.
When I’m not exactly in the mood, all she has to do is say “no.”
It makes so little sense. I mean, it’s actually silly. I’m not touching her, I’m tired and sore and grumpy and she takes my hand and puts it on her breast which is a reasonable form of seduction. When I squeeze said breasts she pushes my hand away.
“No,” she says in that slightly too serious way.
It’s not even remotely plausible. She just put my hand on her breast! No?
She’s aware. She holds the magnet opposite disire. She may have even thought she came up with this game.
Still, I’m hard. Not from the breast, but from the “no.”
There are other words that with do that. Weighty words. A variety of them, actually. The common denominator is that they are all forbidden.
I write dirty stories here, but the stories in my head are far dirtier. The fetish I seem to have is that it doesn’t matter what we are doing, what I’m writing about, what plot or gimmick, it just has to be “bad.”
Now, I’m a forward thinking fellow. To say my friends and lovers are liberal is a serious understatement. We accept so much as long as it is consensual and safe (or at least all parties are aware of the risk.) Still this “wrongness” this “dirtiness” is like a drug. There doesn’t need to be any reality to this forbiddenness, in fact I don’t want anything that’s really wrong. Cheating repulses me, consent is paramount to my arousal in many ways, for all the little girl games I’ve played the idea of anyone underage is horrifying, hell I don’t even flirt with co-workers, still that need for the forbidden is so strong even the lightest hint of it is enough to drive me mad.
And so it goes.
Her lips were far too full for such a fragile bird-like girl. She had no right to have lips like that. It was, among other things, unfair.
There was an aesthetic there, in her dress, which was layers of diaphanous sepia silk and gauzy cotton. The way her hair was timeless, retro, modern, all at once. The softness around the edges of her pale and thin body. Like she was captured by an old camera.
If she were a picture I could keep her under my bed, in a secret box, to finger her edges when alone.
Instead I took her for drinks and nervously edged around her silence and her eyes. And longed for her lips. Her lips on a glass, her lips on a cigarette, her lips on a straw, her lips on everything but mine.
Her notebook was absurd in its delicacy. A fountain pen, mahogany ink, a script so fine it could be another language. Surely English was far too clumsy a choice for words so precise.
If her lips were unfair then her words were cruelly beautiful. Melancholy and full of longing. One of those stories that is at once sad and yet so lovely you can’t help but smile.
The hesitation bloomed into tension, then my chance (if I had one) was gone.
So it goes.
I’ll give him credit, he was damn respectful. I mean, we’d been there for a week and a half and we’d been pushed and pulled together over and over again and he never made a move. Every hour my body grew more hungry, though my days were full of songs and chants and raised signs.
I saw him go from a clean cut college kid in a cardigan and jeans into a scruffy looking anarchist, red faced from screaming and garbed in the mishmash of sweaters and coats we’d all gotten from donations.