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.
There are parts of the city that die at night. The hustle and bustle of the day ends abruptly at about six or seven. Stragglers and work horses may stay until eight or nine. By eleven the streets of the Financial District are deserted.
As our cab pulled up to a seemingly random corner I paid and we wandered out cautiously. I checked my phone for the hundredth time and found the address. As I was told it was above a deli. The building looked just like everything else there; gray, empty, foreboding.
I took Zonah’s hand and we shared raised eyebrow amusement at the shadiness of this whole situation.
Next to the deli was a door with a row of anonymous doorbells. I pressed all of them. In a second a weak tinny buzz croaked and the door clicked open.
Up two flights of dirty but not really filthy stairs until we saw lights and an open door. A twentysomething boy, pretty, shirtless, slightly drunk, came out and opened his arms.
“Welcome to the sex party!”
A story influenced by Alice in Wonderland. A young girl slips into a daydream world and is thrown into a frightening adventure. WARNING! Don’t read this if you are offended by fairy tale type characters of indeterminate age, very questionable consent, attempted cannibalism(?!), obscene cutlery, mammoth root vegetables and/or the misuse of butter.
This post involves Daddy/little girl roleplay. Everyone involved is over eighteen.