I am working on a bunch of stories, but this is the only one that is finished. Thanks to an editor who needs to start blogging!
It must have been because it was Halloween.
Violet just didn’t do things like this. She was a nice girl. She was a disciplined girl. She had a good job and a lovely apartment. She visited her parents regularly. She fed her cat and went to the gym and sent thank you cards to people who gave her gifts.
It was Halloween, though, and sometimes when you put on a costume it just changes you. It changes you enough to do something crazy, if only for one night.
Originally she really didn’t want to go to the party. She didn’t even have a costume, but her friend Christine had brought over some rabbit ears and said “Just put on the sluttiest thing you have and you can be a Playboy bunny or something!”
For the writing prompt “outdoors” though being a city boy this was as outdoors as I tend to get. I wrote this in bits and pieces. I do love my iPhone and the ability to write on the go. One more prompt that I think will be a continuation of this one.
And now for something completely different. I wrote bits of this a while ago, but it’s been floating around in my head lately so I put the finishing touches on it. This weekend I will have ample writing time, but no internet connect save my iPhone. Hopefully I can get some serious smut down.
I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know what I was wearing. I remember a flash of small white polka dots on a sea of black. Some little pill box hat. My face got flushed if I thought about Miss Peterson pulling up the stockings that clipped to the garters under the dress. Every thought in my head made me blush. Every memory of the past few hours and every expectation about what was to come in the future.
We were walking down the street and she hailed a taxi. It was something I was never able to do. People always seemed to walk in front of me and take mine. We were going to the train station. I sat, still wet under my dress and frilly underwear. I wanted to stop being wet desperately, but thoughts were attacking me like Miss Peterson’s fingers and having almost the same effect.
I followed behind Miss Peterson, the world a blur of men in suits and pretty women. She bought tickets, she bought magazines and cigarettes. I shook my head to coffee after she asked me the third time. She had a smile as she looked at my hazy confusion, like she’d just won a bet.
It was a Wednesday when I finished my assignment. I put my diary on Mister McIntyre’s desk with all my dirty secrets open for him. My teenage fumblings and my embarrassing attempts at dating. All of my dirty dreams and forbidden fantasies. All the times I had to go into the bathroom and rub myself while covering my mouth because Mister McIntyre had leaned over me while I typed a letter or chided me for taking too long at lunch.
April 19th, 1964
There is a large lavish hotel room. Rich crimson and gold wallpaper, a huge bed, gilded chairs and lavish mirrors. Mister McIntyre is standing in front of the largest mirror straightening his tie. He is in his black suit, the one he wears to big meetings. His shirt is harsh white and he is wearing his cornflower blue tie. He is freshly shaven, his hair is parted neatly and slick. You can count the comb lines.
Marcy Peterson, his mistress, is walking out of the washroom. A slinky low cut black dress. Her black hair long and silk soft falling over her shoulders. Her lips are dark red and glimmering.
He towers over her. He stands almost six foot five and she, like me, is just over five feet tall. He leans in and they kiss, at first tenderly and then his hand is in her hair, pulling her back so he can kiss her neck hungrily. Her eyes are glazed with pleasure.
He picks her up and carries her to the bed. Standing over her he takes off his jacket and folds it neatly on the night stand. He then methodically rolls up his sleeves exposing his muscular hairy arms. He loosens and removes his tie, she sits up on the bed eagerly wanting more of his lips but he pushes her down.
She didn’t say anything when she walked in. She just brushed me aside and sauntered in with that strut she had. She looked around as she pulled each finger of her glove and then took them off and slipped them into her purse.
“You don’t look sick.” she said looking me up and down as I closed and locked the door.
“I mean, you’re pale and your hair is dull and lifeless, but I’m guessing you always look like that.”
Why was she in my apartment? Obviously Mister McIntyre sent her. Why her?
“As I can tell from your silly little scrunched up face and crossed eyes you are obviously trying to fathom why I’m here.”
Her gloves were finally off. She was walking around my living room, a look of amusement on her face.