When the rain started the sun was still shining. It had the feeling of a bright, sunny day. Steam rose off the pavement, and the music from the carousel continued its cheerful round. But there were no children.

I walked down the center of the street, a street lined by tidy, cookie-cutter houses and barren of cars or people. Water ran down my forearms, tickling like racing little bugs. Had I lived here once? Did I live here now?

When she stepped from the grass alley formed by two of the neat houses, I couldn’t say I was surprised. Nor was I surprised that the carousel stopped, and the only sounds were my soft sneakers on the wet pavement, and the staccato patter of falling water all round. She fell into step beside me.

We walked up the street in silence. Then her hand slipped inside mine. I squeezed with familiarity, or out of habit… I’m not sure which. I wondered where the cars were, on a summer Sunday afternoon, where the children were. Where the terrier who always threatened to eat my shoelaces was. I wanted to ask her, but words and sounds seemed inappropriate, irreverent.

The rain grew heavier, and the sun disappeared. The striking drops no longer caressed, but stung. I felt her body move in against mine, and I instinctively pulled her in and sheltered her beneath one arm. Our heads low, our steps quick, we turned up the nearest drive and sought shelter beneath the overhang of the garage eave.

There was a flash, and a roar, and her lips were on mine. Her hands cupping my neck and face, her tongue demanding entrance. I didn’t hesitate. I couldn’t. I could never say no to this one. My hands gripped her buttocks and pulled her into my already throbbing cock. Her moan was all I needed to hear. I flipped her around and she braced her hands on the wobbly garage door. I kicked her feet apart, lowered her pants, and ran my cold wet hands up under her shirt while I thrust into her.

I felt the familiarity of her climax, the deliciously predictable nature of her spasms and the way she moved her hips against me. I didn’t stop. I kept fucking her, fucked her right through it and into the next one, until I felt her sway, then I put my arms around her and held her up while I came. And after I came. That was the best part, holding her and listening to her breathe, listening to the soft, satisfied little noises she made while she came down. I felt us running together, out of her, down my balls, and that was delicious, too.

When I woke, I was staring at a whitewashed tile ceiling with its ugly brown water stain directly over me. And the water dripped on my face, slowly, over and over. I’d like to get out of the way, but when I tell myself to move, nothing happens. The beeping comes back in like carousel music, except it’s not beeping anymore. It’s one shrill flat noise. I think about her, and still feel our fucking trickling over my balls. My Marjorie. I didn’t want to be here without her anyway.

544 wds

FFM 2015 Day 4

4 thoughts on “Familiar

    1. Happy to hear I got it right… of course, research helps 🙂 I’ve spent a fair amount of time talking with men about their experiences. And women… because no two experiences are exactly alike. Thank you very much! 🙂


      1. I agree completely! And I also love to hear that my writing is good for something other than cheap thrills 😉 Not that I have anything against cheap thrills… but honest writing should always reveal something authentic to the reader. If I can combine the two, I feel I’ve succeeded 🙂

        Liked by 1 person

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