Fantasy

As the overpass loomed ahead, larger and larger, she smiled and wondered if people were built with an off-switch. Mama had said that, a long time ago. Somewhere in a past life almost buried in Jim Beam and uppers and meaningless sex. She said, we all have a switch, something, a word or a thought that pulls you out of the moment you’re in. It’s like a reset, child. God give it to you for when you get into trouble.

She was wrong though. No switch here. Just the growl of all these horses under the floorboard and the acrid smell of gasoline. Her eyes drifted to the abutment. A few more seconds, and at this speed there would be no question, no feeling, nothing left to come back from-

“Come for me,” he hissed. He was crushing her breasts with her thighs, driving painfully deep.

Part of her longed to be in that car inside her mind. It was a fantasy that cut her loose as she faked the first screams of yet another orgasm that didn’t exist.

Nothing to come back from. Nothing at all.

Imprisoned

Running paint
Black and white
These ghouls abide
Both day and night
Never leaving
Me alone
Your face and voice
And touch, their own

Macabre we stand
On shifting sands
Your beating heart
Held in my hand
I didn’t mean
To tear you down
I only clung
So I wouldn’t drown

Turn away your accusations
Save your lies and cast aspersions
For what you know of me is false
And shielded by these mountain walls

They’ll find our bones here
Bleached to white
And write for us
Some detailed flight
Of fancy, romance
Lovers scorned
But our truth will rot here
Unadorned.

Within

His absence screamed. Screeched, yelled, clamored, clawed. It raked its teeth against metal bars and drew blood from the air. It was never still. It throbbed with a life that was nothing. Invisible.

You are Lucifer, she whispered. It was her own face staring back. Eyes faded to gray with worry, hair flown about a paler face in a gnarl of mats and frizz. She’d been pretty once. He’d said she was pretty, and she believed him. He made her a fool. She hated him more for that than for his desertion.

In his absence she heard his reply. Not because he was present, but because she knew him. She had crawled inside his thoughts and turned the pages she found, and learned to read him. “I never promised you anything more. There are no angels here. No fairies. No pretty things. You are the only pretty thing I have.”

How many nights had they lain, wrapped in blankets smelling of age and dust but knowing only the skin of the other, and confided the secrets of their truths? In that lost attic apartment, the gilt winking back candlelight from the lines of worn leather spines. Colors deep and dark, browns tending to wines, fading to shadow. Burlap and water-stained oak dulled by time. The bedsprings screeching as he flipped her, and mounted her, and gave her what was left of himself; his cock.

She begged for it. Without fear or shame. His eyes always blackened right before he came, and the muscle in his jaw knotted. Sometimes he yelled. Sometimes he smiled. When he smiled, she came hardest.

You are Lucifer, she said again. But her lips curled around the name this time, and it heated her loins.

“Yes. And you will always bleed for me.”

I know.

Johnnie

You’re different, Johnnie, he whispered. His breath tickled her ear and the grass pricked the backs of her arms and legs.

Nah. How so?

You know stuff.

Everybody knows stuff, Jim. Everybody under the stars.

They don’t know how much they don’t know, or how to learn.

You do.

Sometimes. He rolled away and she heard the crunch of the dry grass. It was so dry. Everything tight and brown and pulled in on itself. Especially the kernels on the corncobs, nothing left of them on the noisy stalks. Crows didn’t even want it. Not like you.

The blackened sky yawned, full of stars and indigo around the edges. You’re full of shit.

He made a sound like a humph. Yeah. The silence stretched, enveloped them. Ain’t nothin’ left here, Johnnie. Nothin’ to stay for.

What about me? But she didn’t say that out loud. So you’re goin’ then?

Ain’t got no choice. Daddy’s sellin’ out. Might get enough to cover last year’s equipment and seed. But ain’t no money for school. I can go up to Durant and work for my brother.

Your brother’s an asshole.

I know.

He tried to rape me once.

He sat up, and it was just a sound like everything else out here. He did not! It was disbelieving but begging more.

I swear. I bruised his nuts good.

He let out a laugh that bounced off the emptiness.

It wasn’t funny!

No. Sorry. But he was still smiling. You’re different, Johnnie, that’s for sure. And I’m comin’ back to get you.

You swear?

I swear on my eternal soul.

Okay.

Typo

There were days when the blood was an uncommon shade of red. Unrealistically bright, lacking the van dyke brown and violet shadows of real blood. But it was real.

Death comes in quietly. The catalyst may at times create a ruckus, but the moment the soul leaves it slips out quietly. Always with a sigh. An exhale.The period at the end of the sentence.

Days like today it was a spreading mirror of flat cherry, like Pop’s ‘65 Shelby. It threw a distorted reflection up at the sky. But this one was different still, because it shouldn’t still be spreading. Instead of a single rivulet along her thigh racing away from the blade, it was a lake. And she had seen enough death in the eyes of enough once living things – the roosters they killed for Sunday supper, or the hog they hung up in the fall – if she dared look into the reflection those would be the eyes she saw.

The period at the end of her sentence. A typo in an uncommon shade of red.

F4TF – Gender Switching

The Food for Thought question this week is:
If you could spend one day as a member of the opposite sex, would you? If so, how would you spend that day?

I’ve thought long and hard about it, and I think my answer is no. Truth is, I’m really happy I’m female. (However, don’t ask me this question when I’m menstruating. The answer will be very different!) Killer cramps and monster mood swings aside, though, I firmly believe men have their own equally difficult burdens to bear.

 

Socialization is the big one. Men are taught from childhood that they are expected to always be strong, never show weakness. There’s a certain expectation of success they’re pressured to measure up to. (Not saying these things don’t apply to the fairer sex, these binary gender roles, but really, I think women get more attention in this area. Things are tough both ways, and we need to remember that.)

 

Some of these standards are slowly falling away, I think. But I’m not sure we’ll ever be free of them. I honestly don’t think I could handle the pressures of being male. Perhaps it’s because I’m accustomed to the pressures of being female. Would I like to be able to pee anywhere? YES! Who wouldn’t? But  that’s not a tradeoff I’m willing to make.

 

(And you haven’t really lived until you’ve peed in a horse stall in a public barn with a territorial mare staring you down… but perhaps that’s a story for another day. Just saying, lack of a penis didn’t stop me!)

 

On the other side of it, though, if I were allowed one day to know what it felt like being male, I might like it! Then to have to go back… Hmm.

 

I’ve never been the truly traditional female though. I’ve always had the attitude towards ‘boys’ that ‘anything you can do, I can do at least as well.’ I grew up in a family where boys and girls alike were taught how to survive, to take care of ourselves. I make a fantastic apple pie, but I also have a basic knowledge of the internal combustion engine. I enjoy mopping the floors, but I find as much pleasure in mucking stalls. I crochet, but I also love to get down in the dirt in my garden. I love it when a man stands up for me, but if he’s not around, I have a high powered rifle and know how to use it. When it comes to the things I enjoy, I enjoy girly stuff. I like to dress up, I like flowery things, things that smell nice, etc. I will always choose feminine when the choice is afforded. I would rather be in my kitchen than under the hood of a truck! (I skinned all my knuckles last week wrestling the clip off a ‘67 Ford’s master cylinder… I was swearing the lack of an available man to do this ‘blue job!’)

 

I’m not sure how having a penis would change much for me.

 

The bottom line for me is, no matter how we’re plumbed, we’re all human. In that, we share a common experience.

Check out Food For Thought Friday and tell everyone what you think!

The Gentleman – Reunion

Read Part One here.

When Emily found herself looking into his eyes again the thrill that coursed down her spine stunned her; it landed where she’d felt his fingers almost two months earlier. Deep in her center where no man had touched before.

“Sam!” she heard the exclamation slip out under caught breath, spoken by someone else.

He was pulling her against him as though rescuing her from the incoming tide of boarding passengers; those eyes on level with her own told a different story.

His warm breath blew over her face and smelled of acidic coffee and living heat. “Where have you been?” It was more demand than anything. She couldn’t read him, couldn’t tell if he was angry or happy to see her.

“I got transferred,” she stuttered. “The temp agency-”

His mouth covered hers. Not gently or with any romantic undertone or request for permission. Hungry and taking. She felt his lips, his teeth, tasted his tongue and sagged against him. She held his shoulders for support. His hand was inside her coat against the small of her back and drawing her hard against his body.

The bus started and they swayed. He ended the kiss and almost pushed her into the seat, sliding in behind her, his big hand locked on her wrist.

Her brain was flooded with chemicals, a cocktail of lust, joy, a touch of fear, all tempered by relief. Relief that he was here again. When he started to loosen his grip, she put her other hand over his and squeezed. She searched his face hoping he understood.

The hard set of his lips softened, curved, and his fingers tightened. “I thought that was it,” he said softly. “I’d never see you again.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to get in touch with you. Or if you wanted me to.”

She felt him slip something into her pocket. “My fault.”

The bus stopped, and it wasn’t his stop or hers. But they were disembarking. He pulled her behind him until they were on the street, then pulled her to his side. She wanted to ask but knew better. These chances weren’t afforded often. Life had been miserable thinking she’d never see him again.

Nothing mattered except that she be close to him right now. In this moment she’d follow him anywhere.

The hotel sign loomed. There was no hesitation in the sound his hard-soled shoes made. He held the lobby door for her, met her eyes as though checking that she was aware and present, if she was consenting. She passed him and waited. Waited for him to take her arm again, to tell her where to go, what to do. The complete surrender of control was a high.

He did, momentarily. She found herself standing beside an overstuffed armchair in a generically industrial fabric, and he leaned in and brushed her lips. “Wait here.”

She nodded and sat down. She watched him walk to the desk. Took in the lines of his body under his trench coat, took in the shine on his shoes. His shock of white hair, the confident way he carried himself. He didn’t walk. He strode. He spoke softly and with authority, he fostered no hesitation toward anything.

Her heart pounded. She wished she was better prepared, that her underthings matched, that she had shaved this morning, that she was wearing a little more makeup. It didn’t temper the reaction of her body, the flood of heat, the knowledge that it would be moments before she was audibly begging for him. How did she know that?

He turned and strode back to her, his hands in his coat pockets. He smiled slightly as he reached out as one would reach for the hand of a child or a charge. She accepted without hesitation or thought.

The elevator doors closed. He pushed the button and faced her. “Are you okay?”

She nodded.

“Is this what you want?”

Did it matter? Would he take it anyway? “Yes.”

“No,” he said.

“No what?”

“I wouldn’t fuck you if you didn’t want me to.” He smiled. It sparked his eyes.

“You can tell I do?”

The doors opened and his hand was on her arm again, propelling her down the dim hall. There were large arrangements of white flowers on the squat tables beneath the wall sconces. The swipe of the keycard, and they were inside. Shrugging out of their coats with their lips locked, and she felt like the hungry teenager she’d never been. His hands were on her, touching with a surprising softness. A gentleness that added heat to the hunger of his mouth on hers, on her ear, her jaw, her neck. She felt his touch trail down her side, pushing her clothing away, around her hip and into the band of her trousers. He stayed on top of her cotton briefs, his mouth back on hers, stealing her breath out of her lungs.

She didn’t know what to do with her hands. She put them on either side of his neck, feeling the soft velvet of his earlobes, the line of his jaw, the strong vulnerability of his neck; her sex was melting, running.

His fingers found it, the wet cotton, and he touched her through it. Everything slowed. His touch slowed. His breath against her cheek exhaled with a gentle rumble that vibrated the wall of his chest against her breasts. His whiskey voice in her ear; “You are a hungry little girl, aren’t you, Emily?”

They elicited an animal groan from her. She found her arms around his thick body, her fingers like claws falling down the linen fabric over his back, one thigh sliding upward against his, opening, giving him better access. She turned her head and caught his mouth, found his tongue and sucked as his fingers played and ground the soaked and slick fabric against her clit.

One hand slid around his body, found his cock and she wrapped her fingers around it, taking his trousers with her, being mindful of the zipper as she gripped and stroked his length. She tasted the shiver that ran through him. Heard it in the bass of another soft growl.

He stepped back and she moaned in protest. He raised his fingers to his mouth, inhaled and then tasted, his gaze locked on her face. Her knees trembled. It felt like her skin was moving with the rhythm of her heart, everything on her, in her, pulsed. Maybe this was what being alive felt like.

He touched his damp fingertips to her lower lip then withdrew, turned and walked to the bed. He sat on the edge and took off his shoes, started unbuttoning his shirt. “Over here, baby,” he said softly. He motioned at a space of carpet two feet in front of him.

She obeyed while her brain whispered what the fuck? at her.

“Undress for me, sweet girl.”

Could he see her trembling? She was paralyzed.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t you want to show me? Show me your skin, your secrets, how badly you want to be fucked right now?”

She nodded.

“Can’t hear your head rattle, sweetie.”

She cleared her throat and cringed at the sound of her own voice. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He smiled. “You’re a good girl, Emily. Now, let Daddy see.”

She thought she could almost reach orgasm purely at the caress of those words, coupled with the intensity of his stare and the quiet patience of his body even while she felt his heartbeat and the the throb of his cock from here. Her hands went to the bottom of her sweater and she slowly peeled it over her head. Underneath, a serviceable white lace bra, nipples clearly hard and dark through it. She was self-conscious of her stomach, soft and white over her slacks. She subconsciously sucked it in, and barely caught the glimmer lighten his countenance.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “Let’s get those pants off.” As he spoke, he opened his own trousers, and took his cock out, stroking it lightly.

She fumbled with the button. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting…” she trailed off.

He smiled. “What are you apologizing for?”

The flush crawled up her chest and into her face. “I would have been better prepared.”

“What’s worrying you?”

The trousers fell, revealing heather gray briefs with a very evident dark spot. She stepped out of them and bent to remove her patterned trouser socks. “Not my prettiest things,” she said apologetically.

He looked and gave a small shake of his head without his eyes leaving her. He motioned her to turn with his free hand, and when she faced him again, he said, “You’re so sexy. Far more than you know. Look at me.” He motioned at his lap. “I want to touch you, taste you, be inside you. What you wear is inconsequential. It’s you I want. I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you.”

She smiled as warmth and confidence rushed through her. “Shall I?” She motioned to the underthings.

“Yes.”

She removed each slowly, deliberately. Fears mostly allayed. Arousal swelling as she watched his strong veined hands handle his cock. She paid attention to the way he touched himself. When he gripped, when he rubbed, when pulled, when he passed his thumb over the head. She learned what he liked from watching.

Another sharp exhale from him.

She didn’t wait. Standing beneath his gaze was too intense to last long. She took a step, then dropped to her knees while holding his eyes, making sure he was pleased. Down to all fours, pendulous breasts swaying, and she crawled and climbed her upper body into his lap, gently tugging his pants aside. “May I?”

He smiled and took his hands away, placing them on his thighs. She breathed deeply, reveling in and ever more deeply aroused by the warm musky scent of his sex and the vision of glistening precum, the throbbing veins and living color of his skin. She buried her fingers in the dark curls of his groin. Her first taste was tentative, and his hand touched her hair, stroking before surrounding and gripping her skull. “Take it, baby girl. Take what you want.”

Her hand around the thick base of his shaft, the other sliding under the white knit of his T-shirt, finding the light but coarse fur over his chest, finding a nipple to tease and stroke while she licked and sucked and lapped at him. His fingers tightened and loosened in her hair, and when she deep-throated him, she felt the reaction through every muscle and nerve in his body. His hand stopped her too soon.

“No baby.”

She looked up at him, tears streaking her face. She’d done something wrong. He pulled her head back gently, slowly, and let the pulsing crown rest on her lower lip for just a moment. “Are you okay?” she asked. “What did I do?”

He smiled. “Nothing, sweetie. I just don’t want to come yet. And you were about to make me come.” He pulled her face up to his and kissed her, explored her. His hands found her breasts, his fingers rolling and tugging at her nipples. Then he cupped her buttocks. He turned her around. “Bend over.”

She did. She felt his hands on her cheeks, finger on her asshole, on her cunt, stroking, probing, teasing. She felt his mouth on one cheek, then the other, leaving wet spots that heightened her awareness of what he was seeing of her.

He was standing, pulling her up, turning her, pushing her back onto the the bed and spreading her open. He laid his cock on her clit and continued to touch and tease with his fingers. She’d never felt a touch like his, one so erotic. Over her throat, the valley between her breasts, dancing over her belly and thighs, inside her wrists, her ankles and feet. She giggled.

“Ticklish?” All the while moving his hips just enough that she couldn’t forget where his cock was; or wasn’t.

“I’ll never tell,” she teased.

He swiftly ran a nail inside the arch of one. She squealed and jerked away, and he grinned a vulpine sort of grin. “You don’t have to say a word, baby. Daddy knows.”

She groaned.

Her surrender to his will went on for hours. Time stood still and raced away, and there were moments when all she saw was eternal darkness and it took his touch to pull her back to the surface. Between, she learned his body like one of her medical transcripts. Her fingers finding and tracing scars, her lips discovering his sensitivities, what made him moan softly inside luxurious pleasure, and what awoke him and made him growl and take. She sucked his cock soft and covered with her juices back to hardness and he fucked her again.

He didn’t say goodbye at the busstop. They didn’t have time to cuddle and speak and revel in the thing they’d found. When her mind was clearer there would be sorrow and fear that it would be all they ever shared. But in the afterglow of satiety, and the busyness that was city rush hour, he held her hand and it was solid. He kissed her lips, a kiss just deep enough to re-light that ember at her core, and he said, “Behave, baby girl.”

She offered a half-hearted wave as the bus hissed and pulled away, and shoved her hands deep in her pockets. She found a slip of paper. She pulled it out and smiled.