Outside, warm sunshine.
Inside, he let her take him.
Outside, bees humming.
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Outside, warm sunshine.
not one of my best, by a long shot, but i spent a very pleasant afternoon writing it. for that reason, if nothing else, i’m rather fond of it.
Paul sighed heavily.
Christ but he hated Tuesday afternoons. This town was dead enough normally, but Tuesday afternoons were rank with the stench of embalming fluid. He could almost smell it as he lounged on the video shop counter and watched a fly busily trying to dash its brains out on the dusty front window. He found he couldn’t blame it for trying, and wondered if doing the same thing might alleviate the boredom, for a while.
Idly, he drummed his fingers on the counter. He didn’t need the practice before tonight’s gig, but the rhythms in his blood rarely left him alone. He had to get rid of them somehow. His boss had told him that the customers found it annoying.
“Customers?” Paul snorted and carried on syncopating for the benefit of the fly and the dusty film posters that curled on the walls between racks.
His thoughts were interrupted by the rattle of the shop door. Startled, he stood up straighter. Who the…? Oh. Oh, god. Oh, wow… Hands flat on the counter now; he gripped the scratched Formica in sheer terror and fascination.
Sauntering through the door as if that were a perfectly normal thing to do on a Tuesday afternoon was a goddess. Well, all right – a demigoddess, at least. Michelle Capthorne. The subject of myriad wank fantasies dreamed by Paul and his mates when they were all at Border High together, less than a year ago. And, to be fair, quite a few since.
And here she was, just strolling into his world as if it were a normal thing. The weather outside was hot, as it had been for weeks; Michelle’s clothes, or rather lack of them, reflected that. Paul tried to swallow a sudden dryness in his throat as he took in the white cotton vest top and teenytiny frilled skirt that barely covered the top of her long, tanned legs. Christ, even her battered old tennis shoes looked good! What he and his mates wouldn’t have done for a crack at her, he didn’t know, but they’d all, except Paul, at least had a try. The only reason that Paul hadn’t tried too was that he was painfully shy. That’s why he chose the drums as an instrument, all those years ago. Music was his life, but the drums offered his best opportunity to hide whilst still in plain sight. He still wondered sometimes how he’d come to be in a band, knowing Denny couldn’t have talked him into it if he’d been anywhere near sober, but it had at least managed to bring him out of his shell, a little. Not when it came to girls, though. He had hardly ever had a try at anyone, and even then it was under the influence of cheap alcohol at crowded, sweaty parties. Michelle Capthorne had seemed as distant as the moon. As far as he knew, no-one had ever got past kissing her.
Desperately, Paul gave himself a pep-talk. Okay, so you never stood a chance at school, he thought, but you’re a man, now. You’re in a band. You’re going places. Dammit, you’re cool! So act like it!
“All right, Michelle?” he croaked in a strange, strangulated tone.
Shit! Shit! Shit! His insides coiled with a strange combination of shame and unrequited schoolboy lust as she lifted her eyes from the rack of DVDs she had been perusing. The ice lolly she was sucking left her mouth with a subtle slurp that made Paul’s cock twitch.
“Hi.” She smiled and then went back to scrutinising the action movies.
He groaned inwardly. God, what a pillock he sounded! And calling her by name, too, when she clearly had no idea who he was! It only went to reinforce why he waited until he was shitfaced to chat anyone up. The horrible, coiling, squeezing knowledge that he just sounded like a pathetic little prick…
Staring down at the counter, he continued to berate himself until a pair of elbows insinuated themselves into his line of vision, closely followed by a pair of breasts. He forced himself to look up and into the face of the owner of the perfect, palm-sized…
“Hi!” he squeaked. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Can I help you?”
That subtle slurp again, followed by the honeyed voice of an angel. “Yeah – what have you got that’s new?”
“Oh, um… well… there’s a leaflet here with all this week’s releases in, if you want to have a look. I think we’ve got most of them….” Paul trailed off and thrust a brightly printed leaflet at her.
The corner of her mouth quirked in a smile as she thanked him, and returned the ice lolly to the moist, warm confines of her lips.
Paul swallowed and tore his gaze away from the single tendril of chestnut hair that had fallen to curl carelessly across one smooth shoulder toward her throat. Unfortunately, a trick of the light meant that he was confronted with the delectable sight of her posterior peeking out from under bottom frill of her skirt, reflected in a floor display stand behind her. The sight he’d imagined a thousand times when he could find ten minutes of privacy. It was different than he’d imagined – rounder, with a slightly more definite crease at the top of her thighs. The sensible white cotton knickers covering it so snugly did nothing to dispel his growing erection. In fact, they encouraged it with thoughts of fighting his way past that seemingly respectable barrier to the moist, lush folds beneath.
His erection was becoming painful, and he cursed that morning’s choice of drainpipe jeans, as his cock now felt like it was being strangled. This led to further thoughts of Michelle’s fingers curling around it, squeezing tightly as she guided it between…
“Are you ok?”
“You…er…you made a noise…”
Michelle was standing up straight, now, the look of concern on her face belied by the amusement in her eyes.
Paul blushed to the roots of his shaggy blonde curls and mumbled that he was fine, all the while increasing his grip on the counter.
Michelle glanced down at his white knuckles and up again at his blushing face, grinning openly by this time. “Well ok – I’ll take your word for it. I just wanted to know if you had this one?” She indicated a newly released film, and Paul scuttled away into the store room to fetch it.
Handing it over, accepting the hire fee, exchanging goodbyes, it all took an eternity. Paul was stuck between wanting to delay her so he could store up every moment for later consumption, and desperately needing privacy to adjust himself. He thanked every god he could think of that the counter came up above his waist, and pressed himself firmly to it, so that Michelle wouldn’t catch a glimpse of his…distress?
Finally, he got to watch her saunter back out of his life, her perfect behind swinging as she exited the shop. As the door shut behind her, he let out a long, heartfelt groan. Sagging a little, he winced at the pain of his now dangerously strangled genitalia, and headed back to the store room to adjust his wardrobe malfunction. It wouldn’t do to be fiddling with himself in the full view of the public.
Swinging the door shut behind him and turning the harsh fluorescent lights on, he pulled down his zip and groaned again as his cock leapt free, seeming to swell even more now it could.
Cursing fluently, he started trying to get it into a more comfortable position, so he could get back behind the counter. It wouldn’t budge.
“Jesus! For god’s sake, just go down, will you? You fucking demon!”
“That’s a lot of religious imagery for someone I never saw in church. Are you a closet believer?” This was followed by a giggle.
Paul spun around in a panic, completely forgetting he had his cock in his hand.
Michelle stood in the doorway, an empty DVD case in her hand. Her eyes flicked down, and then up. She raised an eyebrow. “Well, hello, Paul. You have been hiding a secret, haven’t you?”
“What? What are you? Um…” Paul finally managed to make his frozen limbs work, and he grabbed a DVD case off the nearby shelf and used it to cover his modesty.
Michelle smirked. “Well, that’s not doing much good, is it?”
Paul dropped the case and splayed both his hands over his crotch.
“Hmmm. Better. After a fashion.” She took two steps into the room, kicking the door shut behind her. “I was checking the case as I walked up the street and discovered that Paul the Drummerboy had forgotten to give me the film I hired. When I came back and you weren’t in the shop, I thought you must be,” she waved a hand, “Stocktaking, or whatever it is you do when you work in a video shop, so I thought I’d try the store room.”
All of the time she had been talking, Michelle had been advancing, and Paul had been retreating. Now he fetched up against the table at the back of the room with a yelp. He stood frozen as she closed the gap between them, until she was half a step away; so close that he could smell her breath, still scented raspberry from the ice lolly he’d been so envious of, earlier.
“And what do I find instead?” she breathed, reaching down slowly.
Paul held his breath as her hand crept lower, only letting it out when she, with gentle insistence, took his hand and raised it up between them.
“I’ve always been fascinated with drummers,” she continued, dreamily, “something about the hands…” she trailed off and stroked her fingers upwards across his palm, forcing him to open his fingers so she could lace her fingers through his. “…or maybe it’s the arms…” she trailed the fingers of her other hand down the back of his forearm, causing the golden hairs there to rise, and his still hard cock to ooze a drip of precum beneath is tightly shielding palm. He pressed that palm down a little harder, and she caught the involuntary movement. She glanced down, her fingers tightening in his, and then looked up again. With a smirk, she laid his captured hand on the table behind him and, without another word, sank to her knees in front of him.
She looked at his other hand, still covering his cock, and said, “Well?”
Paul was in a daze. Very slowly, he removed his hand, placing it on the table behind, just like the other. He’d never felt so exposed in his life. But far from shrinking, his cock merely oozed another drop. Michelle startled him by darting forward and capturing the drop with the tip of her tongue, making him whimper, and his cock surge in response.
She looked up. “Steady, boy,” she said softly and, never breaking eye contact, took the tip in between her raspberry lips. Slowly, achingly slowly, she slid as much as she could manage into her mouth, and then out – alternately sucking and licking, and teasing almost unbearably.
Throwing his head back, Paul lost himself to the sensations, occasionally letting out a whimper or a moan, as it seemed the occasion demanded. As she curled her fingers around his balls, gently tugging and stroking, he felt them begin to boil.
It took all of the effort he could muster to say, “Michelle, if you don’t…I’m going to…please…” He wasn’t sure if he meant please stop or please don’t, but stop she did. Feeling the cool air hit his moist cock as she drew her lips from it, he tilted his head forward and made a disappointed noise.
Michelle giggled, again. standing up, she took his face in one hand and said, “Got any protection, drummerboy?”
Paul groaned again, bereft. “Noooo…..” For after all – why would he? Things like this never happened to him.
He opened his eyes, and then his mouth, ready to apologise.
“Good job I have then, isn’t it?”
Reaching into a pocket in her tiny skirt, Michelle waved the blessed condom at him, and then wasted no time applying it to its proper purpose.
Shuffling him out of the way, she hopped up to perch on the table. Reaching up, she pulled his face down to hers and kissed him, guiding one of his hands down to those delightfully sensible panties and…oh, joy! The even more delightfully moist folds beyond. He slid two fingers into the heat of her, and she moaned into his mouth, clamping down and kissing him fiercely as he began to move them in and out.
“Oh, god, Paul,” she panted, “It’s amazing, but its not enough – for Christ sake fuck me, right now!”
That was all he needed, removing his fingers, he guided his straining cock between her thighs and shoved it in, frantically and gracelessly. He had to tug and wriggle her knicker elastic further to one side, feeling sure it must be cutting her flesh
Michelle didn’t seem to mind.
“Oh, god, yes!” she shrieked, wrapping her legs around his waist, and one of her arms around his neck. The other she buried in her crotch and rubbed frantically at her clit as Paul heaved and thrust his way into her grasping pussy. The noises in the store cupboard dissolved into incoherent grunts, pants and shrieks as they played out their lusts on each other, rutting with joyous abandon. Michelle came first, to Pauls relief, and it was only by a slim margin. He was amazed that he held on for so long.
Collapsing in a sweaty heap, the lovers panted in the sudden silence, but then…
“Oh god, the shop!”
“Oh, relax!” giggled Michelle. “Who the fuck rents DVDs on a Tuesday afternoon?”
As she bends, reedlike,
He breaks. Sap boiling over,
He waters her roots.
yesterday, i mentioned that i often don’t have the spoons for something. it’s been a long time since i read the article on spoon theory, and i realise i may have used this phrase too lightly. however, i think it was a valid use of the reference in context. i was making a comment on my morning ability to function. particularly in the wintertime as it happens, but really any time of year, it can be debilitating. and, yes, i know that my “debilitating” can, to someone with a chronic and/or invisible illness, seem like a good day. but to me, it isn’t. and i only have myself as a frame of reference, and i only have what i’ve got to work with. i can be lazy, i admit it. but that’s not the whole story. not by a long shot. i certainly don’t feel like i’m getting enough sleep to stay awake and alert all day at work. sometimes, i will be doing my job, but be only a hair’s breadth from falling asleep. most afternoons, in fact. sometimes, i will be staring at my computer screen, and my brain will shut down. nothing will make any sense, and i will have no idea that this is a problem. i’m vacant – nothing but a pair of eyes to see with. despite the length of time i have been doing this job, the colours and shapes on the screen will be just that: colours and shapes; an abstract, intricate pattern with no meaning, and no notion of needing to have a meaning. it gets worse the less sleep i have. i get probably 6.5 to 7.5 hours most work nights. surely this ought to be enough? surely, after all of this time, my body should accept this as normal sleep and just bloody well get on with it? maybe not. i don’t know. i’m sure i heard somewhere that the eight hours a night thing is a myth. maybe the quaity of sleep is the important thing? maybe i really should get a new mattress? maybe i’m just being a mardy bitch who just needs to get her arse to bed earlier.
maybe. but this is sort of the point. i’m a terrible whinger, i know. i’m a lazy-assed whiner who needs to get on with it. or maybe i’m not and i need to go a little easier on myself; accept who i am and what i’m capable of. i.e. not much on both counts. but there’s more. the spoons may not necessarily be physical. i recently came to understand that there are emotional spoons, too.
in the last couple of years, i have come to realise that i spent much of my teens and twenties in a fog. my memories of much of my life since puberty tend to be hazy and indistinct. i was talking to a friend one afternoon last week and the reason for this finally crystallised. i have a very well-developed sense of my own worthlessness. i have a finely-honed ability to fuck things up, and a distinct lack of the ability to deal with that. so i seem to have trained myself not to feel stuff. well – anything that could remotely be construed as negative, anyway. i tend to let it wash over me because, if i didn’t, i fear it would destroy me utterly. this was something i did by instinct. it was proved to be a true instinct a few years ago, when something horrible happened and it truly did almost break me. and so i spent probabaly twenty years or more instinctively preserving my emotional spoons. these days, i seem to have developed a slightly different coping strategy, which is allowing me to be a little more awake. a little more alert. or maybe i just understand certain things (including myself) a little better, now? time will tell. ask me about my memories in ten or fifteen years’ time.
a friend of mine is travelling The Artist’s Way. it’s beautiful to see her blossoming as she takes this path, and every time she mentions the progress she is making, it warms my heart. from what i’ve read, the path wouldn’t suit me, but there are aspects of it that have caught my attention. specifically, the morning pages. whilst looking for a little more information on The Morning pages, i stumbled across the fact that there is a follow up to The Artist’s Way, called The Right To Write. interesting and, on the surface, at least, much more up my alley. but the morning pages. the morning pages. oh, these interest me a very great deal. one of my little quirks is a fetish for stationery. all stationery. even a packet of cheap-ass ballpoint pens, half of which don’t work and the other half get ink everywhere and when you write with them they scratch the paper in an unpleasant manner, even they can give me a small thrill under the right circumstances. so the thought of a daily activity where one gets to write longhand about any old nonsense (but that is not exactly journalling, since i lead a terribly dull life), is deeply attractive.
but. but but but. i suck at mornings, dragging myself out of bed and on to the bus to work occupies me almost beyond my capabilities most weekdays. at weekends, i revel in the fact that i do not have to get up if i don’t want to. i find relief in the fact that i get to be a total zombie should i need it. (and it increasingly surprises me how much i need it – i’m beginning to wonder if i should see a doctor, or maybe just buy a new mattess). i absolutely do not have the spoons for morning pages. But afternoon pages? evening pages? maybe. even then, i think it would quickly wane and become a chore, which would stop it faster than anything else i can think of. it’s something that may enhance my life, rather than being necessary to my mental and/or physical health (which is the only reason i was able to give up smoking – it was that or lose my teeth). so: how about when-i-have-the-spoons pages? spur-of-the-moment pages? this sounds more attractive to me; something i can do when i feel the need; a semi-regular no-pressure writing activity in which it genuinely doesn’t matter what you write. and not in a fancy notebook, either, but in some cheap-ass ones i got from a cheap-ish stationery shop. also, i have recently resurrected my dad’s old fountain pen which gives me deep pleasure to use. and i like the idea of a slightly shabby and ordinary-looking exterior concealing my brainjunk. kinda like me in book form. and seriously, there will be no pressure to fill up an object of lust and beauty with profound and earth-shattering insights. the thoughts and creativity can just come as they will which, after all is (i believe) the idea.
i realise to do this properly and to get the full benefit, i ought to buy the book and really read what the author has to say about the morrning pages (and the artist’s date, too), but i think i’ll stick to this for now – the idea suits me and is low-pressure by design. i know myself better these days, and i know that if i feel pressure to do something that i do not necessarily have to do, then i am far less likely to do it than if it seemed to me to be more a case of “well, whatever – only if you really want to”, spur-of-the-moment.
and i have plausible deniability, since i still deeply fear The Fraud Police.
so Paula wanted to play. I thought i’d join in. a bit of a poor effort, really, but… oh well. it didn’t exist before, and now it does. i made it, and i know what i was aiming for. (i also know how far short i fell, but that’s by the by.
It’s a game of blind man’s buff, Cassie. I reach for you, but all I get is a brush of red curls on my fingertip as you whirl away. The hint of your perfume guides my steps as I chase after, stumbling and silently weeping, but never able to say “enough”.
There are days I fear I’ll never reach you; days when I despair of feeling your soft curves beneath my fingertips again. You’re cruel in your laughter. I hear you – laughing at everyone’s jokes – everyone but mine, that is. Oh, yes – you’ll laugh at their jokes. Green eyes sparkling with all that life you so selfishly hold inside. If you’d share it with me, you could have all of mine, Cassie. I’d spill every last drop of my life’s blood on that luminous skin of yours. I’d use every single splash to paint swirls all over your body – from your delicately pointed toe to that hair redder than the blood I’d bathe it in. Redder than a dying sun. The shades would mingle, until you truly were the sunrise and sunset of the world, as you already are of mine.
The pools I leave on your porch are not enough. The gifts I leave for you, dripping their crimson essence down your front door are not enough. Are they too small? The rats, the rabbits? Cats? Dogs? All too small? Would a person do? That hairy oaf you’re currently wasting your smiles on?
Oh, yes, my love. I see you – flicking your curls away from that beautiful face – batting your eyelashes, thrusting your hips out as you stand there taking his drinks, sashaying on to the dance floor with him.
Me? Oh, no – I’m fine; it’s just a scratch. I must have held my glass too tight for a moment. Probably when you kissed him. Curling your arms around his neck, threading your fingers through his hair, pulling his lips to yours… I’ll just grab this napkin here. Maybe, if the wound’s still open later – after I’ve found out where he takes you – I’ll leave you a note. You won’t miss it if it’s written in blood will you, my love? Not like all those texts and emails you don’t seem to have received. The cell phone reception around here is shocking though, isn’t it? And even when you get a connection, it’s terrible. See, I could have sworn that, the last time we spoke, you told me you never wanted to see me again. That’s why, even though I’m sure I must have been mistaken, I hide in shadows and around corners. So I still get to see you, even if by some weird happenstance I heard you right. It’s why I watch through your window at night, why I follow you to your job in the mornings, watching your backside fill that businesslike pencil skirt so perfectly. Watching people watching you, remembering how you look under those clothes…
I’ll see you soon, Cassie. And this time, you’ll see me, too.
One last time.
In a sea of shadows, he waits. Drifting with the current of passing years, the graceful lift and sway of his limbs gives the lie to the cold, empty infinity held in his gaze. Two endless pools, fringed by white blonde weed, suck at the world with the hunger of dead suns.
Patient and timeless.
She will come, he knows it.
And, when she does, he will suck the light and life from her body as he sucks the jelly from her eyes and the marrow from her bones. He will eat her, yes, but more than that, too. He will consume her, until there is nothing left for the cosmos to remember.
She will never have been.
At the thought, a tiny smile curls a thin lip, briefly flashing yellowed needles at eternity.
As a companion piece to my last reblog, please also read this. And just FYI? I fucking love this woman, too! http://itgirlragdoll.com/terms-of-fatness/ I’m so lucky to know* some awesome people. How the fuck did that happen?! O.o *or, at least, “be on the periphery of the social circle of”
I actually hate the abundance of cute little words to describe overweightness: plump, rounded, curvy, roly-poly, rubenesque, generous, BBW, padded, comfortable, chunky...adipose-enhanced? I despise them all. Having too many words for something is always a good clue that it's a socially uncomfortable reality we don't want to deal with.
And by 'deal' with, I don't mean get thinner. I have no intention of getting any thinner.
First thing on a wednesday morning. Dazed and sleepy. Just marking time, really.
Passed my one-month anniversary of stopping smoking a couple of weeks ago. It passed with little fanfare, but it passed. I still miss it, sometimes; not Very often, though. Maybe once a month. Related to that, I seem to have somehow managed to lose eight or nine pounds (our bathroom scales are somewhat inexact) since the first Monday in December ; mainly through cutting out the once-a-week fish and chip supper and most of the snacking, it seems. The exercise has been a bit hit-and-miss, if i’m honest, but at least it’s happening. Sometimes.
Back at the beginning of the month, we had our 17 year anniversary.
That’s such a long time. Where does it all go?! We haven’t exchanged gifts as a matter of course for years, but this year I bought him a coat that’s so thick it almost wears *him*, for standing around in cold fields whilst he waits for his turn to shoot arrows at a target. More on that later.
He bought me an e-reader. For quite some time, I have hardly been reading at al. There were various reasons, but one is that much concentration was shot to hell by giving up smoking. The effect was subtle, but strong. Now I seem to have left that mostly behind, I’ve started reading again. The reader has been a great help in that department. .still getting used to it, but it’s coming. Slowly. I’m hoping that, as reading and writing are inextricably linked in my brainweird, I may start doing a little more writing, this year. I hope.