An Unremarkable DayChapter 3
- 2 years ago
- 12
- 0
An Unremarkable Night free porn video
The door slams shut behind him. The same way as ever. The same click of the Yale safety lock, so secure and formal amidst the anger. His shoes pound down the corrugated metal staircase, fading and fading and fading. I imagine his arm in his jacket as he struggles to pull it on over his sweater, yanking and swearing, his brow creased, his face all messed up with curses and snarls.
It begins as it always begins and somehow I take the moment of flight as the starting point, although no circle has a starting point. Round and around. I don’t remember where the circle came from but it exists and gives an unwanted structure to our days. The same week. The same tentative relationship, the too-loud laughter, the how-was-your-day, the meals and the phone calls and the texts and the television and it goes around and around like a perfect loop, each week, every week.
The circle is perfect but the events it encircles are far from idyllic. I love Max, of course. I love him more than I’ve ever loved anybody. But there are moments. Like now. Like the sudden silence in the flat, the echoing stillness after the fight; my mind racing with the ends of points he didn’t let me make; his unfinished dinner abandoned on the arm of the ripped sofa.
The room feels so still. So full of nothing. There are sounds from upstairs and from the street beyond the window; the rev of engines, the occasional blast of a horn, teenagers yelling and whooping; everything is so full of life but inside the empty flat, there’s nothing. The silence sticks.
Loneliness. The circle keeps time like it’s Swiss-engineered but the loneliness always manages to surprise me. The sudden sense of stupidity, of futility. The realisation that he’ll be gone for however many hours and it’s a cold fight and a cold night and all I have now is myself. Is there a calm after a storm? I don’t feel calm. I feel jittery.
Half of me hopes he’ll come back; he’ll have forgotten his wallet or his phone and he’ll come through the door and not look at me as he finds his things and I’ll pretend I’m sorry and put my arms around him so he won’t leave. I would do that. I wouldn’t even think about it. But he doesn’t come back.
I pick up his half-eaten dinner, the two-hours-in-the-kitchen dinner he couldn’t even be bothered to finish. I can’t blame him. It makes me feel sick just looking at it now. The kitchen floor is cold beneath my feet. The estate agent lied about the central heating working. It doesn’t work. Or rather, it’s temperamental. Scorching one minute and freezing the next. The rent is sky high of course. Nice neighbourhood, see.
Everything has begun to get at me now. Scraping. Annoying. The stupid kitchen window which won’t close. The broken extractor fan. If he hadn’t left we could’ve bitched about the letting agency together, whined and complained and had common ground and it would be us against them. But it’s not.
If only I could rewind. If only I could have kept my mouth closed about the water bill and turning off the tap when he brushes his teeth. If only. But it matters. To him, it doesn’t. “It’s not as though we can’t afford it.” He’s right. Just about. But what about the pay rise I didn’t get and the deposit we’re saving for? What about getting out of this tiny, suffocating flat with the water meter? What about living how we want to live?
There’s a sudden knock on the door. For a second, my heart leaps. Setting down the plates, I rush back through the living room but then whoever it is knocks again and I know it’s not Max because his knuckles would hit the door higher and it’s not him and nobody else is minutely important.
“Brooke?” The voice is soft, almost condescendingly so.
Colleen from next door. Colleen with her blonde hair and her PR job and her fucking Range Rover and all her fucking life experience. Colleen who lives with her fiancé Colin who proposed last month when they went to Argentina. Colleen who asked me to water her orchids while she was gone and then brought me back a Toblerone as a thank you gift even though I hate Toblerone, and if she’s such a great fucking friend she would have noticed thanks to the countless times I’ve said, “I HATE TOBLERONE.”
Colleen who told me she’s thirty-two though her director profile on Companies House says she’s thirty-eight and I must remember to never mention her age in case I make some inadvertent faux pas. Colin’s younger than her. I wonder if he knows her real age. He’s a banker. Lloyds. Drives a BMW.
“Brooke?” Colleen’s voice filters around the edges of the door, like an unwanted draft. “Were you guys fighting? Are you in there, babe?”
I will not open the door. Opening the door would be stupid. What would it achieve? A half-hour of false pity while she secretly gloats over her superior relationship? I’ll probably end up crying which will be self-serving and make-up ruining. What can fucking Colleen with her two-carat princess-cut diamond engagement ring with Colombian emeralds say to me that will fix anything?
“Brooke, I heard him leave. I’m here for you, okay?”
It’s Max’s fault. I never raise my voice. He’s the one who starts yelling, alerting every person within earshot of our disagreements. If I had it my way, I’d mouth arguments, the way parents do so kids can’t hear. Quiet, furious, whispering arguments. But no. He yells and I imagine Colleen and Colin raise their eyebrows (hers perfectly shaped, his shaped in a masculine-pretending-not-to-be-shaped way) as they exchange glances and settle down to know exactly what we’re fighting about.
“Hey,” Colleen’s voice is quiet but oddly soothing. “You don’t have to hide.”
Something about her gets to me. Maybe she is just trying to be nice. Her orchids were very nice. I watered them just as she asked and wandered noncommittally around their tidy flat whilst they were gallivanting around Argentina. Everything of theirs seemed more expensive than ours. The glass-topped coffee table, the Chesterfield sofa, even the photo frames. There were no paperbacks in their bookcase. Idly, I wonder if Colin leaves the tap on when he brushes his teeth. Does it matter? Does Colleen have the common sense to not bring it up? Or is he the stickler? I live right next to them and I don’t have a clue.
I hear Colleen sigh. I imagine her face; it probably has that same vaguely disappointed expression it gets when someone takes her spot in the car park. I hear her footsteps go the few metres back to her flat. I walk across the room and turn my phone to silent. Her name lights up the screen a minute later. Bullet dodged. I hear their door close, the hum of their voices. I imagine they’re talking about me. Laughing at me and Max. Betting on how long it’ll be before we break up.
I hate them and I don’t and I hate myself for assuming the worst when they’re really just lovely people.
It’s late. Almost eleven. Saturday night. All the pubs will be open. Nightclubs. Bars. He could be anywhere. I could call him but he won’t answer. I iron some clothes. Put them neatly into the assigned wardrobe places as though he won’t throw them out carelessly while hunting for some elusive item that he must wear immediately.
Nothing to do. I could call my sister. Then again, I don’t want to hear about whichever rock band she’s currently obsessed with. I could call my parents. But they’d ask questions and I’m a terrible liar even over the phone. I flick the television on an am confronted by fake sitcom laughter. The jokes are overdone, over-applauded, and some are over my head. Being alone is so hollow. Having nothing to do is okay if you’ve got someone to do nothing with but otherwise it eats at you like woodworm, leaving you hollow and insecure.
I flick off the television and silence resumes. Teeth. Shower. Bed. The sheets are cool. I can never sleep until he gets home. I retrieve my phone, pray that the WiFi will work and absorb myself in the glowing screen.
The world is a huge lake full of interesting people and I lie there, looking at the small screen and Twitter and Facebook and Instagram profiles and pictures of beautiful people and people in love and people just living. Going places. Things that I do but somehow their versions are glossier. Sparklier. They seem to have it so together. But this is what we sell. It’s what I myself sell, to everyone.
I don’t text anyone I know because they’ll want to know why I’m texting so late on a Saturday night, and where’s Max and am I not having fun with him? Am I not young and in love and happy and beautiful like I always appear to be? I sell it, they buy it.
In some ways, it’s true. Maybe fifty percent of the time. You can’t be happy all the time. Can’t be so greedy. Can’t expect too much. First world problems. I’m not hungry. I’m not dying. I should be happy.
I watch music videos. Read gossip articles. It always comes to this point. This shameless point where I can’t sleep and I can’t talk and all I can do is soak up fake stories of other peoples’ lives. Who’s dating who. Who’s pregnant. The major shade being tossed around. Supermodels and rap stars and tech entrepreneurs and actors and reality television stars.
Sometimes I wonder what their lives are really like. Whether loneliness claws after the after parties. Whether they do what I do; distracting themselves with other people so they don’t have to face themselves. I don’t even know who I am sometimes. Too young and too old. Just waiting on that one thing.
And it comes. Oh, it finally comes. It comes when my eyes and my head ache and I’m reading a feature interview with Selena Gomez on GQ and his key is turning smoothly in the beautiful, beautiful Yale lock and he clears his throat when he comes through the door because he knows I’m awake and he wants me to know it’s him. I put down my phone, the screen dark for the first time in hours. His shoes fall to the floor, get kicked into position. He comes into the bedroom. I don’t move a muscle. I don’t even breathe.
“Brooke? Hey, you awake?”
He comes a little closer. The smell of smoke. His hand touches my shoulder briefly. It’s cold even through the t-shirt. I still don’t move. For a moment, everything aches but then he’s gone, undressing, leaving a trail of clothes to the bathroom. I hate him for it and yet I smile.
I hear him in the bathroom, emptying for an inordinate length of time. How much did he drink? Flush. Water rushes from the tap. There’s a dull thud as he pushes the hand wash plunger too hard and the bottle falls into the sink. He swears, thunks it back into place. Brushes his teeth loudly. Doesn’t leave the tap on. Oh god. Oh god. Small steps. An inconsistency in the circle. A dent. Enough to throw things off course.
He rinses. Spits. Rinses. Spits. He leaves the bathroom light on, enters the bedroom, naked but for his boxers but then thankfully he turns, heads back and flicks the light off. The mattress dips as he drops down next to me.
“I know you’re awake.”
He doesn’t sound drunk. My back is towards him. Pre-planned, of course. If he were to flick on the lamp, I daren’t risk trying to maintain a sleeping face. But he doesn’t turn on the lamp.
“I’m sorry,” he says. His body moves closer to mine. I know he’ll be warm. His hand rests in the curve of my waist. It fits there so perfectly. My eyes are open but he doesn’t know.
“C’mon, baby. Give me something, huh?”
No. Resist. No. I can’t. I should have conditions, should’ve thought it through. All the things, all the terms. You have to save money. You have to be tidy. You have to not fight with my family. You have to tell me if you’ll be home for dinner. You have to be fucking perfect, damn it.
His fingers go under my t-shirt, walk over my hipbone, to the dip of my waist, up over my ribs. Then down. Up.
“C’mon,” His voice is so low, so soothing, so him. Almost hypnotic. And he’s so warm. Always so warm.
I cave.
“You’re so late,” I say. My voice is steady. Faintly accusatory.
He lets out a long sigh.
“I know. I – it’s so hard, Brooke. This is new. You know? And to you as well but – we’ll fix it, won’t we? Don’t be angry at me.”
He pulls down my shoulder so I’m on my back. He kisses me. Toothpaste over alcohol.
“I had an awful time. Almost got run over.”
“You did?”
“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t elaborate. Maybe he’s lying. Trying for sympathy.
“If you’d stayed home, you’d have been safe.”
He sighs. He kisses me again. My mouth is firmly closed. His hand sweeps up and finds one of my tits. The circle is running again. We’ll fuck. The mechanics might be different but it’ll be sex and then the week will run on repeat. One of his legs is already between mine. I should push him away, should prolong the fight, make him regret whatever it is he ought to regret but I can’t. Not when I’ve been lying around on the edge of tears all night. Not when I want sex maybe even more than he does.
“You know what I thought as soon as the door shut earlier?” he asks. He’s still trying to kiss me harder, his teeth biting at my lip.
“What?”
“That I hadn’t finished eating.”
“Your loss.”
“I know. You didn’t throw it away?”
“I can’t remember. Might be in the kitchen. I got distracted.”
“By what?”
“Next door. Coll-.”
His tongue swoops into my mouth before I can finish the word. I feel him hard against my leg. I pull away from his mouth.
“It’s so late, Max.”
“It’s Saturday. Nothing going on tomorrow.” His hand eases down my body and curls around my snatch. “We can stay in bed all – day – long.”
He kisses my neck, my collarbone, teeth nipping at the skin. He tries to pull the neckline of my t-shirt lower but it’s cut too high and the give in the elastic doesn’t get him as far as he wants. He goes for the hem instead, pushing it up so his tongue can flick at my nipple, making it tighten. The heel of his hand grinds against me. I know his fingers are wet even before he pushes them down over my asshole. Instinctively, I try to close my legs but he’s between them, holding them apart as one finger pushes and strokes.
“Max – I said – I-”
He kisses me, tongue in my mouth as he touches me insistently. It only makes me wetter. His thumb presses against my clit and I can feel it throb under the pressure. The wet flush from my snatch insinuates its way down to where his finger is still probing, as though inviting him to continue. I feel him growl against my mouth.
“You are so fucking hot,” he hisses.
His cock is granite against me. His thumb moves against my clit and I arch up against him, letting out a wistful moan.
“You like that?” He rotates his thumb steadily. “Tell me how it feels, baby.”
I can’t. It’s the kind of thing you can’t say. You just feel. Just ache and rise and silently beg. He watches me. Watches exactly what he’s doing to me. The slow circle of his thumb. The finger still hovering against my asshole. I turn my face away. He grasps my chin and turns it back, holding it in place.
“Tell you what,” he says, as calm as anything. “I’ll let you come if you say I can fuck your ass.”
He does it every time and it still makes me clench. Still makes the anxiety surge. Does he feel it? He must do. He touches me like I’m an instrument and I make the sounds too; each gasp and moan comes in sync with the pressure of his touch. He plays me. And I can’t help loving it.
“Is that a yes?” he murmurs.
“No,” The word spills out, half a moan as I push back against his hand.
“No?” His thumb stops moving. It’s like a ride at the fairground suddenly shut off. A power cut. The anticipation cut short. All dressed up with nowhere to go.
He pulls back, kicks off his boxers, pushes his cock against me. Then he changes his mind. Drops down next to me and pulls me on top. His hand fists around his cock, guiding it into me. It takes forever from the unusual angle.
“C’mon,” His voice strokes. “Deeper.”
I sit up, sink down a little, try to go further. His hands grasp my t-shirt, easing it off, one arm at a time. My palms are pressed hard against his chest, and he holds them there as I try to move on top of him. Everything is frustration. My hair’s damp with sweat, my legs are in the wrong position, and I desperately want to touch myself. He knows it. He doesn’t help. He just watches.
“Please,” The word comes out unintentionally.
His hands grasp my hips and for a second I think he’s going to fuck me that way but something in him gives and he moves again, rolling so I’m underneath him. His cock pushes hard into me, going as far as it can. He holds it there as I shudder around him, trying to adjust to the feel. It’s so invasive. So precious. He pulls back. Pushes again. It hurts.
I suck in a breath and he kisses me hard. One of his hands is clutching at my tit, toying with the nipple and the other is beneath me, lifting my ass to give him better access. Even as he fucks me, one of his fingers is on its own course, passing back and forth over my tight knot.
We fuck like we always fuck and it’s as perfect as ever. The hard drive of his cock. His fingers in my mouth. His hands groping and scratching. His teeth in my lip, my shoulder, my nipple. My nails dig into his back and he grasps my wrist, guiding my hand between us to my snatch.
“Touch yourself,” His voice is a growl. My knees are bent, hips tilted up to take him as deep as he can go and my clit throbs. Touching it is almost too much but I slide my fingertip slowly, teeth biting hard on my lip.
“Come on,” Max is holding tight to my hips, holding me in place. “I wanna feel you come.”
My finger moves skittishly like it’s afraid of the consequences. His hand sweeps over mine, presses hard.
“You want me to do it for you?”
He pushes my hand away and his thumb sweeps carelessly over my throbbing clit. He doesn’t know how it feels. He doesn’t know the twist of pleasure, the all-encompassing heat. I moan and the fingers of his spare hand are in my mouth. He rubs my clit even as he fucks me, his body jarring against mine until the orgasm floods and I clench desperately around him. He doesn’t move either of his hands. I grind against him and soon enough he jerks against me, his breath coming out in heaves.
“Fuck!” His hands hold down my hips as he drives for the last, uneven time. “Fuck!”
He’s heavy on top of me. Wonderfully heavy and warm. Soon enough he’ll move. Wander off to the bathroom or the kitchen. Then he’ll come back and kill time until he’s hard again. We won’t sleep much. Everything that came before is already a distant memory. No more pain. No more loneliness. It won’t last but it’s the moment and it’s us. It’s moments like this that make all the pain worth it.
Sherry
- 01.02.2021
- 8
- 0
- Category:
- Reluctance
An Unremarkable DayChapter 4
- 3 years ago
- 10
- 0
An Unremarkable DayChapter 5
- 2 years ago
- 7
- 0
