Penalties
- 3 years ago
- 21
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Ties free porn video
I open the door and she’s standing there with a red rose and a bottle of something expensive.
‘Hey.’ she says calmly. ‘How about it?’
‘Good morning,’ I say. What else can I say? It’s 9am. It’s Sunday. It’s six months and nine days since the last time she said that. How has she got here? I suppose it doesn’t matter now. We stand looking at each other and I don’t know what to do, really I don’t. She hands me the rose.
‘Come in?’ It’s more of a suggestion than anything. I step aside and she enters. Am I still asleep? And anyway, how about what?
How did she find me? I have dreamed about this so many times, this situation, and now she’s really here, standing in my kitchen with a big smile on her face. Can’t fault her timing though. I offer tea, it seems like a normal thing to do. Did she really say what I think she said a two minutes and thirty seconds ago? Maybe I was still asleep. My kitchen has never experienced tension like this. I feel rather vulnerable in my PJs. I look a mess, I know it – just out of bed and my hair’s all over the place, sexy slippers and everything. Maybe she said what she said before she actually saw the state of me. I’m usually so well prepared. I catch myself hoping she’s not disappointed. Not put off. My confused brain decides we must make small talk as the kettle is boiling.
‘So…’ I feel like I start every sentence I ever say to her with that. But who am I kidding, it’s fantastic to see her. My whole body says so. I never thought she’d come. Never thought she’d go this far.
‘How have you been?’ God that’s so lame. We used to be so much more than this. I am momentarily ashamed of myself. Why do I always become an awkward teenager around her? Perhaps some jaffa cakes would help…
And so after she’s helped me dress the scald across my hand from where I emptied the kettle over it, and we’ve cleared up the pieces of broken china and mopped up the tea, we’re curled up on the sofa. One at each end. She’s just close enough for comfort and I can’t take my eyes off her. Never have been able to really, just one of those things. I need to study her, to take in her image, because whenever I see her I never know if I’m going to see her again. It’s always been like this but I always forget how hard it is, how much joy and pain she carries in her pockets just for me.
Don’t imagine that we’re sitting in silence though, we aren’t. She’s talking and I’m hanging on every word. This is what we do. Yes, I’m hanging. That’s exactly how it feels, there’s me with a rope around my neck and she’s pushing me gently back and forth, I am swinging in the breeze of her voice. Sometimes I talk too of course, out loud, spontaneously, about something or other. Usually whenever there’s a gap. I wonder whether there is any way to shut her up which doesn’t involve gaffer tape or a blow on the head. Perhaps she’s as nervous as I am.
My hand is smarting under the gauze that she applied, lovingly, as if I were a sparrow with a broken wing that had just rebounded off the windscreen of her car. Why the fuck is she here? My heart is still bearing the scar from where she split it that time. That last time in the city when I was with her, in the snow. When the trees were bending under their cold burden and I was breaking under mine. I don’t think she even noticed.
She stretches hugely and puts her feet on my leg and I’m suddenly flooded with warm fuzzy feelings. Those god-awful cloying feelings that well up and undermine my foundations, wash away my pride, erode my careful indifference. My castle is built of sand, I know it is, and this woman is the tide. I hear a sigh come out of me at the simple pleasure of her touch. It’s been less than an hour and already I’m sliding blissfully down that familiar slope, my behind dragging through the dirt, grazing my palms on the sharp stones to reach her arms. Ah, the fool and her underwear are soon parted. She asks why I’m laughing.
There’s one jaffa cake left on the plate on the coffee table and she leans forward and takes it.
‘You want it?’ she says, offering it to me.
I decline gracefully, wave her hand away. ‘You have it,’ I tell her.
‘We’ll share it,’ she says.
She takes a big bite and I watch as a flake of dark chocolate balances briefly on her lower lip. She delicately rescues it with a fingertip, sliding it onto her tongue. It’s the sexiest thing I think I’ve ever seen. And then she levers herself out of her corner of the couch and she’s kneeling next to me. The half-eaten biscuit hovers between us like a new moon rising.
I protest. I don’t want the fucking jaffa cake, what I actually want is for her to get back in her corner where it’s safe and I can see her. Safe for me, that is. But I can feel her power surrounding me, just as I can feel her easing her chisel into the crack in my heart and pushing, pushing, pushing. I hate my own weakness. I close my eyes and open my mouth to accept her sweet offering. I take the devil’s communion. The little white angel on my right shoulder throws down her harp in disgust and vanishes in a puff of anguish. The demon on my left shoulder rubs its hands together and pulls up a comfy chair.
She settles back into her end of the sofa and watches me chew. We’re looking at each other – we always look at each other. It’s like a game, like playing head-to-head chicken on the dodgems at the funfair, seeing who will swerve first. I swallow. Hard. She looks away. Yesss! One to me. I decide to quit while I’m ahead.
‘I’m going to take a quick shower,’ I say with an attempt at authority, struggling up from the quicksand of floral cushions.
‘OK, but you smell pretty good to me,’ is her easy reply, followed by:
‘Gimme a shout if you need a hand scrubbing your back…’ tossed casually over her shoulder as I leave the room.
I pray she didn’t see me bounce off the doorframe in surprise. Is she for real or is she being tongue-in-cheek? That is a question that has always plagued me. I never could figure her out that way and it’s infuriated me many times before now. Now, I honestly can’t say which I would prefer. But then again, my little angel isn’t there to help me lock the bathroom door, is she? I strip off my pyjamas and enter the game.
I’m just rinsing my hair when she comes in – I hear the door open softly over the rush of the water. Shampoo suds are coursing down the front of my body like a river of milk.
‘Very nice,’ says her voice from the other side of the transparent curtain, and I assume she isn’t talking about the mosaic mirror I made out of beer bottle tops. I feel like I’m being circled by Jaws, and the music looms large in my head.
‘Have you been working out?’ she asks lightly.
I grin. Now who’s being lame? She is shameless, standing there gazing at me as I wash myself, looking me over, caressing my naked body with her eyes. She’s seen it before of course, more than a few times, but I’ve made some improvements since she last showed an interest. I turn my back on her, flex a few muscles as I’m soaping my arms, make sure she gets the full picture. Shyness has never been one of my failings. And it’s nice to be admired by her: it gives me a little power to wield.
I turn off the water and draw the curtain aside. She holds the towel up as I step out, wrapping me in it like a kid.
‘I like you blonde,’ she murmurs approvingly.
She dries and redresses my wound. The chisel inches a little further into my heart.
When I’m dressed we go down to her car, a blue Audi TT, very flash. Inside smells of new leather and spliffs. She tells me she changed jobs to get it and I believe her. It suits her, fast and alluring and too good to be true. I don’t think she’s ever been true to anyone in her life. I’ve offered to show her around the area where I live so we’re going for a spin. It’s pissing down but that doesn’t really matter, in fact it feels kind of cosy being warm and dry and enclosed from the world ou
tside, just her and me, the houses and shops passing in a blur.
After a while I direct her to the open roads of the surrounding countryside because it’s easier. She puts her foot down and the car surges forward on the wet tarmac. I shut my eyes and sink deeper and deeper into the soft black leather and the pure joy she’s giving me. I feel her hand on my right leg. I look over at her face and she’s smiling, focused on the road ahead, perfectly content. And I am part of that place she’s in, we are connected again, for better or worse. I understand why she’s here – she’s come back for me. Her hand moves up my thigh and I am instantly wet. I remember what she used to call me. I remember what she used to do to me. I remember how it felt when she loved me. And then I remember how I felt when she stopped.
There’s a farm track off the road and she takes it without warning, swinging the car around the potholes, changing down to second to get more traction on the slippery surface. I know what’s coming next as she stops in a gateway by a small wood. I know what she’s expecting. But maybe I still have some pride. Some self-respect. She turns to me and her eyes…oh god, those eyes, with their reverse-medusa effect of turning women to jelly…Her piercing eyes bore right through to my soul. There are questions in them, and answers too if I care to ask. I unclip my seatbelt slowly, my stomach in a bitter knot.
My mind is a mess. What is the right thing to do? My heart is splitting open again before her and the pain is real. I have to try to save it – save myself. I can’t go through this again, it’s not fair! I grab the handle and throw the door open and I’m out and walking away. And then I’m running, through the rain and the mud and the trees, until my lungs burn and the tears spill over and I’m blind and breathless and lost. And I know I’ve lost. I sink to my knees in the middle of the leaf-strewn path because my legs won’t support me any longer and I can’t go on. There’s nowhere to go. I am fighting against an advancing army of possibilities. I turn my face to the sky and let the rain hit me full on, my eyes shut tight, trying to breathe.
Her hands steady my shaking shoulders. She stays silent and motionless behind me, holding onto me. After a time I stand unsteadily and turn to her. We are both soaked to the skin. I can’t look at her, or rather I won’t. She puts a hand to my face and makes me. The rainwater is flowing down her nose and cheeks in little rivulets, her short dark hair plastered to her head. She is so very beautiful – that’s part of the problem. Her hazel eyes are full of tears, all her earlier bravado left far behind with the car. This is the real woman, here and now: the lonely lover, the scared little girl. She is giving me her vulnerability to touch.
She tells me she still loves me without a word. I put my arms around her neck and kiss her, and her lips are warm to my cold, shivering body. I feel the fire spreading through me. She holds me tight to her, her whole body pressed to mine, gripping the back of my sodden shirt, her face buried in my neck, I can feel her crying quietly in my arms. There’s a bang in my chest as the chisel goes right through but I don’t care any more. All I care about is her. She’s all I’ve ever cared about. The last six months without her gradually fade away and it’s as if nothing’s changed between us. I rest my face against her wet hair, kissing her head, and we stand like that, in the downpour, for long minutes on end, just feeling each other. Filling each other. Being one again.
‘I love you’, I say at last, because it’s my truth.
We drive back to the flat in silence but there’s no tension. It feels perfectly natural. We are going to have sex and be together, and nothing needs to be said. Her nipples are hard beneath her soaked shirt, whether from the chill or the anticipation I know not. I can’t wait to feel her warm, naked body on top of mine, her hand deep inside me.
I smile because I know that it’s going to be all right…and my little white angel tentatively picks up her harp again.
Miracle
- 23.12.2021
- 16
- 0
