They call me an offering. Past Every year, a Sister gets chosen. Last year we watched as the slip of paper with Amy’s name…
Lessons in Kate Posts
It had been a dry summer. Unsettlingly arid, nights were a vacuum of dry mouths and drenched sheets – swallowed up in erotic charge but…
This story entirely prompted by seeing half a browser tab out of the corner of my eye. Her wrists ache for want of chafing. Some…
I don’t keep underwear for best, just wear whatever takes my fancy. White, lace-trimmed thongs to the gym. Red french knickers under my unflattering work…
A love like this, where your words pierce heart-shaped wounds into my flesh, is the only love. Nature created us this way; perverse, animalistic, trapped…
By some queer magic, smothered by his jacket, she became acutely visible as they almost ran back to the safety of the change room. Suddenly it became important for them to be as alone as they had spent every evening of that decade.
“Got a rabbit stuck somewhere?” called a stagehand from somewhere above their heads, to resounding titters in the rafters. Too elated to care, Miriam sped up, dragging her Master behind her until they arrived at the untidily inked notice on the door.
Rhydian Hart & Beatrice
A few paces ahead, Miriam ran her thumb over her name – the name he had given her, but which she had never truly loved. The ink was not quite dry, and the slightest pressure lifted the black marks from the page, leaving only a smudge behind. Then she felt Rhydian’s hand on her shoulder, and opened the door.
The room seemed hot as an oven – with the lamps glowing meanly, leaving the place mostly in shadow, and Miriam felt her bravado leave her as quickly as it had flooded her body. Steeling herself to face him, she found Rhydian’s face obscured by the fingers she had pressed so lewdly to her cunt.
“Am I a monster if I confess the thoughts I had of what you could taste of? Once I dreamt you permitted me between your thighs, lifted your skirts and you were sweet and damp like almond marzipan. As I knelt before you, the slightest brush of my tongue or lips made you gush, each river sweeter than the last and I drank you and drank you as a man who has wandered the desert for a month drains the oasis.”
He blushed. He was so beautiful in his modesty, laced with lasciviousness. She watched him inhale, lick the residue of her from his skin.
I’m tired and cold. Snow for days, three feet deep. And I miss her.
I. Miss. Her.
All pink freckled flush and shush and shiver. She lives for ice. Dances through frost like an angel. An angel in brown boots and a blue coat dancing through the blizzard and then she was gone.
This house is a tomb, is darkness and hollow breathing. I leave the lights untouched, for now. Thoughts of her seem less painful in the dark. And the snow gleams silver anyway; outside the perfect drifts stretch on and on, and I go blind, turn my grief to the unloving welcome of the bed. My heart is sore. My body is sore.
I close my eyes. There she is. Smiling.
Red lips. Dark eyes. Red lips.
Her mouth is open.
My cock twitches. I open my eyes. No. Not now. Not now.
Her nakedness did not bother her one bit. The route was dark and warm, and those she passed so caught up in their own work that none noticed her bare backside as she trod steadily, swiftly through the rabbit warren of backstage.
She tried to think logically of where he would have headed. They had performed here once or twice before, and she knew he sometimes liked to take a moment or two to himself, step out into the stagnant city air and smoke away his nerves. And she faltered as she approached the service doors to the cramped alleyway behind the theatre, unsure of who he might be with. She could not be sure the clutches of smokers and nervous ingénues would be as dismissive of her nakedness as the crewmen had been so far.
This is a follow up to Cheesecake, as requested by Quinn, as well as an entry into Exhibit A‘s Scrabble Challenge You can play it…
He was tipping ash onto one of Mrs Jones’ ugly pink china saucers, and I was gazing at him, lovingly.
Improper though it may be, we lay next to one another on my bed. Mrs Jones was out. Mrs Jones wouldn’t have approved, even though we were engaged, with a June wedding date set. And smoking, the smoking was the cherry on top of the cake of depravity. She would never get over the shock.
I didn’t want to think of Mrs Jones. Instead I concentrated on the coral imprint of my lipstick, clinging to the white paper shell between his lips; thinking of ten minutes before when he’d gently put it to my mouth so I could take a drag. It was almost another form of kissing; an increased intimacy, here on this single bed no wider than a pillowcase. With only the ugly saucer between us.
“Isn’t it funny how shocking it would be if people knew we were lying here like this? Engaged to be married, and we can’t be left alone in a bedroom for fear we’ll behave inappropriately. And it’s worse for you. You have the eyes of the entire parish on you.”
He laughed and stubbed the end of his fag out, setting the saucer on the bedside cabinet behind him.
“What brought this on? You know I wasn’t a china doll when I proposed.”
“No, of course not.”
“Are you worried I’ll do something I shouldn’t? Please don’t, I want us to wait. I would wait until judgement day for you.”
He was making it worse. I was making it worse, the words all wrong and I felt as if I was judging him for the other girls he had been with before me, before he had taken orders. He hadn’t asked me about other boys; he hadn’t needed to, that information had been volunteered within days of our first tryst; as if I wanted to prove to him I was good and pure and deserving of him. Because in truth, I didn’t believe I was.