by Shelly Pratt
With as much restraint as I can muster, I allow them to feel the planes of her body as they make their way to her chin. A tiny sob catches in the back of her throat, but I don’t stop. I know. I know she doesn’t want me to halt in my caress, despite her emotional torment with what’s happening between us.
My mouth covers hers, hot and demanding that she give me exactly what I want. It’s not a kiss. It’s a passionate entwining of tongues that insinuates other sexual acts I’d like to do to this woman. Her sob turns to a groan and it sparks my dick to life between my legs. I thrust up against her, wanting her to feel exactly what she does to me.
She’s no longer a passive soul in this interaction. Her hands pull tightly against my back, wanting me as close as I’ll allow. While I continue to assault her with urgent kisses on her lips and neck, my hands grab her ass and lift her off the floor. Her legs instinctively wrap around my waist, grappling for purchase as she thrusts her pelvis against my own. The pressure on my dick is amazing, it feels so good to be rubbed—stroked. For the first time since my incarceration I feel alive. I feel human, and what it means to be wanted.
I dare not think how far she’ll let me take this. I’m just lost in the moment, second by second. With each kiss, each stroke, I become bold. Maybe too bold for her.
With my hips firmly pressing her against the wall, I release my hands from her backside so I can fumble with the belt buckle of her utility belt. It releases easily and thumps heavily to the ground. Perhaps this is my first mistake. Not that I’m taking things to the next level, but I have induced thoughts of removing her security blanket. Her weapons; her cuffs; they’re all gone, so that she is left vulnerable. The absence of her heavy belt seems to shake her from her senses at the same moment my hands find her ass again.
I know she’s now distracted, thoughts invading her headspace. Her words confirm this seconds later.
‘Stop! Stop, stop, stop.’ She’s breathing heavily, our heavy petting session taking all the air from her lungs. But she’s firm, though. She means it. I release her instantly, no desire to cross boundaries she needs to set.
With great care, I slowly place her back on her feet. My erection throbs painfully in my underpants, but I dutifully ignore it. Instead, I concentrate on clearing my head of the fog that has taken over. While Mercy’s body trembles before me, I reach down and retrieve her utility belt—her security blanket that provides barriers and boundaries between us.
Even though she’s shaking like a leaf, she allows me to place it around her delicate hips, securing it in front with the huge buckle that keeps it firmly in place.
She’s concentrating on the floor very intently while I appraise her. I refuse to distance myself too far from her, though. I still need to feel the warmth of her body that was mine to possess just moments ago despite the need for me to resume my correct place as her prisoner. It’s what she wants, I know. I just don’t want to give it to her.
I lift her chin with my finger, and she reluctantly looks into my eyes.
‘Only with your permission, okay?’
She looks at me quizzically, not understanding. I take my thumb and rub it across her lips.
‘Whether the go ahead comes from these lips of yours, or your body signals, I don’t care. Your eyes tell me exactly what you want and just as much as your mouth ever could. You say yes, I’m not going to stop, do you hear me?’
She nods, conceding.
‘So, what now?’ I say, still flush with desire for the complicated woman before me.
‘Lunch. I think it’s time for lunch.’ She brushes past me and heads for the library exit, leaving me no choice but to follow wherever she goes. Mercy may be setting all the rules and putting up all the walls to keep me out, but I get the feeling it’s more for her benefit than it is mine. I know her body, maybe even her mind, is ready for what I can give her. I just need to wait for her heart to catch up.
#15
I slam the front door with a ferocity that rattles the windows in their pane and slump against it, defeated. I cuss and stomp my feet, as if that would make me feel any better. It doesn’t. Every single good intention I had this morning was blown out of the water, and it all started with a kiss. One I had no intention of giving him. I don’t know why I can’t say no to him, as much as I’d like to. There is this innate hunger that fills the space between us, begging to be appeased by the touching of our flesh. I wish it would go away. Fuck, I wish he’d go away. But that’s not really true, and I hate myself for it.
I shake my hair loose from its high ponytail. Getting rid of the tight band does nothing to lessen the pounding in my head. I’m thinking way too much, I know it. When the heart can’t have what the heart wants, I wonder why it’s so reluctant to embrace something new. Why it insists on holding me prisoner to memories and the absence of a man’s touch.
Perhaps it’s time to rid myself of the mementoes that I harbor in the house. But the instant that thought surfaces I’m instantly riddled with guilt, shame and overwhelming sadness. Really? How could I possibly think I’m ready for that? Because the longer you hold onto his ghost, the longer you feel like you’re dying inside.
Even though I’m home, there is no escaping. I need a distraction. Now. Pulling my ass off the floor, I trudge through the house with my work boots still on. Despite the chill, I take my jacket off and sling it over the back of one of the dining chairs. For the first time since Danny’s death, I take the key off the hook on the wall next to the back door. I open it.
The cold air doesn’t chill me; the memories of us out here together do. It was our refuge when we weren’t working the beat. It was a haven when the job became too much. It was the place where the foundation of our love was built on.
There used to be a love seat under the large tree that offers privacy from the neighbors. It’s hardly recognizable anymore. Overgrown weeds and grass have reclaimed the timber, as if pulling it back into the earth. The once well-used barbeque looks forlorn and forgotten, only the spiders hanging around to make use of its shelter. The flowerbeds are nonexistent, the stranglehold of more resilient vegetation taking over and depriving it of sunlight. Everything that was once light and good about it is now nothing more than overrun, dreary vegetation.
The desire to do anything about it has, up until now, remained firmly on the not-to-do list. I’ve been apathetic about Mother Nature reclaiming my favorite place to spend time with Daniel because I know I’ll never share another moment here with him again. I couldn’t face the memories of our past.
But now I feel angry. Angry at the world for taking him too soon and angry at myself for feeling like I’m betraying him, and damn mad for allowing another man to invade my exterior with such ease. I don’t want to be angry, though. I want to be able to think about Danny without any of the negative emotions attached to him. I want to remember all the good times we shared with fondness, not longing. I need to keep his memory alive in my head without tainting it. There is a great need inside of me—a need to keep Danny with me without hurting me. Does that make sense?
I have but an hour left of daylight, but I’m not going to let that deter me. I’ll hook up floodlights if I have to, but I’m going to make this yard what it used to be. I’m going to pour all of my anger out and say goodbye to it forever.
I stride purposefully towards the tiny shed that occupies space in the corner of the garden. The latch opens easily and I’m confronted by the dank, stale smell of its interior. All of its contents are exactly as they were a year ago, just waiting to be used again. I pick up a well-used pair of gloves and slide them on before pulling the lawn mower away from the cobwebs.
Just as Daniel used to do, I check the oil and fuel before attempting to start it up. I pull and pull on the chord to kick over the engine, but nothing gives. Pretty soon, I’m sweating from my attempts. Perspiration beads on my forehead while tears threaten the corners of my eyes. My frustration attempts to derail my plans to move forward with my life.
‘Wha
t’s happening, kiddo?’
I abruptly stop what I’m doing and swivel around to see my dad standing at the back door. His bushy eyebrows are furrowed together and the creases that line his brow tell me he’s concerned. His words are soft and soothing, aimed at bringing my exasperation down a peg or two. I have no idea how long he’s been standing there.
‘Dad? What are you doing here?’
‘Your mother wanted me to drop you some lasagna over. What’re you doing?’
‘I…’ I’m desperately trying to get my breath back and control my emotions. The last thing I want is him sticking around while I come apart. This is something I need to do in private. ‘I’m trying to get the lawn mower started and it refuses to kick over.’
‘Need some help?’
‘Please.’
His big bear-like frame shuffles over towards me. I can tell he’d like to say more, but his restrain right now is very much appreciated. If I thought about it, I guess he might think that what I’m doing out here is progress. A week ago I wouldn’t have stepped foot out into the backyard, now… well, now I’m taking the first baby-steps towards healing. Maybe.
He bends over with ease and pulls the chord, but it doesn’t start. He tweaks the lever for the throttle and repeats his actions. The roar of the motor springing to life is almost deafening after the long bout of silence. When my dad speaks, he has to yell over the thrum of the engine.
‘Leave you to it, shall I?’ I nod, very much needing to be alone right now. He bends forward and gently places a kiss on my forehead. It comforts me—calms me. I watch as he makes his way out before turning my attention back to the urban jungle I’ve let take over.
I push that mower with purpose. I’m single minded as I empty catcher after catcher of freshly mown grass. Night does come, and still I plod on under the artificial floodlight I hook up on the back door. When there’s no more grass to be cut, I pick up the hoe and start in on turning the flower beds over, pulling out the weeds as I go.
When I finally think to look at my watch, I realize that it’s well past ten o’clock in the evening. I’m exhausted, dirty and have newly formed callouses and blisters on my hands. My shoulders ache from the digging and my deodorant stopped working three hours ago. I’m in desperate need of a bath, but I know I can’t rest until the wooden seat under the tree is cleared.
On my hands and knees I set about yanking the grass out. With it comes rich, muddy earth that hasn’t been toiled in a very long time. It makes me think of the handful of earth I took at Daniel’s funeral, tossing it onto his coffin like his family did before me. Before this memory can take over, I squash it fast. That is not something I want to remember right now. But in the end, the tears win out. They fall thick and fast until my vision is blurred. Each drop waters the earth, as though it too has been parched and starved of life-giving sustenance. I give up holding myself back. I let it go—I let it all go until I’m left too exhausted to continue.
I pull the last of the weeds up. I’m panting, although it’s more from anxiety than it is my lack of physical fitness. I take the shears and trim a few branches from the tree that overhangs the bench before placing all the tools back in the shed. My stomach growls, demanding food and water for my efforts.
Inside on the kitchen bench is the meal my father has left me. There’s a note next to it, indicating he put a six pack of beer in the fridge. I wash my hands at the sink and then take the food and a beer back outside with me. The bright floodlight still shines on the backyard, so I turn it off, reducing it to darkness. I walk on the grass barefoot and sit on the bench that once held two.
The lasagna is cold, but I don’t care enough to warm it up in the microwave. I take a healthy swig of beer, glad of the cool, amber liquid as it slides down my parched throat. At this time of night, most of the neighbor’s lights have been turned off and the sounds of road traffic is far enough away to trick me into believing that I’m the only human being on earth right now. I look up at the stars and wonder if there really is a heaven up there. I hope there is. I hope there’s a place where we all get to see our loved ones again one day, because it’s the only thing that will let me temporarily say goodbye to Daniel in the present.
The dregs of my beer are getting warm and my body is starting to ache. I take it as a sign that I truly have had enough for one day.
I lock up the doors and head to my room. With the water as hot as I can stand it, I soap my entire body from head to foot. I knead and massage my shoulders while I rid myself of the dirt and grime that clings to my skin. My hands find my breasts and then dip to swirl in circular motions as they soap my stomach. I close my eyes and allow the sting of the water hit my back.
My hands move lower, gently soaping the soft folds of my pussy. I haven’t touched myself pleasurably there since Daniel died. I haven’t wanted to. It would have felt like… cheating. I don’t know if that’s the right word, but other than betrayal, that’s the only way to describe it.
As the soap runs away with the force of the water, my fingers are left to explore. My body shudders suddenly, all too aware that a very different face has just popped into my mind. Those soft lips and eager tongue are very rudely invading my headspace, forcing me to remember the way he assaulted me with his body. His hands were firm, his touch undeniably needy. The way he lifted me against the library wall was just so effortless—like I weighed nothing at all.
I don’t want to, but my fingers delve deeper, rubbing my clit while the memory of Saxon’s erection pushed hard between my legs spurs me on. My body wants him, I know that much. It utterly betrayed me today, completely unable to say no to him. I rock forward, angling myself for better purchase. His mouth, his tongue—it doesn’t feel nearly as good to have the force of the shower head on my neck, but the water reminds me of what it was like to have his hot breath there.
The memory of our interaction spikes my heart rate and my breathing becomes choppy. Faster and faster I swirl my fingers in and out of my pussy as I whisper his name, almost begging for release as I ache with desire.
My last thought of him rubbing his thumb across my lips sends me over the edge. My orgasm rocks me to my core, legs shaking and unable to control the spasms my body inflicts. It feels intense and overwhelming, a complete shock to me after all this time. Hot fingers slide out of me which only serves to bring me back to reality.
Shamed imagery consumes me. I’m a horrible, horrible person. I let another man taint the memory of the last time I made love with Daniel. I can’t take that back. I can’t undo it. Now I need to live with it. I cry as I sink to the shower stall floor. The warm tiles welcome me, knowing I need a refuge. The tears that stream down my face go unnoticed as water pours on top of me, flowing into the drain and taking away my shame for good.
Tomorrow will be better, I promise myself. Just make it through today, that’s what counts.
#16
This would have to be the first family visit I’m keen to avoid. Not because I don’t love my brother to bits, but because his sudden intrusion into prison life means I’m going to be late for my date with Mercy. Okay, it’s not a date, but it’s as damn close as I’m going to get to the real deal while I’m locked up in here.
Five of us are marched single file down the empty corridors of the prison. Despite the appearance of people being nonexistent, the hum of the jailhouse din reaches us through the walls, signaling that routine and order do not stop just because we’ve taken a brief pause of absence.
Fisher opens the door to the visitors’ area and motions us forward with a wave of his baton. Kind of like a subliminal reminder that if he’s to receive any trouble from any of us he won’t be shy in using it to regain control. Message received loud and clear.
Jamie is waiting nervously in the far booth, the Perspex allowing him to see my arrival. He still looks like there’s a demon on his shoulder and, for the most part, a habitual drug user. He’s not, though, despite appearances.
His guilt eats at him, as much as I t
ell him to let it go. I try to make him promise me to move on, to forget about me until I get back out, but he can’t do it.
He watches as I take a seat across from him, an inkling of curiosity lurking beneath hooded eyes that are dull and nowhere near the sparkly blue color they used to be.
‘Hey, bro.’
‘Hey, Saxon, how are you man?’
‘I’m good.’ And I mean it. I really and truly do feel good.
‘You look… different. Did something happen? Are you getting an early release?’ The poor bastard almost looks hopeful, excited that his big brother might finally be free of the monkey on his back.
‘No, no. Everything’s the same.’
‘Then what gives, man? You look like you—’
‘Will you keep it down, Jamie,’ I hiss. I dart a glance towards the other inmates, and Fisher who is guarding the door. None of them seem to be paying me any mind but, even so, I’m going to keep this little conversation as quiet as possible. Jamie raises his eyebrows at me, a question in itself.
‘I managed to get a good job that keeps me pretty busy during the day. It takes my mind off being in here, you know?’
‘Sure, I know that time passes slowly enough to be more like torture for you.’ Here comes his somber mood again. Empathizing with me and trying to carry the burden of my sentence on his shoulders.
‘Little brother, you don’t need to worry about me anymore.’
‘No?’
‘No. I’m segregated from the other inmates and spend my days painting the library walls and bookshelves. They’ve let me take over the rest of the renovation work until it’s complete.’