Moved

by K. M. Liss

  MOVE ME

  Moved – Part I

  K.M.Liss

  Notices

  LUST

  Layers of Sin

  By Katrina Liss

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2014 - K.M.Liss

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Copyright © K.M.Liss 2014.

  XSEX Books

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book is sold subject to conditions that it cannot by way of trade be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent, in any form or cover, other than which it is published.

  Disclaimer: This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on real figures, are purely the work of the author’s imagination.

  Thanks & Acknowledgements

  Love and thanks to my family and friends, for believing in me and encouraging me to write my little heart out.

  Chapter One

  I emerge from my harrowing experience.

  He's leaning against the wall, in a world of his own, his eyes are closed and he's sucking his cheeks in, taking a long draw on a cigarette. I'm really pissed at him for walking out ― just when I needed him most ― seconds before the crucial point of entry, into my nervous and quivering flesh.

  “Surely you could have waited two more minutes for a fix, Mase? ”

  “Nope, I was desperate.” He blows out a long stream of smoke.

  “I thought you'd given the ciggies up?”

  He hadn't smoked for two days, not to my knowledge, anyway.

  “So did I. But apparently, I'm not ready to.”

  I grab his arm and drag him off.

  I'm damned annoyed.

  We start to walk back to our flat, around the corner.

  “That really hurt. I don't think it was properly numbed,” I complain.

  “Really? Could your body be trying to tell you something, d'you think?”

  I huff out a sigh. “I guess it is, but I really wanted my lip done.”

  “Well ain't that great, because now it is done, and guess what...pain's included as part of the deal.”

  I shoot him a look. He's so mean and sarcastic at times. I want a hug, not a lecture.

  I try to put my piecing experience behind me.

  “What d'you think, anyway? Nice?”

  Stupid question really, of course he doesn't.

  He turns his head and looks at it for a second. Then he grimaces, averting his eyes.

  I'm guessing he hates it, like usual.

  I huff out another longer sigh. Mason doesn't 'do' stuff like this, and doesn't understand it. Tattoos and piercings, that is.

  Not that I've got that many.

  Five tattoos, that's all.

  So far.

  A wonderful black rose on my shoulder, which I love to pieces. And a meaningful sentence about life on my hip bone, in a beautiful scrolled font. It took me ages to decide on it, and I had it written in Latin to accentuate it's beauty.

  'Aut Viam Inve’niam Aut Faciam '

  Which means, 'I'll either find a way, or make one.'

  The other three tats are on my ass, one underneath each other. Faith, Strength and Trust. All three done at different times, when I was going through some really tough patches at home. My mum and dad getting divorced, struggling with my drama course at college and a painful and sudden end to a two year relationship with my boyfriend. I had them tattooed in the perfect spot, invisible to the world. I was tucked away in the tattoo closet back then.

  I plan on adding to these, slowly, as and when I reach a stage in my life where another crisis occurs, or, with a bit of luck, something wonderful happens instead.

  My piercings are sparse. To my mind anyway. The usual earlobes, three on each, one tragus, and now my brand new upper lip stud, which I am incredibly happy with. Pain aside.

  I flick the inside of it with my tongue, without thinking, and a little too roughly it would seem, as it smarts like hell.

  “Owwwahhh... Jeeesuss...”

  Then I whimper, like a baby, and press my hand to my mouth, trying to stop it stinging, but it only serves to make it worse. My eyes are watering.

  He laughs, unsympathetically.

  In fact he's always unsympathetic when I drag him along to my latest session of self abuse and mutilation. The idea was, that he should provide a modicum of moral support, and hold my shaky hand, because I'm not so brave on the pain front. Especially where needles and sharp metal are concerned. There's only one other thing that scares me more. Spiders. I am absolutely terrified of the creepy little bastards.

  Anyway, it hasn't worked out the way I would have liked.

  His idea of supporting me is to act like the devil on my shoulder, digging his little pitchfork in and shouting 'don't fucking do it, you stupid bitch', and doing heavy verbal battle with my little piercing or tattoo angel who's shouting 'more, more, bigger, bigger, be more daring girl.... express...'

  Self abuse and mutilation.

  Mason's terminology for my stuff.

  I suppose it is in reality.

  But personally, and on a lighter note, I consider it to be more a form of self projection and beautification. It's quite acceptable for a modern young woman, as I am, to indulge in things like this. I could understand his objection if I was having big chunks of metal embedded in my ears, nipples or genitals, a bull-ring at the end of my nose, or tattoos on my eyelids. But I'm not. I'm very tasteful about it.

  The smarting soon wears off and I run my finger over the stud very carefully and softly and smile cautiously with inner joy, at my sparkling acquisition.

  Then I elbow Mason with a hard prod to get his attention again.

  I give him a quick flick of my eyelashes, and what I hope to be an extremely sexy pout.

  He laughs at me. “What the hell was that?”

  “I was trying out my sexy diamond stud look. Did it work for you?”

  He stops and drops his cigarette stub on the floor, grinding it into the paving slab with his boot.

  Litter bug...

  But not only that, I really wish he'd have the strength to quit this unhealthy and disgusting habit. I can't stand the smell of it on his breath.

  I finally get his attention, after he kicks the stub away, into the road.

  “Hmm, well that kind of look's not gonna work on me, is it? I don't even notice you're a woman a lot of the time.”

  “Oh thanks a bunch, buster,” I grind out under my breath, unimpressed, yanking my arm out of his and storming off in a huff.

  I can't believe he just said that.

  He catches me up and links his arm back through mine. “For fuck's sake... don't sulk. You know what I mean... You're my bud,” he offers sincerely.

  “I know we're pals, but I never, ever forget you're a man,” I point out, reasonably.

  “Of course you don't, not looking the way I do,” he replies, tongue in cheek.

  I thump him and then laugh, and so does he.

  It's all a big joke. He doesn't take himself seriously. Or much else in life either. Apart from the crew and dance.

  Mason's a funny type of guy.

  In between being sarcastic and mean.

  The funny side of his nature is why I continue to share his flat with him after six months of too much togetherness. Because we really do spend way too
much time together.

  Actually, I'm being unfair. Although he has fallen short in certain areas of his character development, he's a nice enough person at heart. He's honest and has his thoughtful moments. What's more, he's a great cook. He's unusually clean and tidy around the place, for a guy, as well. That's a very big plus, because I know most aren't. All these things count, I suppose.

  The rent he charges me is pretty cheap too. Actually, that's the real reason I live with him, I remind myself. Yeah, that and his cooking. My stomach rumbles at the thought of food.

  “Anyway... what's for dinner tonight?” I ask hungrily, my mouth watering. I am constantly amazed at the variety of things he can dream up with pasta, tomatoes, cheese and another X, Y or Z ingredient.

  “I'm going out to eat with Summer. I did tell you.”

  “Oh yeah, so you did. I just didn't listen properly. On purpose. Anyway, I thought you'd, been there, done that... 'So stupid she was annoying' ... that's what you told me. 'Five dates was four too many'... or something sweet like that?”

  “I thought I'd hang in there for a few more days. While there's no one else on the horizon. And yeah, she is kinda dumb, but the rest of her's okay. And she likes Chinese food, and going to the movies, that's something in her favour. So, she'll do, I suppose.”

  “She'll do, I suppose?” I repeat, in a mocking tone of voice. “Look, I may be wrong here Mase, but her tits, movies, and a quick Chinese aren't a great basis to continue a relationship, are they?”

  “It's good enough for me and far more than I usually base it on.”

  He has a valid point there, because hair colour and chest size are usually all he bases it on. Other considerations such as personality and sense of humour seem to be irrelevant.

  But perhaps he's finally reached a turning point in his life, venturing out there, beyond his maximum five dates. This seems to be his magic number, and the point at which his interest is extinguished. Amazingly, he's going for a sexed up sixth with Summer. Strange choice of girl though.

  Mason's constant procession of so called 'girlfriend' material, typically all lookalike Barbie fuck-dolls, with big tits, is not only immature and superficial, but more than a little deviant to my mind. But then again, what do I know about the needs and desires of men? Not that much really. But I'd like to learn a little more.

  “You know something? I just don't get it.” I'm going to push my point.

  “What don't you get?”

  “How you can continually jack all these nameless bimbo females? We're not talking a couple of quick fuck and dumps here, are we? It's all you ever do. It must get boring, surely? Don't you think you should get yourself a real girlfriend? Someone you can connect with, talk to and do normal nice things with. Not someone who you see purely as a sex toy? It doesn't have to be serious or long term, just someone you like.”

  He gives me a quick dirty look, out of the corner of his eye.

  “People are wired up differently. I'm into ‘get it while you can’, in a package I like, absolutely no strings, no hassle and no relationship. You know I'm not like you. You're a hopeless romantic.”

  “Less of the hopeless, if you don't mind,” I snap.

  “On second thoughts, you're not just a hopeless romantic, you're plain hopeless. A hopelessly romantic hopeless person...”

  He's such an annoying wit-mouth at times. Sharper than a razor. Not that he uses one very often.

  “Awwww, and I love you too Mase. You really make me feel so good about myself. Now I'm not only sexless, I'm doubly hopeless as well. Thanks a fucking lot!” Then I mutter, “ass hole,” under my breath.

  “You're welcome, any time, you know that.”

  I slap his ass and laugh at him, an annoyed kind of laugh.

  But I lighten up as I look at his face.

  He has the cheekiest grin ever, plastered on it.

  Sometimes I just love him, whatever he says. Insults and all. In a friendly way, of course.

  We arrive outside our main door and he lets us in, and then he bounds up the stairs to the third floor, two at a time, like a rocket on speed. I chase after him knowing it's a pointless exercise and I've already lost the race. I arrive in the flat a little puffed and annoyed again.

  It's the old bathroom game.

  Since the electric shower gave up the ghost last week, and based on the fact we can't afford to get it repaired, we've both been fighting over the first bath. Obviously no one wants second bath, do they? It's either bath one with scum, or bath two with lukewarm water, if you're lucky. The tiny hot water tank takes about two hours to warm up again after it's been drained. God knows how old the boiler is. Probably pre world war two, based on the ancient clanking sounds it makes, when it summons the enthusiasm to fire itself up.

  In any case the two choices available to me on the bathing front don't float my yellow plastic duck.

  “Oh for God's sake.” I shout, as he disappears in the bathroom with a Loaded magazine and clicks the lock shut.

  “I'll be real quick. Pinkie promise,” comes the reply, and I hear the water start running into the tub. He's whistling happily. The noise aggravates me. He's really getting at me today. It's probably post traumatic stress, after the lip butchering.

  Mason told me he hates baths. He's a shower boy through and through. But since our shower committed suicide, he seems to be spending a helluva long time soaking his ass for a bath hater. I've renamed him bath boy, temporarily.

  I'm not keen on them either. I wish I could dry wash, because I can't stand being wet. Unfortunately I don't like feeling grimy even more, so it's grin and bear it. A quick three minutes scrubbing up is all I can be bothered with, unless I'm washing my hair, and then it's a long and painful four. Baths are pure torture for me. All that soaking and swooshing hair under the water to rinse. I'm especially tortured by second hand or cool ones.

  I walk into the kitchen, open the fridge, and pour myself a large glass of tomato juice, slurping it down in a couple of quick glugs. I return to the fridge. Here's not much in it. I grab a handful of ham and eat that, plus the last Baby-Bel, mini Edam cheese. I grab a couple of dry crackers from the cupboard next to the fridge. I peel the red wax off the cheese and stand there, looking out of the window, consuming it quickly and crunching the dry crackers in between my cheesy bites.

  It's a lovely early August evening. We're having a heat wave at the moment. I can see the little girls next door jumping on the trampoline in their garden; their pony tails whipping up and down and their little white Maltese terrier running around yapping at them.

  Cute kids, cute dog... Maybe... one day...

  Still hungry, I grab a carrot and munch that down as well. This is my dinner, I expect. I can't be bothered to cook for myself. Ever. I'm not a great cook.

  My a la carte meal complete, I go into the living room and put my iPod in the speaker dock, selecting Tunnel Vision and pressing play. It's my favourite track of JT's. I can't stop playing it over and over. The unclean version. It's on and I turn it up nice and loud. Thankfully the lady in the flat below is certified deaf and we can get away with any amount of noise we like. I'm going to practise my new moves while I wait for bath boy to reappear. I strip off my tight denim shorts and black vest top. It's damn hot in the flat in the afternoons, as it’s west facing it gets all the sun. I'm much more comfortable and cooler like this, in my underwear. I do some stretch warm ups. Then I drop into the side splits, and then face forward, lying down on my elbows. I move into various poses on the floor, trying out a little of our new routine which is based in the times of Prohibition, and kind of Bonnie & Clyde in style. I'm singing along, out of myself, and having a Justin Timberlake aural orgasm as I writhe around.

  My phone suddenly blares to life with its Big Ben ring-tone and I get up and turn the iPod off to answer it.

  “I was well into that... Turn it on again,” Mason shouts from the bathroom.

  “Tough. You'll have to wait. I'm on the phone,” I shout back.

 
It's Sandy, my best friend, who happens to be my hairdresser. “Hey Sand, how's things?” I answer.

  “Okay I guess. Coming out tonight?”

  “Might as well. Not much else to do on my lonesome other than overdose on TV and drink myself to sleep. Mason's seeing skinny Summer again tonight.”

  “Oh really? I thought that was all over and done with?” she asks in a highly disappointed tone of voice.

  “Apparently not, although God knows why. He must have a stick insect fetish,” I say loudly.

  “I heard that,” he shouts.

  “Just a sec, Sand...” I say to her.

  I put my hand over the phone and walk up to the bathroom door to shout back at him.

  “Mase, she's way too thin and you know it. Apart from the jugs or course, and they definitely aren't real.”

  “Yes they are. You're just jealous 'cos you don't have any.”

  “I'm not discussing the size of my tits with you,” I shout very indignantly.

  “There's no size to discuss, is there?”

  I'm starting to blow.

  “Well I've got news for you, stud, your dick's on the small side of average.”

  A blatant lie, but whatever.

  “Oh yeah? Wanna come measure it”

  I can't help but splutter with laughter.

  “No thank you, I'd rather poke my eyes out than size up your dick.” I can't help but see the situation in my head though. My head rushes with heat. I blow out slowly.

  I get back on the phone and continue my conversation quietly.

  “Sorry about that... so... shall we meet at the bar... at eightish?”

  “Okay, and get dressed up, there's a party afterwards, if you fancy doing that?”

  “You know me. Always up for that. Anyone hot going?” I ask even more quietly.

  She'll know who I mean by 'anyone hot.’

  He's Mason's best pal...

  Unfortunately Jackson's very off limits. I've got Mason's message loud and clear. But I'd like to look at and chat with him, that's all. There's no harm in that, is there? It's a shame Mason doesn't lighten up, because the way he's behaving has made his bestie become the forbidden fruit. And we all know what happened to that, don't we?