“I’m gonna…I’m gonna…” I mumble between two groans.
“Here, calm down.” She whispers slowly caressing my tool.
And slowly, rubbing against me, she slides back up to my lips. I grab her breasts and her tongue comes to meet mine. Her crotch brushes against mine which can’t take it anymore and I growl into her mouth to make her stop this sweet torture. She answers my protest by pressing herself against me in a back and forth playful motion that gives me palpitations. I would like to feel her desire surround my dick harder; I would like to enjoy her orgasm pressing tighter around me. But like this, it’s already so…
Soon, the whole neighborhood will know the effect she has on me. Fuck, SANDRE!
23 — Sandre
It seems crazy, but I have trouble imagining what it was like before. Yet it’s only been a few weeks. He’s meddled himself in my life in such a way that everything makes me think of him. The couch where I gave him head the other day, the kitchen counter where he’s fucked me several times, the entrance tiling from the time he really couldn’t take it any longer, the shower where we often end up…and his scent all over the place.
When I’m with Josh, I’m not really myself anymore, or maybe more myself. I don’t know. I’ve become a stranger that terrifies me, but I don’t want to lose her, because she’s the one he desires. With him I’m the one I would have become if my life didn’t get all fucked up at some point. That carefree girl that ignores that life can be cruel. What a klutz I was at that time, I can’t believe that gal is still in me. The other day, I took out my photos from before. How fucking much I hate those, but I’m sure Josh would love them. Sometimes, I wish I could become that girl again so he would like me, but it’s stupid, I don’t ever want to be like her again. She gets screwed all the time. Me, I know how hard life can get and how people can be selfish. I don’t need to make things up; I know Josh will get bored eventually. I would like to convince myself that when the time comes I’ll be ready, that it will not affect me, but the truth is I’m terrified.
It is Friday and he will soon be here. On Fridays he can stay longer. His mother has been less strict since his last school report. My kinky lessons have their advantages.
I make some lasagna as I wait for him. I’m not a good cook, well it’s rather that I don’t like it, but the greasy stuff is what I do best. I can’t help but smile when I think about the last time we saw each other. I had my period and he came anyway. I feel like I’ve won another small victory.
Yet that evening was a little mixed. Mostly because he discovered my pictures. The countless shots of Steve’s disgusting prowess is one thing, but those of Marcy and him, eye to eye had a…so so…effect on him. I don’t know what he thought about it, He hasn’t been very chatty that evening.
I get stressed because we haven’t seen each other since then. Well we did at school, but there it’s different. We are two strangers and I prefer to avoid him. I don’t want to know if he’s having fun with Marcy and his friends, and if he talks about me. Yet I still spy on him every morning from my perch. I can’t help it. I scrutinize all insignificant changes that our relationship could have caused. The way he puts his arm on her waist, the smile he gives her, the way he reaches out to her…
He’s not really the same with Marcy anymore. It might be stupid, but I have the feeling the more we fuck like crazy, the more he becomes the respectful and thoughtful guy Marcy dreams of having beside her. I’m what he uses to unwind to reach perfection and I hate having made this guy out of him. If Marcy knew! The more he interferes with my life the harder it is to see him with her.
I have trouble understanding how he manages to lie to her every day. And I’m not even talking about her. She must really be stupid to think that a guy like Josh spends hours at the library. And when he comes hurtling with his head up his ass and with his stupid after fuck look, it’s obvious he hasn’t been studying all night. I would have seen him coming right away!
He knocks and I yell at him to enter as I put the dish in the oven. He seems delighted when he throws his bag on the couch and hugs me to feel up my breasts from behind. It is weird this feeling of being together when we aren’t really. Sometimes, I forget he doesn’t belong to me and that I’m not part of his life.
“Tell me it’s over.” He asks me kissing my neck.
My heart starts racing in panic. What is he talking about? About the two of us? About the pictures? I turn around to try and decipher the message from his azure irises, but nothing betrays the horror of the words that just came out of his mouth. He wants to stop here? Now? Fuck, I’m freaking out! I knew it would happen, but so soon? I didn’t prepare myself for this. And he has this I’m screwing with you look.
“Your period!” He adds as if it was obvious. “Oh…um…yes.” I mumble, embarrassed because I panicked like an idiot.
He kisses me savagely and I know there won’t be much clothes left on me soon. His hands get under my T-shirt and pull me against his toned body. He’s impatient and it shows. He pulls away to allow us to breathe, a salacious spark lighting his beautiful azure eyes. He bites his lower lip before declaring:
“What about we do it in your folks’ bed?”
“What? NO!” I scream horrified. But it’s already too late.
He grabs me under the butt and effortlessly lifts me up to his shoulder.
“Are you kidding?! We have tested half the furniture and you’re reluctant when I suggest a comfortable place.” He mocks me, climbing the stairs two by two. “Josh, no! Please, put me down. Josh, stop!” I scream and struggle, but nothing helps.
He’s too strong for me. I’m screwed. Us, me, everything is over. And when he freezes I know we have reached the destination. He lets me slide down his body slowly without letting his eyes off of the room. I haven’t contemplated the carnage for a year and I find it more shocking today than at that time.
My parents’ torn clothes are scattered across the floor. The pillows, the quilt all have been ripped open and their filling joins the ambient shambles. In the middle of the bed, frames with pictures of me, of them, of us have been shattered. The nightstands, the dressing table’s stool seem to have flown across the room and holes mark their points of impact. Red paint covers it all and gives the scene a gross look. The originally pale grey walls have not been spared. Shaky and bloody inscriptions conclude the show. My eyes get lost on the words my hand has frantically written at that time: Whore, Slut, Asshole, Bastard…and I could go on with even better ones, but I wouldn’t want to shock.
I observe Josh. His mouth is half open as if he was having trouble catching his breath; his irises have taken on a strange cold shade; he hasn’t moved; his face looks lifeless, expressionless, but he must be thinking something about this. I end up taking a few steps back and slowly slide down the corridor wall. I wait for his reaction, for him to ask the question, but he says nothing, so I say it:
“They left.”
He finally turns around. His jaw is tight, his look terrified.
“They, they’re dead.” He mumbles panic stricken. “I thought that…you said that…”
I can’t help but smile when I imagine the horrors going through his mind. Murder, vengeance, perversion, sickness, excess…and me, powerless witness.
“They just went to live away.” I clarify staring at the ceiling.
He breaths loudly as if he had just run a marathon. I feel the weight of his darkened eyes on me, but I refuse to look at him. He should never have seen this. He entered my house, my bed, but I don’t want him to intervene in my life as well.
All I see is the white my father had painted some time before they left, but I hear him get closer. I feel his body close to mine. He puts his arm tensed by fear on my shoulder and slowly pulls me to his chest. He really thinks I need him. What an asshole!
“And…where are they?” He ends up asking, his face close to mine.
“I’ve no idea.” I answer simply.
And even if I knew, I wouldn’t t
ell him. I don’t want him to know and I’m sure, deep inside neither does he. People don’t share their problems with their fuck buddies!
“Why…why did they leave?”
“Because I prevented them from fully living their passion for each other.” I hear myself explain.
What’s up with me? Sandre shut up! You are not going to tell him everything. You don’t want him to know. He doesn’t care about you, he can’t help you. He’s just here to fuck. What mess am I in!
I hold back my tears that threaten to burst out. I’m softening, what a klutz!
I’ve never said it to anyone and hearing those words come out of my mouth for the first time makes the situation even less bearable. So many couples would do anything to have a child and my parents, they didn’t want me. He holds me tighter, as if he could feel the pain enter my heart, but I don’t want him to…
“I don’t want your pity.” I scream at him, violently pushing him with my shaky hands. “Get out of my house! Get out!”
“You can’t shut out everybody of your life because your parents did it with you.”
He eyes me seeming to be begging me not to push him away, but I can’t push him away from my life when he isn’t even part of it. I feel tears burst into my eyes and I look down because I don’t want him to see me soft and defenseless. I hate myself; I hate myself for breaking down in front of him.
“Fuck! Get out! You don’t want my shit, you just want to take advantage of me and it’s fine with me that way.” “Please, don’t push me away.” He pleads carefully reaching out to me.
I’m stunned. What the hell is he doing? I would like to tell him to leave, to come back when he wants to fuck, but truth is I’m weak. Fuck I’m so weak!
I’m in his arms again and he holds me so tight that I have trouble breathing. I enjoy his embrace forbidding my mind to think about the consequences of these revelations. He rocks me gently as if I was a scared child, but I wonder if deep inside, he’s not the one that’s terrified. And I must admit I have trouble understanding why. It’s not his life and I’m not his girlfriend, he shouldn’t worry about my problems.
I observe the carnage as he still hasn’t let go off me. Suddenly, I can see their departure day again. Their umpteenth fight because of me. My mother’s last words:
“I’m sorry honey, I did my best to include you in our lives…I can’t lose your father, I love him too much, but you’re a big girl now, you should do well on your own.”
Yeah sure! What bullshit she could have blurted out at me not to feel guilty. Thinking about it makes me nauseous. And me who had thought for months they would come back. What a fool I’ve been, wanting to see them again.
I think about my father. What a bastard! He’s always seen me as an obstacle between my mother and him, as if I was taking away the love that was meant for him, as if my mother was not able of loving us both. I remember my father’s look, so cold, so indifferent to me, when he contemplated my mother like the seventh wonder of the world. She often spoke about the ancient times, when nothing hampered their passion for each other. She had never said it, but I knew it was before my birth. Yet they wanted me, my mother even went through a treatment to have me.
And why am I thinking about this bullshit again? I got worked up enough with this, I promised myself to stop.
I feel Josh’s protective arms and again, images come to my mind. I see Oliver comforting and reassuring me like Josh is right now. Like all the klutzes I thought that him and me was something serious, that he would help me get through this ordeal. And the words he had told me a few days later come to slap me again.
“Sandre, I’m still young, I want to enjoy it and your problems…well, you see…it’s over.”
“But, what about prom?” I mumbled like an idiot too stupid to understand without being drawn a picture. How stupid I was at that time!
“I already asked Becca Harper.”
My best friend.
I stayed frozen in front of him like an idiot, unable to realize what had just happened. Abandoned by her folks, betrayed by her best friend, dumped by her boyfriend and all this in one week. That was the day I smashed my parents’ bedroom. How mad at them I was, but the truth is they did me a favor. Without them and their bullshit passion, I would still be a Marcy Shepard who naïvely thinks her boyfriend is saving himself for her when he’s screwing the school’s shrew. I’ve never seen Oliver again since that day and I’ve never set foot at my old school again. I’ve changed my style, my life, my everything.
24 — Josh
Observing the massacre I imagine the rage she was filled with when they abandoned her. I see her struggle between fear and anger in the middle of all this impressive mess. I wonder what kind of girl she was at the time. Was she more fragile, less on the defensive? She was popular, she told me that, but I have trouble seeing her that way. For me, she’s nothing but that entirely naked gorgeous creature playing with my hormones, the other one’s just a stranger hiding behind her darkened eyes and shapeless clothes. I eye her long dark hair anarchically spread on my chest, her heart violently pounding against my stomach. What is she thinking about?
All that rage is still palpable in that room and I can feel it hasn’t left her. It’s what makes her hold on, what allows her to move forward. It’s her strength and weakness at the same time and because of me, she’s crumbling in my arms. I don’t want her to suffer; I don’t want her to suffer because of me. I gasp imagining all the ordeals she’s been through. How could I not know what was hiding behind her big black hard eyes? I should have known it was nothing but a facade hiding her pain.
She breaths loudly against my arm and her pain invades me as if it was my own. I feel the loneliness she’s erected like a fortress against the world surrounding her. She drives us apart but I wish there was nothing to keep us apart anymore. It might seem crazy, we are nothing, and yet I want to be here for her. I need her as much as she needs me. I don’t know what it is between us, but it’s not just sex.
I hug her tighter as if this gesture could erase the asshole I’ve been to her. I would like her to tell me, to unload all the horrors she’s kept inside way too long, but I know she will not. She’s not yet ready to include me in her life. And why would she want an idiot like me, which has shamelessly taken advantage of her? It is stupid, but I already regret ruining it all when nothing has really started between us.
I try to find an insignificant question that could make her tell me more. And then it comes to me, just like that:
“What does Sandre mean?”
She sits up and I her crumbled face ridiculously breaks my heart. She scrutinizes me as if she wanted to know my deepest thoughts. I wonder if she manages to do it, and for the first time since we started hanging around, I would like her to.
“Still the same curious.” She comments giving me a faint smile which shows that she’s already put her shell back on.
I should be reassured. This is the Sandre that got me completely addicted, but tonight, after what happened, I would have liked to discover the real Sandre. The one that has suffered, that has probably spent hours crying, praying for them to come back. I brush against her lips with the tips of mine while she seems to be thinking. “It comes from French, cendre, which means ash. My mother loves Paris and French culture.”
I wait for the rest, but she doesn’t seem to want to explain more. She thinks I’m smart enough to understand the reason her mother had to choose the least appropriate foreign word to name her daughter.
“I’m the residue of a passion that has burned out a few days before my birth.”
She looks at me as if she had just made the most surprising revelation, but I still don’t get it. How can one consider the flesh of his flesh as residue? Her parents are monsters and I would like to have them in front of me to tell them all the horrors that come to my mind. I restrain my anger when she adds, almost exasperated:
“Come on, just get it already, because I know no simpler way to explain this.”
“Can’t you say something like: ‘They had a fight, they thought it was over and they gave me the stupid name of what is left after a bush fire?’”
“It’s just much less poetic that way.”
Is it possible that the rebel has an ounce of romanticism in her? And she has that kinky smile that always has a crazy effect on me. I know what she’s doing and I want her terribly, but tonight, I want no sex between us. I want to get closer to her, but in another way.
“And so…they ended up back together?” I insist as I feel her getting lost again in the contemplation of her massacre.
“Yes, several times.” She specifies turning away from me.
Her voice is no more than an inaudible whisper. She suddenly seems so fragile, as if it was painful to talk about them, yet I persist.
“I don’t get it. Why not take you with them? Why leave you here?”
“Kids are a pain in the ass! They take up space and time. My father has always hated me for standing between them.”
“But your mother…she.”
“You are starting to get on my nerves with your questions.” She says angrily, struggling in my arms.
I hold her tighter, I hold her until she calms down. I’m afraid she will reject me again and I make her face me by grasping her face in my hands. Tears have invaded her big dark eyes and my heart breaks on the spot. The pain twisting my stomach at this moment is beyond understanding. How can she overwhelm me like that?
With the tip of my lips I wipe down the teardrops running down her cheeks. I want to erase her pain, take it away from her. My kisses are more and more intense, more intense than I could have thought. I press my mouth against hers, as if this touch was a question of life and death for the both of us. Her lips are burning hot and salty. My tongue wanders into her mouth and I press my body against hers. I’ve never felt such an urgent need to feel her close to me, and my heart goes crazy when she reciprocates my embrace.
Sinder 1: Experimentation Page 15