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One Thing

The door to the bedroom swings open, banging against the dresser. Two grappling bodies stumble into the room, urgently dismantling clothing. He parts the buttons of her blouse and pushes her bra above her breasts. She slips his shirt over his head and parts his fly before shoving his trousers down past his thighs. 

Tongues laced with the bitter tang of liquor and smoke lash and clash, swirling around, squelching all intelligible words into extended groans, whimpers, and gasps. No matter. Conversation was exhausted long before they stormed the room. 

They fall onto the bed. She lands on his chest and belly, forcing the air from his lungs. He inhales deep, stealing the breath from her mouth as their lips continue to lock upon one another.

Eyes squeezed tight, they clutch at each other, fingers digging into flesh, tangling through hair.  She grinds her crotch against his, willing his underwear down with the incessant rub of her pelvis.  Through her jeans and damp panties she feels the vulgar drag of his hard cock beneath her, his dripping tip smearing the skin of her lower belly.  

They swear and curse at each other with garbled, growling voices through gritted teeth and hardened expressions. Engaged. Enraged. It’s a turbulent conflict of sex and desire.

She rears back, kneeling over him, straddling her thighs across his hips. He looks back up at her with an earnest gaze. It catches her off guard. For a moment, her lips tremble, her body seizes, a chink in her veneer of cold passion. She sucks it in. Like tossing gas on a bonfire, the moment of hesitation is torched.  Brows dipping sharply, a flare of anger descends from her eyes towards him. She wants to slap him but abstains. Instead, she rakes his chest with her fingernails for good measure. 

Taking up his cock, she shoves her crotch down upon him, sinking him deep within her with a harsh thrust. A gravelly gasp bursts from her mouth. A sneering “fuck” growls from his.

They bang their bodies together --a sharp collision of crotches-- each ensuring the stinging smack of damp flesh is felt by the other like the crack of a whip. Hips coil like gun hammers slamming forward, the clash just as stark and violent.  

He flips her over, shoving her to her knees and hands and slams her from behind with shuddering thrusts. She swears as if she’s being fucked by the devil, berating the temptation she has succumbed to with languishing moans.    

Overwhelmed by a wretched, undeniable lust, they toss and tussle together. The bed shakes and shudders beneath. The sheets tug off the corners, bunched into a wrinkled mess below their churning bodies. A feverish heat radiates from them, evident by the blistering red scratch marks they leave across their skin.  

She rolls over, legs splayed, taunting him for more, threatening rebuke if he offers less.  He pounces on her, shoving apart her thighs, bullying his cock deep inside and filling her with rapid, rough thrusts. He leans down to smother her mouth with his but she yanks at his hair, holding him back.  

They fuck hard. They fuck fierce. Her heels dig into the back of his thighs as she clenches upon on his throbbing cock, surging towards the edge. Their eyes squeeze shut tight, so hard their brows tremble and droplets of tears pinch out. They can’t look at each other, resist looking at each other. Neither can see anything but effervescent dots and blotches, electrified, erratic images that match their tormented thoughts.   

Every fibre feels tight, twisted, knotted numbing their senses and dulling reason. God, they want the desire to last forever even as they seek to end the pain, the frustration. With one last, anguished gasp he heaves forward, driving his hips against her, plunging his engorged shaft far into her soaking, warm cunt.  She feels him explode within her, each swollen pulse of his cock spitting his cum, filling her.  She arches back, pressing her belly up and lifting his weight with her body. With a harsh bellow, she spills her wet cum over his weeping cock.

Trembling, he lurches over her one last time, then collapses  --limp, exhausted... empty-- his face pressed into the wrinkled, damp sheets. He lies motionless. Maybe if he remains still, maybe he can hide from what comes next, evade the inevitable.

She doesn’t feel his weight upon her, his warm, slick skin pressed up against her, his once-solid erection flagging within her. Her eyes gaze up at the ceiling; it stares back --cold, white, wide, endless-- blank without texture. Her hands slip away from his back and fall to the bed.  

The electricity that tingled their nerves ebbs and fades in an instant.  

The numbness that gnawed at them throughout remains, a suffocating shroud.

Moments later, they sit on opposite sides of the bed, dressing in strangled silence. Nothing but the particles of dust silently float in the air between them mingling with the regretful blemishes etched in their skin… in their heads.

She looks out at the window as she buttons her blouse, watches the pink haze in the air as the sun sets.  A sigh attempts to escape her chest, but she stifles it, chokes it back. It would be the ripple that announced the flood, she knew.

Wading through a sombre cloud that engulfs them, they leave the room. He follows her down the stairs to the front door. She doesn’t turn around as he suddenly takes her hand from behind. He tries for a moment to envision the look on her face but fails. 

“Stay,” he says, looking at the floor.

Neither of them believe it, the word uttered with hollow conviction. Her ears had fallen deaf to his voice long ago.

She walks away. Her fingers numb to his touch, she doesn’t notice his hand slip away from hers, doesn’t see it drop to his side limp and lost. She runs for the taxi waiting on the road. Fumbling at the door handle, her lower lip trembles. Even as she sits down and shuts the door, the tears start to flow. She sobs without reservation.

Inside the house --the empty house-- he hears the taxi pull away but doesn’t watch it go. He’s already pouring the scotch. After he downs it in one blistering gulp, he slumps onto the sofa and buries his face in his hands.

As the distance between them increases by the second, they share the same torturous jumble of thoughts and emotions --the last they will ever share together-- drowning in them, punishing themselves with them.

It was exciting. It was wrong. It was awakening. It was agonizing. 

It was just fucking. It was just screwing. It was just sex. 

It was love. It was passion. It was lust. It was hate.

It was everything at the moment and ultimately nothing a fragile heartbeat after.

There was only one thing it wasn’t and could never be.


This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © All stories, characters, and situations are works of fiction and owned wholly by the author F.P.Rollins. The story in whole or in part may not be reproduced without the author's permission.

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