Frank Lee's Ethereal Lust
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Frank Lee Erotica
Everybody said it was my mother threw acid on my face because I was born freak ugly from the start. But it was never her. It was one of her junkie boyfriends she had back then. The one called himself Uncle Danny. I was already six and not a baby anymore. And it wasn't acid. It was cooking oil. The scars are from wet burns, not chemicals. Everybody just talks a lot of shit because everybody's got nothing else to say. It's just what they do. They only know whatever they know and it's always less than they think. They talk a lot of shit about me and Maisie, but it's never what they say.
I fell in love with Maisie Jones the first time I saw her lying on the floor in Eddie Waller's garage, naked, legs splayed open like a broken pair of angel wings and her pussy glistening from the first three boys in line. I learned a long time before this it was better not to lay out any hope on girls who were pretty. I knew Uncle Danny cut me out of that world the first time a girl looked at my face like a car crash her mother was in. But Maisie … even if I didn't know what it was, I knew she was made out of something else.
Early on I took to wearing baseball hats. They didn't cover all that much of my ugliness, but they made it so I didn't have to look people in the eye and vice versa. It's probably better people don't look each other in the eye so much anyway. You can see too much of what somebody's thinking, and I've never seen much good come of that.
It might've been well enough to go around with just the burn, but by the time I was sixteen I was six-four and counting. With a body like a dump truck and a face like week-old roadkill you don't belong in a world of pretty business. So I stayed away from school as much as I could get away with. I started going to the library. You could read more books there anyway, and you could read what you please. Nobody was trying to sell you ideas about what you're supposed to be interested in or good at. It was a better education than school.
If I wasn't in the library I'd walk around town at night or go off in the woods during the day. Sometimes there'd be animals and certainly plenty of birds. None of them cared about me one way or another. One day I found a fox suffering in a trap with a bloody foot. It was breathing fast and looked panicked when I came up on it. We studied each other a while and I knew it was too afraid of me to want me touching it. It was beautiful and pitiable. I didn't know enough about animals to know if the foot would ever heal, but it was the first time I ever saw anything like myself in any other creature.
The only other foxes I ever saw were free and far away, keeping to their own. I had a feeling she'd try to defend herself if I tried to help her free. She was just a little thing in my estimation. And every time my eyes lay down on that clutch of metal jaw around it's leg I felt an inexplicable rage fire through my blood.
I took a bottle of water out of my backpack and knelt down. Poured some on the trapped foot, then on the animal's mouth. She lapped out with her tongue, scooping in as much as she could. After that I lay my hand over her neck and felt her wild breathing. Her throat vibrated with a low growl but I just kept my hand there, steady, not hard enough to hurt her, only enough to let her know I had the strength to break her neck should such a thing become necessary.
I didn't know what I was doing. Neither did the fox.
The trap wasn't all that hard to pull open. I got it off the animal's foot and let it snap shut again. Then I poured more water on the bad foot and put the mouth of the bottle closer to her mouth and let her drink it all.
After that I backed away and sat against a tree. The fox lay a while longer but finally got up and tested all four of her legs. She didn't put weight on the bad one but it seemed like she'd probably be okay. She limped away and never looked at me.
I got up and pulled up the spike and chain with the trap. I started whipping it against a tree. I whipped it harder every time, until I imagined the tree was Uncle Danny and the shitty little trap started to break up. It took a minute or two to get my breath back, and then I hung the chain on a tree branch with the broken pieces hanging down.
Pulling the knife out of my belt sheath, I carved a message on the side of the tree for whenever the trapper came to check. Never. Come. Back.
Who knows if it made any difference, but I never found another trapped animal in those woods after that.
Not so long after I turned sixteen I started drawing pictures. It happened because of June, the blonde lady who worked at the library.
It was a small library, but it didn't seem that way back then. It felt like there were enough books with enough stories and ideas in them to keep a two hundred fifty pound shadow like me occupied forever. That's how I found out another thing I don't think they cared if I learned it in school. There was another pair of eyes in my brain that could see a thousand possible worlds other than the one I lived in.
June never bothered me. She even smiled a few times and did a passable job of not staring at my face. I never trusted she meant it because no one else who ever smiled at me meant it either so why should she? But one day when it was quiet she came over to the table where I was reading this book about a guy who murders an old lady and ends up getting caught after he falls in love with a religious whore.
"That's one of my favorites," she said.
She made me think of that fox that time in the woods, being a slender animal too easy to break. I was trying to keep from looking at her face.
"Yeah. It's good." I looked down and waited for her to go.
"You think he should've killed that old lady?" she asked.
I shook it again. I could feel her eyes on the melted half of my face and my neck felt hot.
"You don't think she had it coming?" the librarian pressed.
"Yeah, maybe. Just wasn't his choice to make." I looked at her without thinking about it. The smile was up in her eyes so I decided to trust it. By then I'd read a hundred or so books, but I never talked to anyone about anything I read. It almost seemed like it rearranged the book in my mind. "He's kind of a weakling, I think. Fuckin' drama queen, if you ask me."
I had to pause and apologize for the cuss but June looked more interested in what I thought about that book.
"So you think he's overreacting to his experience?"
I frowned. "I dunno. I just know he doesn't have the constitution to be a criminal. He screws up left and right, and the girl…all that religious stuff of hers isn't gonna help either one of 'em. People like that…they won't last another seven years."
"You don't think she'll be there for him?" she asked.
"Hmmm. I don't know. I really don't know."
I spent a lot time looking at June's face after that. She was the only person I knew who looked back without flinching. I felt her looking at my eyes more than my face. After a while, I decided she was pretty even if her prettiness was mostly hidden behind the awkward way she carried herself. But she talked to me like she never thought there was anything wrong with my brain, and that made her seem prettier in a way I could never explain.
We sat and talked about a lot of the books I went there to read. I started to sit on the other corner of the table so she had to sit on my good side. It seemed like the least I could do. We talked about that book where a guy is sitting in a slaughterhouse basement while airplanes bomb the city where he's being held prisoner. For a while I was just reading ancient stories. I think those were my favorites. The complications were easier to recognize in my real life, whatever that was.
One day I was reading about the guy who fell in love with himself while this girl who loved him wasted away until there was nothing left of her but her own echo. It wasn't like it was that great a story, and I certainly didn't have a lot of room for a guy so pretty he falls in love with himself. As far as I was concerned the story was all about the girl, and she was the reason I started crying.
The next thing I knew June was sitting down beside me. She put her hand on my arm and asked if I was okay. I flinched when she touched me but she didn't take her hand away.
"It's nothing. Just a stupid story."
She sighed. With her hand on my arm it felt like I sighed too. She looked at the book lain open on the table where I'd been reading. We sat like that a while. No one came in. It was just us like it usually was that late in the day.
"I fell in love with a boy like him too. Long time ago. I even wasted away like I was nothing…like the girl in the book."
"You're not like her at all." I couldn't help looking at her. I didn't understand how so many people had so many wrong ideas about what they are. Being as much of nothing right and everything wrong as I was, I figured I'd already seen what people were like on the fringes of themselves.
"Maybe not now. Not so much as I used to. But you're nothing like him, either."
"That's not it," I told her. "I'm her, not him. I'm already wasted away but I never got to fall in love with anybody."
As soon as I said it I wished I hadn't.
"Oh William."
She probably didn't know that everyone who called me anything either called me Willy or Monster. But she was sitting on the good side and I started to feel better about crying in front of her. I didn't remember ever crying before. They said I didn't even cry over the thing with Uncle Danny. I just remember screaming and feeling this rage that went shooting off in every direction.
I felt a different kind of rage sitting there with June's hand on my arm and her leaning down with her forehead against my shoulder. It was like a soft rage. I think it was the discovery of a loneliness so bone deep even dying wouldn't wipe it off. I suddenly realized I was okay with it. Loneliness was the companion that kept me standing up inside myself. I started to feel sorry for June. Even though she had a wedding ring, it was easy to see how lonely she was and I think it was something she didn't know how to do.
"William."
She whispered it this time and I put my arm around her shoulder. It was even harder to touch than be touched. Something I didn't know how to do without breaking something.
I knew June didn't love me. Not like Echo loved Narcissus. But I told her I loved her anyway even though I didn't. She said my name again and then I made her promise to tell me if anyone ever did anything bad to her so I could break them.
She lifted her head off my shoulder. Her eyes were full of wet and looked like glass. She could see both sides of my face now but she kept trained on my eyes. Her hand moved from my arm to my thigh. Her fingers pressed into the meat inside my leg high up close to my crotch. Everything inside me turned into smoke. It was like someone was touching my life behind my body.
My cock inflated. It happened fast and went hard as a tree in my pants. June felt it, and just when I thought she was going recoil she dropped her hand over the lump. She didn't look at my face now. She just kept tracing her fingers over the shape of my bulge.
When she pulled on my zipper she looked at me again and leaned closer. I turned so she only had the good side. Her hand fumbled around until it got inside my shorts and curled around my shaft. Seemed like it barely made it all the way around but she started doing this thing where she was squeezing and stroking at the same time and it felt immense.
My own heart became a total stranger. It seemed like there was a whole library of things I should've been saying to June but I couldn't speak. I felt stupid just gasping like I was. She had me overpowered and I never wanted to feel anything else.
The way her hand kept moving over my skin made it feel like it was made out of something else. Something better. Something that wasn't me, half melted and full of hate and anger. Her lips were on my ear and the rush of her breath came in deafening pulses. My head went back and I heard the scrape of her chair legs on the floor as she shuffled closer. I wanted her to take my cock out and stroke me in the open air but didn't dare say a word to shatter the moment.
Her chair scraped again, hand moving faster on my shank and her lips were back on my ear again.
"Someone important is going to love you like Echo."
As if to say, it's not me but somebody you're going to love back and I'm just here to keep you walking the same earth you're going to find her on and until that day keep that heart beating with love under all the layers of rage ….
Then I heard my own chair scraping the floor and my feet shooting out while pure feeling without a shape shot off through my cock and spattered June's hand and the inside of my pants with mud.
I sat there breathless and couldn't look at June. She kept her hand in my pants a little longer, just calmly caressing me. Then it withdrew. She got up after a while and walked away without another word. The sound of her steps across the floor was slow and somehow fragile.
A few days later I went back. I was reading a book about these two guys that meet on the street in a big city and become so close they're like lovers except they never fuck. One of them can't anyway because he's too sick. But the story wasn't about that. I think it was just about the formlessness of love but I'm only guessing about that.
June came over and leaned against the table. "They made a movie out of that one, you know."
"I can see the movie just fine in my head."
"Those are the best of all."
The library was empty, as it was most times, and there was about a half hour before it closed. June left for a minute and when she came back, she took the book out of my hands and led me by the hand around behind the main desk into a room behind. There was a desk and chair, and a table in the middle piled with stacks of books.
"William, could you help me move these books off the table into those boxes?"
It didn't take long. Books are just as light as paper. And when I got the last of them moved off the table, June sat on top of it and lifted her dress up around her thighs. She started unbuttoning the front of her dress. She pulled it off her shoulders one arm at time and then took off her bra. Her breasts were pale except for a few freckles. Her nipples were a kind of pale brown and hard.
"Come closer, William. Come touch me."
I looked around, suspicious of I don't know what.
"It's okay. I locked the door. We're closing a little early tonight."
I got hard already. This wasn't anything I was used to. I went up close to the table and June had to open her legs wider to fit me in between. She took my hands and put them on her breasts. They felt so warm and soft I was afraid. I didn't know if they were beautiful breasts, but I knew they were beautiful enough just for being breasts.
"I don't want to hurt you," I said.
"I know, William. What would you say if I told you you're the gentlest person I've ever known?"
"I'm not gentle."
She sighed and her breasts moved against my hands like they were alive.
"You're gentle now," she said. "So gentle, even though you could break me in half if you wanted to."
"But I don't want to. I'd never do that."
"I know. That's what makes you so gentle. Touch me like you want me to touch you."
My hands moved then. Her breasts had seemed bigger until I touched them. They practically disappeared under my hands except her flesh kept moving with my grip while I felt them, testing them with my fingers. Every time I think I squeezed a little too hard June would gasp and I'd back off.
"I won't break," she said. "Your hands feel so nice."
So I kept massaging her breasts while my cock strained against my pants. June touched me through my clothes, fingers tracing the shape of my cock through them. It felt like she was discovering something she already knew was there. Something new but familiar. I felt weak – like my body was about to turn into glass and shatter all over the floor – but I squeezed her nipples hard so she wouldn't notice. She gasped and bit her bottom lip. I never saw a woman smile and bite her lip at the same time. I wanted to die and come back as something as beautiful as that.
"Don't you want to kiss me, William?"
"Kiss me, baby."
Only my mother ever called me that before and that was only when she was coming out of a fresh nod. You there, baby? Did you hide Mama's cigarettes again?
I almost recoiled but June reached up and put her hand on the back of my head. She pulled me in and we put our lips together. It was only later on I'd stop to wonder if she'd ever kissed a thing as ugly as me. Her mouth opened so I opened mine, too. Her tongue swirled in along with a hot rush of breath and my heart exploded.
When I kissed June back there was this foreign sensation like we were having a conversation. Like we were still talking about some book that meant nothing more than something better to talk about than the weather.
Everything inside my pants was dripping and hard. And we kissed. We kissed like we were made for it. Born to it. Slaves to the juncture of one mouth to another. I forgot to keep feeling her breasts and wrapped my arms around her. She felt so small and so alive. She made me think about that fox that time and how beautiful things can be so easily crushed.
Whenever I got angry I broke things. My strength always controlled me. But when I was kissing June I was overcome with this strange awareness of every cell. I held her so nothing could ever get in where she was but so she knew she get out.
She reached for one of my wrists. Her hand couldn't wrap around it all the way but she brought it between us and shoved it under her dress. I touched her through her panties. She felt like summer. The most humid days that wilt everything. She whimpered and gasped in my mouth when I ground my fat fingers over the tender flesh under that sodden fabric. I just grabbed onto the crotch of them and pulled until they ripped away from her body. They landed on the floor somewhere behind me when I shoved my hand back under her dress and fingered those wet folds of silky skin.
I reared up and pulled her dress higher with my other hand. I wanted to look at her pussy and see my fingers pushing at her lips and grinding over her pearl. I wanted to watch my finger slip inside her and distort the shape of her slit.
It struck me how a woman's pussy is like a scar, too, in a way. But a beautiful scar. As if a flower was like a scar. Everything was wet like flowing honey and velvet. That's when I realized everything that isn't female is doomed to be something else, and never something as good.
When my finger went inside her she started squirming on the table. Her hands fluttered in between us to get my pants open. My cock fell into both of her hands. She felt me all over. My granite shank and balls.
"God, William, just fuck me."
I couldn't talk and breathe at the same time. I had that dying part down by now, but a long way to go to the coming back as something beautiful part.
My finger slid back from her pussy. My body arched forward, following the way she was pulling my cock toward her hole. It looked small and delicate, even if there was a wild ferocity about it too. The dome of my cock stretched her all out of proportion when she plugged me into the mouth of her pussy. I started pushing in and this sound came out of her throat that sounded like somebody else. I had to look at her face to make sure it was still her.
I watched her eyes the whole time my cock was grinding inside her. It was harder than I thought it would be. She had never been made to be fucked by a monster. I felt bad for her despite this look she had like there was all this poison suddenly leaving her body.
I was holding my hand in the air because my finger was smeared with her syrup and I didn't want to touch her and get her messy. She grabbed my wrist and brought my hand to her mouth. Then she sucked on my wet finger while my cock went deeper. Her glasses were crooked and her pussy almost felt like another hand.
My ass started to shuffle back and forth, driving my cock in and out of June in long strokes. Everything was just a wet, slippery scraping sensation. Her heels started banging against my ass so I kept going along with the pace it seemed like she wanted.
She spat my finger out of her mouth and started huffing to breathe. Her eyes were on me but she wasn't afraid. I just kept stroking my cock into her body, and it wasn't long before the table was scaping along the floor. I kept fucking until the table came up to the wall and stopped. June rocked her hips and fucked back at me. I started touching her breasts again and she fucked back even harder.
We both started to sweat and she felt like she was rippling violently inside her pussy. The ripples went through my cock like we were part of the same body. Everything suddenly went hotter and wetter and there was cum pouring out of me deep into June.
In that moment, I got the coming back as something beautiful part. I knew it wasn't going to last, but I would always know what it was and that it was a real thing.
June's head was tossed back and shaking from side to side until her glasses fell off. Then there was this stillness. It felt like the library was made of glass. My cock stayed hard and inside June a while longer, but it finally relaxed and slipped free.
Later, when I was walking home I punched a car. The whole hood buckled in and the guy driving it stared at me like the monster I really am. I knew June couldn't make me into something better even if she thought there was a chance.
I was just walking and thinking about everything that had happened. Everything I'd felt. The scent of June's hair was in my head as deep as my own brain. Stepping out to cross a street, a car started out and hit me in the hip. It wasn't hard. The guy behind the wheel just shrugged and said, "Hey I didn't see you."
Standing in front of his car they could see my face when I turned to them head on. The guy and his wife suddenly looked horrified.
Everyone was back in the shit and I screamed at him to watch where he was going. Then I raised my fist and brought it down on the hood of the car as hard as I could. When the metal sank in, the guy and his wife just gaped at me like some kind of mistake. I didn't know there were kids in the back until they started crying.
I started running. I didn't care about the driver or his wife, but I never wanted to scare any kids. In some other universe I might've been one of those kids in a car just like that, with a father driving us somewhere and mother who didn't leave spent syringes on the coffee table. By the time I got home I was angry with June for making me feel like something I was never meant to be.
I went in the trailer and my mother was on the couch, just coming out of a fresh nod. "'Zat you, baby? D'jou hide Mama's cigarettes again?
It was a week before I went back to the library. June wasn't there and she never came back. There was a lady named Miriam with a face that made her look angry all the time. But she had a nice voice. She never sat with me, but after a while she'd tell me when new books came in, and I'd read them from beginning to end.
I started drawing people's faces not long after that. It began with June, only because I didn't want to forget what she looked like. After a while I started drawing attractive faces of people I saw. Always strangers. Miriam caught sight of my sketchbook one day and told me about a friend she had who taught art at the state university. She helped me research how to legally declare myself my own guardian. I quit school entirely, which was barely noticeable to anyone.
I passed all the tests for my equivalency and became an art major at the university by the time I was seventeen. I still took long walks in town at night so no one could see my face, and I started going down to the old, abandoned junk yard at the edge of town and practiced flipping cars. If they were rotted out enough I could flip them over onto the roof. The smart cars weren't too hard to flip after a while.
Down at the junkyard I started drawing pictures of broken things. Cars rusted down to the shell. With some help from my professors, some of my drawings started to sell and they convinced me to start painting.
In August of my eighteenth year, there were parties going on at people's houses all over town. All the people I would've graduated with if my face hadn't melted off were celebrating. Some going off to college. Some just to work jobs that would anesthetize them some day.
I set out to walk through town and maybe listen to a few parties from a distance. I certainly didn't have any intention of running into any of the kids I'd known before, and I sure didn't count on running into anyone like Maisie Jones. After June and those crying kids I was done with all that. I even pretended there was a choice.
I was doing a pretty good job of keeping to the shadows when I ran into Chucky Lamont. He was smoking a joint by himself on the sidewalk diagonally across the street from Eddie Waller's house. There was a party going on behind the house around a medium sized pit fire. The Wallers' garage was all lit up too and there were voices coming out of it. There were cries and whoops the nature of which made me want to keep walking.
"Dude," Chucky said when he saw me, as if I were hard to miss. "Where you been? Heard you were dead, man. Want some?"
I shook my head and he put the joint back to his lips. I wondered if he remembered spitting at me the last time we'd seen each other.
"Hey, man, you remember that…"
"Okay, man, whatever." He shrugged.
I thought about asking him what he was going to be doing now, but finally thought not to. I was ready to keep on going when a big, dope-laced grin crossed his face.
"Man, you gotta see this," he said. "It's gonna blow your mind. And if you want, she'll even blow you."
He was laughing all the way across the street. I don't know why I followed him. There was nowhere else to go. Maybe being around people wouldn't have been so bad for a change. But as soon as I thought it I realized I was wrong.
Chucky banged his fist on the garage door. Eddie Waller's face popped up in the window. Then he disappeared just as fast and opened the door just long enough for me and Chucky to go inside. The air was dank with a blend of beer, sweat and human strain.
All I could see of Maisie were a pair of legs splayed out under the bare ass of a grunting man-boy still wearing a T shirt with his pants bunched around his ankles. His ass was pale and kept flexing to a spastic humping motion that looked like he was having a seizure. There was a threadbare square of carpet on the floor underneath them that was spotted with stains.
Two other guys were standing close enough to watch the fucking. They were both wearing T shirts and no pants, with hard cocks lifting their shirt hems. Two more were sitting on a beat-up couch. Neither of them was wearing pants either, but they were holding plastic cups of beer in one hand and their cocks in the other.
"Willy," Eddie said, mercifully not pretending he was glad to see me. "Heard you were dead."
"No, you didn't."
"Whatever." He shrugged. "How'd you hear about our little party?"
"Chucky."
"Great idea to bring the freak in, Chuck."
Chucky gave Eddie a bleary grin. "Aww, c'mon, Eddie. Don't be like that. 'Sides, it'll be fun to watch him rip a hot chunk outta Maisie."
The two laughed and nodded.
"Had any pussy lately?" Eddie asked, still laughing. "Or ever? Don't worry, Miasie'll get you off no problem."
Obviously they assumed I'd be desperate enough to get in line just to fuck some strange girl on the floor while they laughed and talked shit about everybody but themselves. I probably was, but I had no intention of going through with any of it.
That's when the guy on the floor started to cum. He arched his back and howled like he was getting his hair pulled.
"Way to fuck that bitch," one of the guys on the couch laughed.
The second the one on the floor was done he jumped up and pumped his fists. There was a condom full of mud stuck to his dick. He raised one hand like he wanted to high-five somebody but nobody looked interested in high-fiving a guy with a condom full of mud stuck to his dick.
I cocked my head and looked down at Maisie before the next guy in line took the last guy's place. Her skin looked to be shining with that kind of moisture whatever they call it before it qualifies as outright sweat. She looked like her breasts and thighs were too big for the rest of her. She had steel colored eyes that seemed to have no business in a girl with a complexion that dark, and a tangled mane of burnt brown hair fanning around her head as she looked off to the side, absently chewing on a fingernail.
She seemed like a tired wife listening to a husband she didn't love anymore tell some lifeless story she'd stopped hearing a long time ago. Her eyes drifted up at me a second or two, noticing someone new had come to get in line, and then back to the distance she'd been staring into. I had my hat on so my face was in shadow, but my size didn't seem to faze her in the least.
There was so much about her that was wrong and out of place I don't think I'd ever seen anything so beautiful. I decided to hang out a while, but not to fuck her. I wanted to memorize her and draw everything that would be stuck to my brain later on.
One of the guys who'd been standing when I got in went down between her legs and pulled a rubber over his dick. I could tell they'd never seen each other before. The guy was grinning around at the rest of us while he sank his cock in Maisie's pussy and started jabbing into her like she wasn't even there. The two boys who'd been on top of her so far since I'd gone into the garage fucked like squirrels.
I studied Maisie, watching the fine bones of her face converge in the unlikeliest of ways, her breasts heaving to the jerky lunging of the boy between her legs, and wondered what she was getting out of it all. Maybe they were paying her, or giving her dope or alcohol. Maybe she was waiting for some kind of awakening, either hers or somebody else's. Or maybe she was just another junkie.
She was surrounded by a veil of ether, letting those boys fuck her like she wasn't there because she wasn't. Her body was there, but the rest of her was walking around in some other dream. That's when I started getting hard. The girl on the floor was me.
I kept watching her and the other guys in the garage started to disappear. My cock swelled with a burning need. I needed what she had. The weird peace inside her. Her face looked like mine felt when I was drawing. My cock was so hard Eddie started laughing.
"Looks like you better go next, freak, or you're gonna bust your zipper."
Chucky looked at the front of my pants and laughed maniacally for a long time. "Fuck, man, you're gonna send that bitch to the hospital."
Maisie just kept staring off to the side like she was waiting for a train.
"Shut the fuck up," I told Chuck and Eddie.
They both laughed again but they kept their mouths shut. The guy on top of Maisie started to cum, and the second he was finished he got off her as fast as he could. Chucky and Ed started pushing at me to go next, hoping to see a freak show. A brief argument flared up between them and the two other guys who expected to be next in line. They both jumped up off the couch with their cocks wagging like a pair of cartoon characters.
My hands were moving on their own to get my clothes off. I kept my hat on to hide as much of my face as I could. It was the only kindness I had to show the girl on the floor.
When I got down between her legs she finally took notice and looked up at me briefly.
"You're a big one."
It looked like she almost smiled but it was too faint and too quick to be clear.
"Yeah," I mumbled. "I guess."
I tucked my balls up against her pussy with my cock lying on her belly. She looked down at it like she was thinking of how far up inside her it was going to go. Her hand came down and her fingers raked over the length. I let out some breath. June was the last one to touch me and I almost wished I was somewhere else but the heat of Maisie's skin on the underbelly of my cock was making it so I couldn't move.
Somebody's hand whipped by my head and flipped my baseball hat off. The squirrels around us all laughed.
"Show Maisie what a handsome fucker you are," Chucky snickered.
She saw me now and I turned my head so she couldn't see it all. I wished I'd put my cock in her by then because now it was never about to happen.
"Look at me," she said. Slowly, I turned my face full on toward her. She was smiling. "C'mere, baby. Closer." I leaned down. "Turn your face that way."
I did, giving her the bad side. It wasn't like I had much to say what with the way she was breathing and making her body undulate softly against my dick.
"You're actually really handsome," she whispered so the others couldn't hear. "It's just scars is all. It's not your real face. It's not who you are."
"You don't know who I am."
"I know you're like me. I can tell."
Then she put her hand on the back of my head and put her lips on the bad side of my face and kissed me. It was the first time anybody kissed my face since the thing and it was the first time I was ever afraid of anything. There was this little rush of her breath and the way her lips kind of squirmed and fluttered over the rough parts of my skin. It felt like some kind of a special thing someone like me only ever got by stealing. One of the squirrels made a cartoon retching sound.
I pushed up higher on my arms and looked at her from there. She smiled all the way up to her eyes. Then she rolled her body to the side and nodded down toward her ass and hip. There was a long, thick scar running over her haunch and down the back of her thigh.
"See? We're the same," she said.
I studied her scar a while. Then her face some more. I hunched down and put the bad side of my face up against the scar on her ass and hugged her body. I rubbed my scar against hers, just scraping the rough parts of our skin. She touched the top of my head and I heard a couple of the guys laugh.
"Hurry up and just fuck her," somebody said.
Somebody else tossed a condom packet that landed on Maisie's belly. I moved up and started to rip it open and she reached up and put her hand over mine, stopping me. She shook her head.
"You don't have to."
"Neither do you," I told her.
"I know." And then that fucking half a smile.
I tossed the packet aside. She reached down and wrapped her hand around my cock. She had bigger hands than June. Her fingers slid over my shank like she was reading braille, then curled around it and pushed me into her pussy. When I started to push inside her I saw this thing flash in her eyes like she was going to sleep and waking up at the same time. Her head arched back and she raised her legs. Looking down, I watched the way my cock peeled her lips apart and mashed inside her. She crooned something out of her throat. The sound lasted until I bottomed out.
Heat flushed around my cock as she looked up at me. I pulled back, almost all the way out of her, and pushed back in. She made that throat sound again, and just about every time I pulled and pushed back. Her body gripped me tight and she started to move with me. I started to forget there was anybody else there despite the brain-dead filth they were saying. Every time someone said freak or bitch the words just bounced off my back. They couldn't get through.
Maisie was looking at my face like it was normal. Like I was someone she knew. There was a girl on the carpet now, not just the beautiful shell that was there before. The motion of our bodies seemed to merge into urgent, sweat-dripping synch. I'd never seen the ocean before, but the way her hips arched with mine made me think that's what it would be like. The lathery slip and scrape of my cock inside her was making us breathless.
I lowered my head and sucked her nipples each in turn. Her fingers clawed through my hair in back. Without thinking how bad it was I moved up and kissed her. She kissed me back like the other half of my face didn't even exist. Her tongue shoved into my mouth while her lips crawled over mine. Everything was nothing but this blue fire burning all around us. There were voices out beyond the flames but it was all just dead white noise.
Somewhere I started to become aware that my cock was pulling out nearly to the tip every time and shoving back into her living, blue-fire body with the kind of desperation I read about in books. But I was right there and feeling it, and Maisie was crying and throwing everything back at me. She started hugging my lunging body with her legs and fuck if there wasn't this ocean of honey rippling inside her.
Someone howled and I think it was me. But there was another voice mixed in with the sound. A girl's voice. Maisie's voice. She was cumming and banging her heels against my ass. Some low rumble that felt like it was rattling my bones came out of my body when my cock burst and we looked at each other like there was nothing but silence everywhere.
We kept on kissing for a long time after. Sometime the silence started to fade back and someone was making that retching sound again.
"Hey, man, if you knew how many cocks she's already had in that mouth tonight you wouldn't…"
It was Eddie. I jumped up and grabbed him by the throat before he could finish.
I let him go. I didn't want to. I wanted to school him on something basic.
The guy who thought he was next in line started to get down between Maisie's legs but she told him she was done. He started to argue and then the others jumped in, too. I grabbed the first one by the neck and yanked him to his feet. Then I shoved him backward one-handed and he went all the way back onto the couch. The others circled around me puffing up like birds do when they want to look big.
I stepped under the work light hanging down from a rafter so they could all see my face. I was naked, ugly and towering over them all, looking each of them in the eye one at a time. One started to come forward but my arm shot out and I pointed a finger at his face and said, "No."
Maisie went to the corner where her clothes were piled on the floor. Panties. Stretch jeans and a tank top. I stood between her and the others while she got dressed. A couple times I felt her holding onto my shoulder for balance. After she was done I got dressed and went to pull the door up. We walked out together and I pulled the door back down. There were voices hurling shit at the door behind us while we walked away.
We didn't talk for a while but just kept walking. Maisie grabbed my hand and we walked like that.
"Where are we going?" she asked after a while.
I stopped suddenly. "Shit. I forgot my hat."
She reached up and touched my face. "You don't need it."
We started walking again. "Ever been down the old junkyard?"
"You gonna be there?"
"Then let's go."
She hugged on my arm the rest of the way. She never said a word about how long it took to get there on foot. I offered to carry her but she said she liked us walking like we were. I said so did I.
There was an old Cadillac that still had some paint left on it. I hammered my fist on it a few times just to flush out any animals that might've been holed up inside. The metal didn't buckle in like that other car with the crying kids in the back. Even I couldn't dent an old Caddy.
We sat side by side on the trunk and I told Maisie about those kids and how I could still hear them. She said it still bothered me because I was one of them. And so was she. I nodded. I told her about June and she told me about a hundred faceless vultures.
I put my arm around her and smelled her hair. There was still a little of Eddie's garage there, but mostly shampoo and sweat.
"Can I draw you sometime?"
"Draw me?"
"Pictures and such."
"Oh." She didn't say anything else and I took it to mean she thought it would be okay. Then after a while she said, "So you're like an artist or something?"
I nodded. It felt good to have something else to be. I didn't bother saying how artists are just a bunch of fakes, that there were beautiful things all over the place and the only thing artists do is show off something they saw somewhere and pretend to be responsible.
"You wanna draw me naked?"
I shrugged. "Maybe not. I'm a little afraid of that."
"Baby, you can probably figure how many people seen me naked."
"Not like I see it. If I showed somebody else what I see when I look at you … I dunno. I feel like I wanna have secrets with you."
She hugged my arm tight and put her head on my shoulder. After a while we took our clothes off and put them on the roof of the car. She leaned back and I ate her pussy on the trunk. She came alive again, but not the same way she did back in Eddie's garage. She held my head and kissed me back hard with her pussy.
After we fucked again, we lay back naked on the car. We talked a lot but there were long silences where it felt like we were still talking instead of tracing each other's skin with our fingers and listening to the tree frogs. We pretended like all the junked cars were shining and new and that we owned all of them. We were still talking when the sun came up. I hadn't talked that much to anyone since I used to talk to June about reading books. But this wasn't like that. It was more like we were writing one.
As always, thanks for taking your time to read. If you haven't already, please take a moment to see my offerings on Frank Lee's Amazon page. Peace.
Posted: September 23, 2018 in Uncategorized
**brand new flash erotica from Frank Lee**
She leaned against the sink, not looking at him.
"So I was thinking…"
The frosted plexiglass of the shower steamed up while the water running over his ears made everything sound like it was going under.
Sometimes her voice made him think of liquid pouring into an empty cup. But she was searching. Her head went into that tilt it did when she was reaching for the end of a sentence she hadn't thought all the way through. The silence in between, like now, for her, was like an uncomfortable chair you're constantly shifting around in.
Sometimes she even lied about things that happened during the day just to have something to tell him at the end. After a while, when he'd spot her eyes making that circuit around the four corners of the ceiling he knew. But he never called her out. Only smiled, nodded, told her she must have had some kind of day.
He watched her head tilt back the other way through the murky glass. Thick, soapy fingers ran over the scar on his ribcage, then touched the one on his shoulder. Her skin was fine and unscored. The white T shirt she was wearing didn't cover much of her slender legs, one crossed in front of the other. Her dark hair was gathered in a thick twist near the top of her head.
The silence was only a few seconds, but she was riding that tiny river of time like she had a say in whatever way it ended up turning. There had to be a thousand times he wanted to tell her time would twist her into something scored and bruised beyond loving. But who the fuck ever needed to lay that much truth on anybody they were supposed to love?
Her legs looked distorted through the imitation glass but his memory fleshed out his vision with the reality of her skin. His soapy hand moved to his cock. He started stroking and gazed at the half real/half distorted view of her legs. He was going to say something to fill the space but he was getting thick.
She was looking at her feet. Contemplating them like something was wrong with the shape of her ankles.
"Yeah? Thinking?" he said like he was adding to a conversation that actually existed. His cock kept getting thicker. Harder. Her legs. Jesus. Who the fuck was she anyway?
"Yeah. Thinking maybe we could drive up to Julian tomorrow. Walk around. Buy an apple pie. You know how I love it there. Everything is so…green. We could go to that dessert shop you like."
She was the one who liked the dessert shop. He liked it because they'd sit across a tiny table from each other with their knees bumping and he could watch her push sugary things into her mouth with a plastic fork. Flecks of powdered sugar would stick to her lips and vicious obscenities would ruin his mind. She'd be chewing on something and look up and catch him looking and she'd chew and smile at the same time while the corners of her eyes crinkled and lit up places inside him that never saw light before.
He pulled open the shower door and stood in the open space, openly stroking his hard on while he stared at her legs, starting from her ankles and moving up.
She looked up and caught him. The second she saw what he was doing she averted her eyes like she'd never seen it before.
"Oh for fuck's sake," she said. "I mean really. Can't you ever take me seriously?"
When she turned to walk out he stepped out of the stall and grabbed her wrist, pulling her back, dragging her into the shower. Her resistance was weak. The spray soaked her T shirt and the dark roast brown of her nipples started to show through the fabric. The big, thick twist of hair on top of her head got wet and sagged.
It was nothing that new, but she had this thing in her wide eyes how she looked at him and he couldn't understand if it was that she knew his name but didn't know what he was or knew what he was but didn't know his name.
He took her by the shoulders and turned her around so she was facing the fake glass. He pulled up the bottom of the T shirt and lay the fat shank of his cock between her ass cheeks. Then he reached around her hip and cupped her tiny pussy in his rough, massive hand. Two of his fingers were wider than her slit. He rubbed at her lips. She went wet and whimpered like she was complaining.
"There's things I need you to understand about taking you seriously." He curled his fingers up into her pussy, straight into her sweet spot. Behind her he held the end of his cock against her asshole and stroked his shank.
"No. Not there. Never there," she said. "I just…ride to Julian…"
She was this pure, tiny thing folding into him. He kept grinding the pads of his fingers against her spot. Cock nudging her rosebud and not pushing any harder. Just. Stroking. So. Fucking. Hard.
He was afraid to go inside. Not for ruining her. But her ruining him. He was pumping himself so hard his fist was ramming against her ass and the base of his cock. She whimpered and started to cum, flushing all around his fingers. He punished his cock against her bud and flushed cum around her ring with filth-tainted grunts.
They sat on the floor of the stall with their legs entwined, leaning against opposite walls. Cum and suds swirled around the drain.
"A drive up Julian," he said. "Could be nice."
"So green," she said. "Get a pie.
Dark roast brown of her nipples dotted the shirt. Her eyes cast up at the nozzle like it was about to rain for a thousand years.
As always, thanks for reading. More stories available on Amazon if you'd like to read more.
Little Dog and Mrs. Drake
Rosalia found the dog right around mid-afternoon a couple miles past the iron scorpion. The studio was in the garage stall of an old service station. The doors were open and the space was full of scrap metal and half-finished sculptures. Everything smelled like burnt iron. It was a hundred and five but he was leaning over welding one chunk of scrap to another. She didn't want to shout over the hiss of the torch so she waited in the wide-open doorway in front of her car. Before long she ran out of things to focus on. He had a birth mark on his elbow so she ended up focusing on that for a while. There was something familiar about it, and when she realized where she'd seen it before she decided to get back in her car and leave before he figured out someone was there.
Then the torch cut off with a pop.
He straightened and pushed the mask up from his face. He still seemed to think he was alone so she cleared her throat and he turned around. He was blinking as if she were made out of sparks and his eyes needed to adjust. There was a scar running down his left cheek from just under his eye. Right in the same place she punched him when they were eight years old.
Her Shoshone mother dubbed him Little Dog when he started hanging around their front yard. Little by little, he almost acted like he belonged there, trying not to look like he was staring at the house hoping Rosalia would come out. Her mother laughed and rolled her eyes whenever he showed up. "Little Dog come looking for scraps," she'd cackle.
Rosalia just wanted to hide under her bed and cry until he went away. "He don't even know how to talk!" she'd cry back at her mother, who just laughed harder.
The first couple of times he showed up she got her brothers to chase him out of the yard. They picked up small rocks and threw them at Little Dog as he sped off covering his head with his hands. But after that her brothers couldn't be bothered, so the boy would sit in the yard while Rosalia sat in her room wishing the end of the world would come.
Sometimes her father would come home early and she'd peek through the curtains while he stood talking to the odd little white boy with almost nothing to say. Her father often laughed during those conversations, but she never asked why. It was enough to see Little Dog finally get up off the grass and go home, her father patting him on the shoulder as he dragged his feet off their lawn.
At that age, Rosalia's accent was more like her father's Sengalese French. Every day she set foot in school she hated the sound of her own voice. She had more than one girl's share of things for the other kids to make fun of, but at least she wasn't as bad off as Little Dog. That boy didn't know how to talk at all. Every time the teacher called on him he looked up at some spot on the ceiling and gazed off like there'd been a movie playing there. Then he'd give the teacher his usual one or two word answer.
The day he finally found words in his throat for Rosalia he just came out and asked her if she wanted him to carry her backpack. It was almost a complete sentence and it nearly paralyzed her. Even worse than Little Dog talking to her was the possibility someone might hear him talking to her. Some strange force suddenly possessed the girl's limbs and before she knew what she was doing, her arm reared back and she hit Little Dog in the face so hard he fell on his ass.
"Just leave me alooooone! You're not my boyfriend!" she'd screamed, and then ran away without looking back.
He didn't come back to loiter in front of her house after that, and for the next few weeks she kept going to the front windows to peek through the curtains and see if he'd come around. "Maybe you punched him too hard," her mother had said, but she wasn't laughing anymore. The deflated girl ended up going back to her room thinking the end of the world was getting closer.
It was a long time before any moonstruck boys came around her house after that.
Now she was still thinking about getting back in her car, but he didn't seem to recognize her. It had been too many years. If it hadn't been for the birth mark she wouldn't have recognized him, either.
"Mr. Harris? Alden Harris?" She probably should've remembered his name when she first heard it, but all she remembered was the nickname her mother had given him.
He nodded and took the mask off his head. It left a sweaty depression in his dark brown hair which hadn't been cut for a few months. She thought about getting back in her car again. Like she should have a minute ago.
"I'm not taking any commissions right now." He set the mask on the bench next to the torch and grabbed a half-full water bottle. He was big as a refrigerator now but the way he moved made him seem light as a boy.
It seemed like his eyes were following her while he drank off the rest of the water, except she wasn't moving, just standing there in a black pencil skirt that went past her knees and a light, cotton blouse tied in a knot under the heavy mounds of her breasts. She should've worn a bra, but when she was getting dressed it seemed like a good idea not to wear one when you were going to ask a strange man to do something illegal for you.
Just get back in the car and go home. Forget everything.
"I came a long way to see you," she said out loud. "I can pay well. Quite well."
"I'm sorry you wasted your time, ma'am."
He took off the dark blue apron he'd been welding in. He was shirtless underneath, just wearing faded jeans and sneakers. There were more scars on his sweat lacquered body. The stark shapes of the muscles under them made them look worse somehow.
He kept ignoring her breasts, giving her brief doses of eye contact. After spending the major portion of her life feeling annoyed when other men did the opposite, she found herself annoyed with him. She reached up and lifted the dark fall of ringlets off her shoulders, airing her neck and pushing her breasts out. He continued puttering with tools and odd shapes of metal, putting them in some kind of order that probably made sense to him.
"I'm not interested in your sculpture."
He nodded. "Well that's all I'm working on these days. Thanks for stopping by, though."
Jesus Christ just get back in the car and go, she told herself.
"Lonnie Coleman said you do certain types of salvage work. The sort no one else is willing to do."
The mention of the man who sent her there made him stop what he was doing and look at her squarely. His eyes narrowed.
"Guess I've heard that name. A convicted felon, if memory serves."
"Yes." But then so was Little Dog, Mr. Alden Harris, who'd shared a cell for six years with Coleman two hundred miles north at Black Oak Pen.
"You don't seem like somebody who spends a lot of time around convicted felons."
"I'm not. In general." She suddenly felt like she was peeking through the curtains in the house she grew up in.
"Best to keep it that way." He nodded vaguely in the direction of the road back out of town. "Anyway I don't do that sort of work anymore."
"If you could see fit to make an exception … "
The reply came sharp as a bottle breaking at her feet.
"The problem is extremely time sensitive."
He stepped out into the sun from the stall and stood in front of her within arm's length. Considering the length of his arms he was still none too close. He studied her eyes. The afternoon felt even hotter while she waited for him to recognize her. But he blew past the moment he should have figured out who she was.
"I can see you're up against something serious, but I really can't help you. Just ask Lonnie. Not much he won't do for the right price."
"That's not possible."
He looked the question at her.
"He's back in prison."
He nodded like it made perfect sense. All her chances were evaporating so she decided there was nothing left to lose.
"Mr. Harris, I've never broken the law in my life. Never asked anyone else to. As an attorney I've seen too much of the damage it can do. But I find myself … out of options. I just need to get back something that was stolen from me. It's just an envelope and a flash drive."
"And where would they happen to be?" His eyes narrowed again.
"In a safe. On a boat. Moored on a gated pier."
It looked like he almost smiled. He still hadn't looked at her breasts. She quit trying to get him to.
"I have to go," he said. "And so should you."
He walked over to the corner of the garage where a garden hose was coiled up on the side of the building. He uncoiled it and turned the water on, holding the end over his head and shoulders, leaning over to keep his pants from getting too wet.
Rosalia got back in her car. Everything was falling down. Even the water pouring down over Little Dog's head. But he wasn't Little Dog. He was an ex-con named Alden Harris and he wasn't going to help her get her life back. She tried to remember if she'd known his real name back then but she couldn't. She leaned back against the headrest and lost a quick battle with the urge not to cry.
The dog shut off the water, hung the hose back on its hook and then shook himself off. Like a dog. He looked over at the car and seemed surprised she was still there. She didn't start the engine. She was stalling. Waiting for the next bad idea to come.
He walked over and got in the passenger's seat. It felt like he was taking up more than his half of the car. She started the engine and blasted the air with the windows open. Her nipples gathered and he finally looked at her breasts but then he leaned back on the headrest like she was and stared at the ceiling.
Nobody said anything for a long time. His hand was on top of his leg and she put her hand on top of it. It didn't matter who he was. She just wanted to touch a man she didn't know well enough to hate.
"S'okay. Wherever you are right now, pretty sure I been there at some point too."
It was no consolation but he turned his palm up and their fingers locked. The last and only time she ever touched him was over twenty-five years ago when she punched him. He probably didn't remember that little girl. Had probably forgotten her the way junkies forget promises. It was the most consolation she'd had since she got there so she gripped it like she was gripping his massive hand.
"Whose boat?" he asked.
"My husband's. Well, ex. Basically."
"Okay. I suppose Lonnie told you I used to find things for people. Valuables usually. They never paid me except I'd keep some of whatever I got back for them. My fee, so to speak. One time somebody lied about what it was they needed found. Everything ended up in a river of shit after that."
She sighed and resigned herself to losing the rest of her life the way he had. Maybe she owed it to him or maybe she just deserved to go down in flames. She reached over with the other hand and touched the scar following the line of his collar bone on one side.
"All right. I'm sorry I bothered you."
A blue SUV pulled into the lot and stopped cater-corner to her coupe. A blonde somewhere in her thirties got out and walked over to Rosalia's 240i and leaned toward the window. She was wearing Wayfarers and looked over the pair in the car with a suspicious smile. A light blue blouse was tucked into a pair of stretch jeans. The blouse was open far enough to show plenty of cleavage and bra fringe. She had a stocky build but wore it like a negligee, even with the gun and badge on her belt.
"Good to see you keeping out of the hot sun, Al."
"'Sup, Bonnie?"
"Oh, you know. Routine visit and all."
"Almost forgot it was Tuesday," he said, nodding.
"No you didn't. But anyway."
Rosalia felt like someone stuck in a bad seat at a tennis match. Bonnie's eyes slithered onto the dog's leg where the two hands were still laced. She looked like she was used to being the second most beautiful woman in the room. Rosalia was used to being the first, and she was envious. She wondered what that kind of freedom would've been like.
"So who's your friend?" Bonnie added. She was talking to the dog but looking at Rosalia.
"She's … "
"Mrs. Drake." She didn't want to say her first name in front of the dog.
Bonnie laughed. "Mrs. Drake," she echoed. "Don't get a lot of high tax bracket married ladies with tits like that coming around, eh Al?"
"Mrs. Drake is a potential client."
"Well sure she is." Bonnie grinned and glanced back quickly at their joined hands.
Rosalia thought it was well past time to give the dog his hand back. But she didn't want to. So she didn't. "I'm thinking of putting several sculptures in my garden."
"Sculpture business, huh?"
"It's the only business I do, Bonnie. You know that."
"Sure, Al. Sure. I know you wanna keep it that way, too." Then she turned to Rosalia. "Al here has a pretty tight schedule. Better not keep him out too late or take him too far away. Like anywhere outside the county without a phone call."
"Right." She nodded without looking at the blonde.
"I'll just let you two talk out your, uh, business then."
Bonnie want back to her vehicle and drove off.
"My parole officer," the dog explained.
Rosalia looked at him curiously. They were still holding hands. She wondered if that was how he wanted to hold hands when they were eight.
"How long have you been fucking her?" she asked.
He just shrugged. "Drive me home. I'll cook for you before you have to go back."
Before she could say anything either way, he got out of the car and walked over to the motorcycle parked on the side of the lot. He grabbed the T shirt hanging off one of the handle bars and pulled it on, then he pushed the bike into the garage and locked everything down.
Rosalia waited. She knew she should've just driven away. He wasn't about to help her with her problem, and now that she knew he was on parole she didn't want to push it any further. Maybe if he were someone else. Anyone else.
The last thing she had time for now was anything simple, but she watched him finish closing up and head back toward her car. As big as he was he moved like he was floating and she realized why he'd been as good as Coleman said. He was just the right man for just the wrong thing.
The house was about five miles away through desert scrub where the biggest of his sculptures sat out on the open ground. Like the scorpion she drove past on the way in. Some were dinosaurs. There were others depicting Mexican farm workers.
There was an old Nova up on blocks beside the small, white house he told her to pull up to. The inside looked neat, but Rosalia thought that was only because there was so little there to clutter anything up. The kitchen had a Masonite poker table and lawn chairs. In the living room was a well worn easy chair with a stack of old books beside it on the floor. There was a much smaller stack of notebooks on the other side.
"I'm a shitty cook," he warned her. "But I promise I won't poison you. There's cold water in the fridge. I'm just gonna grab a quick shower. I hope you're still here when I get back."
"Why am I here, Mr. Harris?"
He approached her where she stood by the kitchen counter, close enough to press his body into the tips of her breasts. Her body filled with breath. It was less committal than pushing her whole front back against his. It felt like they were back in her car holding hands except now they were doing it with their bodies.
"I don't know if it's one big thing or a lot of little ones." He paused and touched her face. "Maybe it's because I can tell you don't belong to whatever shitstorm you're in. Maybe 'cuz of the way you seem to be able to dance with shit luck and remorse. Or maybe it's 'cuz looking at you feels like someone telling you their worst and most beautiful secret."
She inhaled big again. Studied his face. There was no sign anywhere of the boy who'd once made her panic and fret. She touched his scar again. Right where she'd hit him.
"Where'd you get this one?"
He was looking at her like he hadn't heard the question. "Same place as the others. In a garden of broken glass."
She arched upward, dragging her breasts along his body, and kissed the scar lightly. He angled his head and whispered. "Don't feel bad for me. I was lucky once. I got to fall in love with a girl who had a name like a song."
He kissed her once on the neck and turned away to leave the room. She stood in the same place holding the edge of the counter with both hands. There was the sound of the shower turning on. Then the sound of a plastic curtain on chrome rings being pulled along an aluminum bar.
She thought of her husband, Ransom. How they had slowly become hateful strangers the more successful their law practice became. Ransom Drake: husband, business partner, pimp, tormentor, extortionist. May he burn like a witch on the stake.
Though he wouldn't now. The dog had been her last chance. By this time tomorrow Ransom would be in Mexico. At least she finally realized why she was there now in Little Dog's ratty little house. It was to realize the closest she'd ever come to love was a man who didn't remember knowing her.
Following the sound of the shower she found herself in his bedroom, the door to the bathroom standing open. She peeled off her blouse, then the long skirt she hated walking in.
Naked, she went into the bathroom and pulled back the curtain around the old, clawfoot tub. When he saw her he held out his hand to help her step in.
The water was pouring over both of them. She reached for his cock while he put one hand on her neck and the other on her heavy breast.
"Did you ever take a shower with someone you hardly know?" she asked.
He shook his head. "It's like not talking for long stretches at a time. One of those things you only do with someone you know really well."
"I guess you're right." His cock grew bigger and hotter while she fondled him. Her nipple bunched under the back and forth rub of his wet thumb.
"We can make an exception, can't we?"
She smiled. "I think we already have."
The whole rest of her life was going on without her somewhere far out beyond that little sphere of shower spray. It was nothing but a burning building on its way down to ash. But she wasn't in that building right now and a feeling came over her she couldn't name at first.
His cock was rippling hard in her hand now while everything else about him seemed to finally soften. "I wish I knew you," he said.
You already do. But he kissed her before she could say anything. His tongue slid into her mouth on a sigh while he gripped her breasts with both hands. Her nipples burned with sensation under the strong pinch of his fingers. She pulled his cock between her dusky thighs and ground the wet lips of her pussy along his shaft. His kiss deepened, but his mouth soon moved to her neck, kissing down her tendons to that soft, hollow spot by her collar bone.
Her sighs were rapidly turning to gasps. She gripped a handful of his hair while his lips moved closer to her nipples. "Yessss," she sighed. Ohhh, yes, Little Dog."
His mouth froze on her skin and then his hands. His head suddenly shot up and he stared at her. Eyes dazed. "You?"
He grabbed her shoulders and pushed himself away from her. His cock slipped out from between her thighs as he stepped off but he didn't have much room to move and tripped backward over the side of the tub. He grabbed for the curtain on his way down but it was too late to right himself and the weight of his body ripped the curtain off the rings as he fell backward onto the bathroom floor.
Rosalia stared through a few, frozen seconds and then scrambled out of the tub and went to him, kneeling over his body with his leg between hers. She grabbed him by shoulders and studied his face, worried he might've slammed his head.
"Please, please be okay."
"You," he said again.
"Do you remember my name?"
He turned his head and stared off at the exposed drainpipe under the bathroom sink. "Rosalia."
"Do you remember … "
"Whatever you're going to say, I remember. Jesus. You keep doing this to me."
"Knocking you on your ass, you mean?"
"Well you don't seem like you get punched out by too many girls anymore."
"It only gets worse. Now I always get beat up here." He pointed to his chest where his heart was supposed to be. At least he was looking at her again. The water kept running in the background.
"I didn't come to beat you up. I promise."
"When did you know?"
"At your shop. When I saw you welding. That birthmark on your elbow."
"So all that time we were talking."
"Yeah." She nodded. "I'm sorry." Her wet hair dangled toward him as she lowered her head. Her eyes were closed but she felt him touch her ringlets.
"And that thing you wanted me to do?"
"Just forget it. It doesn't matter anymore." His eyes narrowed on hers but he left the matter where she decided to set it down. Her knee was touching his balls. "Your skull isn't cracked, is it?"
"No more than usual."
"Good. Because unless you've decided to start hating me, we were … "
"Yeah. We were."
She backed off to let him get up. The plastic curtain was splayed out on the floor and the shower was misting all over the room. He took a step toward the tub but she caught hold of his leg and hugged it. The meat of his thigh squashed between her wet breasts and she pressed her face to his hip. At the moment, she didn't need his understanding, just his indulgence. His hand came to rest lightly on her head.
"Rosie," he called softly.
No one but her family ever used that name. Everyone else always called her Lia. She hugged his leg a little tighter. His hand moved from the top of her head to the skin of her shoulder where his fingertips traced patterns that didn't feel like patterns. Her arm brushed his balls.
"Fuck. I really wish I knew you," he said again.
"You already do. At least whatever's left of the good part."
She let go of his leg and he helped her stand. Then he shut off the water and they walked into his bedroom.
She sat on the end of his bed and he followed her down, sitting close. He reached over and put his fingers gently against her throat. It felt like the air passing in and out of her body was going through his fingers and she put her hand on top of his, squeezing his fingers tighter. She started squeezing hard enough to stanch the air flow and he yanked his hand out from under hers. Then he put them on the side of her neck and touched her wild pulse. He touched her face with the other hand but it felt like his eyes were touching her even harder.
"You keep looking at me like there's something different running in my veins than everyone else," she said.
"That's because there is."
"That doesn't scare me anymore."
His hand slid between her legs. She opened them for him and his finger stroked the lips of her waxed pussy while he started kissing her. He kissed her all the way back against the mattress while her shins were still dangling over the end. His cock felt like hot silk against her hip and she groped blindly for it. She stroked him while his finger curled up into the sweet spot inside her.
Her mind began to spiral into this waking dream full of terrifying darkness and light all at the same time. She felt the force of his desire to fuck her like she didn't exist, but there was a tremor behind his hands and lips so subtle it seemed hidden, like he was forcing himself to make love to her instead because that's what he'd always promised himself he'd do, given the chance.
Until today, she'd believed half a life lived among freaks had made a freak of her, too, but some brand new kind of animal began to wake up inside her and howl as if the sound made a difference to anyone standing close enough to hear.
Her hips started rocking to the rhythmic stroke of his finger, but when he pushed in another one her movements jerked in and out of the flow. When his mouth found the first nipple she gripped his cock harder, too hard to keep stroking, and grabbed a fistful of his hair with the other hand.
She thought she must have been cumming but she wasn't sure because it was all shooting through places she didn't know she had. Then his fingers and mouth pulled away at the same time and he was lifting her and tossing her higher on the bed like a fish he'd caught with his bare hands.
He floated into the space between her legs, then hooked his hands under each of her knees and pushed them up until they were mashing back against the fullness of her breasts. His cock was jutting against her pussy. It felt like at least one of them was throbbing but she couldn't tell who. He was looking at her like he deserved the scars over his face and body.
"I don't care what you think you turned into," he told her. "The only thing that matters is what we turn into next."
She wasn't sure if she heard him right but then he descended and licked her from her ass bud to her clit. He did it again and then again. He kept at it until her clit felt like a bud about to open into a blossom. Then his tongue started running circles around that bud while he soaked his finger deep inside her sheath. Moments later the same, dew-lacquered finger was pushing into her ass with careful insistence.
Somehow her breath began to feel like it was woven into the counterpoint of his finger and tongue. His hunger would have been frightening but he wore it as naturally as his own, score-marked skin. It was like he didn't know he was doing anything for her but taking something for himself he was never giving back.
Soft explosions kept going off under her skin. Maybe it was what turning into light felt like.
Suddenly she shoved him away from her pussy with her feet on his shoulders. His finger slipped out from her ass when he reared back and looked at her. Breathing. Just breathing.
She sat upright and reached for his cock. He was kneeling and she came up and knelt in front of him and skimmed her hand up and down his sap-dripping stalk.
"I don't care whatever we turn into next as long as it's made of whatever we started out with," she said, breathing hard enough to push the sublime obscenity of her breasts up and down.
He gripped her throat again, harder than before but not as hard as she'd tried to make him. "But you hated me."
"Crazy Little Dog come round begging for scraps. Next time you find a woman who loves you enough to hate you don't let her go."
"Next time?"
She smiled. "This time. Which is why you're gonna be the first and last to fuck me everyplace I got." She lay back and pointed to her lips. "Go here first."
He knee-walked up her body, knees mashing down the mattress on either side of her body with his balls dragging along her skin until his cock was at her mouth. She opened her lips when he gripped his shaft and pushed it inside. She watched his face while she held her head still and flattened her tongue against the sliding underside of his hot flesh. He gripped two fists-full of her hair and thrust repeatedly into her mouth. His thrusts went deeper and deeper until she uttered a small cough, then he backed off and kept his thrusts just shy of the back of her throat.
"I just want the soft parts," he groaned.
She didn't know how long it was before he pulled out of her mouth and moved back down between her legs. Her hands moved onto her upper thighs and she peeled herself open.
"Soft parts," she said.
"Play the dirty girl all you want," he said, pushing the blunt dome of his cock into her sheath with his hand. He sank into her and leaned down to her face. "You're all mahogany silk and pink lace to me."
She closed her eyes and sank her teeth lightly into the meat of his shoulder while be began slicking his cock in and out of her body. Within a few thrusts they were rocking together. She folded herself around him as well as she could, considering the clumsy width of his body. A hypnotic circular motion seemed to possess his hips as he massaged the walls of her pussy with his shaft and her neck with his breath.
He fucked her steadily until she was peaking, the climax washing through her in a wave.
Then he reared up and pulled free of her.
"Every place you got?" he said, looking the question at her.
"Just the soft parts," she said, rolling over and lifting her ass toward him.
"Soft." It sounded like a growl and then his hard, open palm smacked across her ass so hard it brought tears to her eyes and heat to the surface of her skin in the shape of his hand.
His cock settled into the cleft between her cheeks. She felt him reach for something on the nightstand near the bed. Then his head slowly opened her rim, the solid girth of his throbbing shaft widening and deepening into her channel. As he began to stroke slowly in and out, she felt him dripping oil over his cock and her ass. He slid more and more easily into her and she expected him to begin slamming into her like a punishment.
But it never happened like that.
The deeper he fucked her ass the more tender he became. His large hands reached under her body to cup her breasts. His cock kept an agonizingly slow pace, driving every cell in her body into an aching desperation for everything that had yet to happen between them. She jammed her hand down beneath herself and ground her fingers against her pussy. The entire fucking planet was dripping and hungry. Cock. Slow desperation. His body's refusal to give her body what it was crying for washed over her skin like the gift of a summer rain.
Then he was gripping her nipples harder and grunting against the urge to fuck harder. Faster. No. Everything was going slow as love and her body rippled inside. He groaned and rippled with her. His cock pulsed hard and he finally lost himself to a volley of desperate thrusts while a flush of wet heat bloomed into her body.
After they disentangled, they lay together with as much of their bodies touching as they could manage. They just kept looking at each other, silently, but it felt like a conversation anyway.
She woke up in the dog's bed but he wasn't there. It was dark out but she didn't know what time it was. She got up to look for him and her phone to check the time. She found the phone but not him. When she looked out the kitchen window to see if he might have gone outside she discovered her car was gone.
It wasn't like he'd stolen it, but how many places were there to go? She checked her phone and it was midnight. After a few minutes wondering she decided he'd probably gone to his shop for a while. He'd be back sooner or later. After all, this was where he lived. She discovered a sweet pleasure in walking around his house naked while he was gone. It felt like she belonged.
She went into the living room and sat in his chair. The books piled next to it didn't draw her attention the way the notebooks on the other side did. She picked one up and opened it, realizing they were journals. Thumbing through them one by one, she avoided reading the words in detail. It was just to look at the many lines of his handwriting. As far as invasions of privacy went, it seemed like a pretty minor one. Then she got to the last one. The one on the bottom of the stack. She opened it to the first page and found her name scrawled across the top.
It always goes back to Rosalia, but I don't why because she was someone I never really knew. Only wish I might've a little. For a while might've been nice. It doesn't matter. But I remember that first day she walked into school in one of those summery dresses like the actresses used to wear on TV in those shows in the sixties. She was neither black nor brown nor caramel. She was just herself and I thought maybe she was something that wasn't forged on Earth and as such didn't even belong in a school like ours. And as unhappy as she looked all the time there was this thing about her eyes and the way she kind of looked through everything like it wasn't there and she had a special power to walk through walls and doors. But a thing like her seemed like she should've been happy.
As for myself, I was unbearably quiet, and when Rosalia came along I got even quieter. I think she only talked to me once to tell me she hated me or something of that nature. None of it's all that clear except the time she smacked me in the face and ran away.
It was her father talked to me more than her. I think he liked me, and he used to stand with me and tell me little stories about days he was my age growing up in Africa. It was the first time the rest of the world started to seem real. I think he liked me more than my own father. Oh I know my father loved me, but liking someone is a different proposition.
I don't know why I should be talking about this when Bonnie said what I ought to do is write a goodbye letter to the person I was before prison. Like junkies write Dear John letters to heroin when they go into rehab. So I guess I go back there now and then because Rosalia hit me – and I don't mean her smacking my face – with the realization that severely rare and beautiful things have the power to light fires in your dreams. Everything from there got to be a clusterfuck of biblical proportions.
She stopped reading and started crying. She cried for a while without knowing which of all the parts of everything were what she was crying over. It was the first time she'd cried since she realized that weird little quiet boy wasn't coming back to her house.
Getting up, she went to look in his closet for something to wear. There were women's clothes in there. Not all that much but it didn't take long to figure out they were Bonnie's size and style. Without thinking about what she was doing, she took all the women's clothes out of the closet and put them in a cardboard box she left on the kitchen table. Then she got a big, white button-down shirt that had to be his and put it on without buttoning it up.
She went outside and sat on the step with her back against the door. Feet planted wide apart as she could get them on the step, she started fingering her pussy and wishing he'd drive up and catch her. She thought over what she read in his journal and promised herself she wouldn't read any more, but she knew she was going to anyway.
Thinking over everything that happened before she fell asleep in his bed, she fingered herself until she came. He didn't drive in and catch her so she went back inside and fell back to sleep in his chair.
It was still dark when she woke up the next time. He still wasn't back and she wandered around his house and fingered herself on his bed and wished he'd walk in and catch her.
When she wanted to get some more sleep she went back to his chair. The bed smelled like cum, sweat and the soap he was using in the shower. If she were going to have to smell him, she wanted him there.
The place was full of sunlight when she woke up the next time. The house was still empty but for her. She decided to investigate the coffee situation and went into the kitchen, padding barefoot through his house and still wearing that big, unbuttoned shirt that fit her like a boat sail.
While she was moving around the kitchen she saw her car was back in front of the house. He was sitting in front with his head bowed low. She went outside and called his name. When he didn't look up she ran the rest of the way. He finally looked up when she whipped the door open and saw the blood all over him and the inside of her car.
She squatted to check his body.
"I'm sorry for getting blood on your car. It's a really nice one. I think it'll clean up alright, though."
"Fuck the car!" Her voice had a quaver in it now. There were two rips in his shirt that looked like knife cuts.
"I'm okay." His voice was steady but shallow sounding. "Just tired. Really could use a nap about now."
She helped him come out of the car and he leaned on her shoulder as she led him into the house. There was blood on her now, too.
"S'okay. It's not all mine."
They lumbered into his bedroom and he told her she could find some peroxide in the bathroom and a fresh roll of toilet paper. She came back with a box of Band-Aids too. He'd already pulled off his shirt, and yelled at her when she poured the peroxide over the slices in his skin. She dabbed and cleaned them up as well as she could until there were reddened wads of toilet paper littering the floor.
In the background you could hear the warning ding that her keys were still in her car.
She started using Band-Aids to make crude butterfly stitches. "I'll run into town and pick up better supplies."
His eyes were almost closed but he looked at her and said no. "You better not go anywhere for a while. S'okay, though. You're good here, right?"
The tremor in her hands got worse but she kept making stitches while she asked what happened.
"He's gone. They won't find him, but I figured you'd want to know he's gone. And that stuff you wanted – that stuff in the safe – it's in the trunk of your car. Damn I could seriously use a nap about now."
The butterflies were finished.
"Alden, I really wish you hadn't gone. After everything. Jesus, what if things had gone the other way? Fuck!"
She saw he was sleeping and probably hadn't heard the last thing she said. There'd be more time to talk it through when he was awake and on the way back to being himself. Whatever that really was.
Bonnie's SUV pulled up in front of the house while Rosalia was getting a thick, oversized envelope out of the trunk. It was covered with bloody handprints and she could feel the shape of the flashdrive inside. When she saw Bonnie she tossed it back in the trunk and shut the lid.
The blonde parole officer got out of her vehicle with the same obsequious grin Rosalia had seen the day before. The grin quickly faded when she approached the car and saw the blood. She bolted into the house and Rosalia went back into her trunk for the envelope. She hid it in one of the kitchen cabinets before going back into the dog's bedroom.
Bonnie was sitting on the bed next to him, soothing back his hair with her fingers. She looked up and Rosalia pulled the shirt closed around her body. It went like that without any talking for the next few minutes or so.
"You couldn't just fuck him and go home to your husband like I usually do?" the blonde said.
"I don't have a husband. Not anymore."
"There's a fuckin' ring impression on your finger."
"And no ring. There's a reason."
Bonnie got up and walked past her. Rosalia followed her into the kitchen where she spotted the box full of her clothes. She started laughing and then stopped suddenly.
"Moving me out and yourself in, huh?
"No. I wasn't thinking. I don't know why I did that."
"Yeah, you do. But what I don't know is why he's lying in there sliced up like an Easter ham."
The response was slow to come. "Have you read his journals?"
"I'm Rosalia."
Bonnie sighed and nodded as if everything made sense now. She looked at the floor for a while without talking. When she looked up again her eyes narrowed on Rosalia while she put her hand on her gun.
"If he gets hurt again … or gets caught breaking parole … "
"Get that car cleaned up. And good. There's DNA all over that shit."
Bonnie walked out slowly and drove away. Rosalia went outside to get her key out of the ignition. The constant ding was driving her crazy.
She went back inside and into the bedroom where she took off the shirt and stretched her naked body up against Little Dog. His body felt cooler than hers and she wanted to give him the heat from her skin. She put her hand on top of his heart. He wasn't cut there. The beat didn't feel strong, but at least it felt stronger than a little while ago, like it was beating its way back to the beginning.
*As always, thank you so much for your time to read, and if you feel so inclined, please check out my offerings on Amazon.
Echo's Run, Part 3
Tags: erotic fiction, erotic stories, erotica, Frank Lee, oral sex, outdoor sex
And…well…part 3
Echo studied her hair in the rearview mirror of Hawke's truck. He hadn't done too badly cutting it, and it hadn't taken her long to add a few finishing touches with the scissors. The change was simple, yet drastic enough she barely recognized herself. A sense of exhilaration played at the edges of her nerves. In a long sleeved blouse and oversized shades, Trey could pass her on the sidewalk and not have a clue who she was.
She closed her eyes behind the shades and leaned against the headrest. Hawke had parked alongside a row of rat palms and walked a block and a half to a drab, unassuming ranch house that looked like all the others in the neighborhood.
She took a deep breath and remembered the feeling of his hands. The way he'd caressed her skull that morning had put a slow storm inside her mind. The reality of how much she was relying on his help to disappear should have been at odds with the sense of impending freedom that curled around her like an aura. But it wasn't.
It had been a long time since she'd thought trusting anyone, especially a man, was a good idea. In the beginning, her trust depended on a backpack full of cash, but when she discovered he'd given it back, everything rolled upside down. Whether he'd meant it that way or not, the gesture made it feel like he'd taken a willing step inside her personal conspiracy.
Trust was like an old pair of shoes that didn't fit when they were new, but after you walked around inside them for a while they take on the shape of your feet. Echo had slipped them on without thinking and now she was getting ready to make the run of her life in them.
She wasn't sure when she really fell over to trusting Hawke. It wasn't any single thing she could name. There wasn't any single moment. The way he'd cum had almost even frightened her. Something had come over him she'd never seen before. She remembered feeling the stark sensation his soul had shaken loose somehow and left his body to hover over them and watch. Everything else he was made of had poured molten down her throat.
She felt the shapeless pieces floating inside her.
His hands had slipped off the sides of her face to her shoulders and he guided her up to her feet. He'd started to wash her body, wetting her down with the nozzle and lathering her with his bare, soapy hands. His hands had been firm but careful, and she'd started to feel like a piece of sculpture being shaped an artisan's hands.
He'd touched her without shame or apology, gliding slippery palms over her aching breasts, down the split between the spheres of her ass, between her smooth thighs, fingers brushing the awakening lips of her pussy. She'd bent forward, a long, deep sigh escaping her as her feet spread wider.
His left arm had curled around her body, holding her steady as she opened to him. Reaching more deeply between her legs, his fingers sank into the meat of her upper thighs. He scrubbed and massaged her, tucking her body tighter into his, leaning over until his face was against her neck. She felt his breath hitting her skin while his fingers slid through the swarming heat of her pussy, digging along her furrow and drawing a bead of her own moisture up over her bud.
He kept whispering "Echo" as he massaged her leaking slit. He put his lips against her damp neck and kept saying it as if he'd been forming complete sentences out of her name. He made it sound natural, as if had been her name all along.
His arm clasped more tightly around her, trapping her breasts under his tensed muscles while two fingers slid inside her, pushing and pulling as the motion of his lips against her neck changed from her whispered name to hungry kisses. Soon his fingers searched out the swelling of her clit. She turned her face in a needful reflex to kiss, but she could never turn far enough as he gripped her even more tightly, holding her until she could barely move except to grind against the thick finger pads mashing circles over her throbbing nub.
He never stopped, until her body shuddered in his hold, quivering against him while waves of intoxication undulated through her core. His cock was beginning to swell against her hip, but he never made a move except to hold her upright and swirl his fingers in constant motion over the breaking synapses in her clit.
This kiss against her neck turned back into a whisper of her name.
His cock was rippling with heat against her hip, but he never moved except to hold her tighter.
"Don't you wanna fuck?" she asked, confused and a little irritated by his restraint.
"I don't think I can help you very well if we fuck," he said. "No one knows as well as I do what you're breaking free of. I want to make sure you get where you really need to go."
"The male of any species always protects the animal he's fucking," she said, her breath almost back to normal.
"Yeah," Hawke agreed, "it's just that it never seems to go that smoothly with human beings."
She wanted to turn her face and be kissed, but she didn't know if he was ready to feel her tears against his scar.
In five years, Trey had only made her cum once by accident. Even the dope hazed cluster fucks he supposedly put on for his friends were really all about him in the end. He was a vortex of psychotic self-absorption. His leering sycophants were no better, and it had always been up to her to look out for her own need to release. She took care of herself. She always had.
Later, when she went back to the trailer to change and found the money on her bunk, she had to sit down and let it all settle. She kept wanting to ask about it the whole ride into the city, but there didn't seem much point in it.
It's hard not to ask the questions you already have the answers to.
She thought back on the story Hawke had told her about her new name. Maybe Echo never really disappeared. Maybe it had only seemed that way because Narcissus didn't have the vision to see her. Maybe she would tell it that way if the occasion ever arose.
She startled back into the moment when Hawke was suddenly jumping back in the truck. He tossed a slip of paper into her lap with numbers written on it and started the engine. He drove out of the neighborhood too fast for the short, residential blocks they were driving through.
"What's this?"she asked, picking up the paper.
"Your second birth," he said. "New social security number. That's your ticket to everything."
She silently thumbed through the sheaf of doctored cards and computer printouts.
"DW was with us all in prison," Hawke went on. "Hacking charges. All that took him less than an hour. You'll need to report stolen license and credit cards, and then you'll get authentic ones, but you'll be in all those systems. There's a birth certificate for Echo James on record now in Cincinatti, and that'll be enough to get you a legal passport."
She nodded. "Echo James?" she said curiously as she read the name and number on the slip. "So that's me, now, huh?"
Hawke kept driving faster. The muscles in his jaw were tensing, and Echo was still trying to decide how to ask the question when he went ahead and answered.
"Something's up with The Monk. We're going to have to step up the schedule."
Hawke put his driving in check. Echo was nervous enough. She was rubbing her arm where the tattoos lay under her blouse. There was a cast of pensive determination on her face, and Hawke realized it was her way of looking worried. Two or three miles outside the main spoke of the village, Hawke pulled off the road onto sand half packed down by cars.
They were surrounded by an open valley spotted with scrub, and a few yards ahead of the truck stretched a huge, iron sculpture of a Chinese serpent dragon. There was a rusty, rough intricacy about it, with a massive head and a long row of arches stretching out behind as if its long body were slithering through the sand. It stretched half the length of a football field, and it was so bizarre and impressive a thing to find in such a place it almost erased the sudden news the worst part of Echo's past was threatening to catch up with her before she'd even had a chance to escape it completely.
Hawke shut off the engine and mused over whether or not to tell her what DW had told him while setting up her new life, but it would have been redundant. She already knew. She was trying not to look at him as he sat drumming his fingers on the wheel. She put her hands in her lap and started doing something fretful with them.
"What is this?" she asked, allowing herself a brief distraction with the dragon.
"This local guy. Makes these things and puts them out here in the desert."
She nodded as if it all made sense. He wondered if he should bother telling her it was a mistake to trust him more than he trusted himself, but he kept quiet. His eyes drifted to the filigree of ink on her hip where the cutoffs didn't cover it all. He was aware of her watching his face as he studied the design. He reached across the seat and touched her decorated skin.
He suddenly realized he didn't wonder what she'd be made of wrapped around a crisis anymore. It was what he'd been seeing in her ever since she'd arrived, but he knew she was still wondering as much about herself. Then he remembered that moment of grace in the way she'd crumpled in his arms through the shudders of her orgasm that morning. It was her body that collapsed, he who held her up, yet he was the one who broke inside.
"I can get 'em changed," she said, laying her fingers over his as they traced the lines and colors in her skin.
He shook his head. "When I was watching you yesterday from under the willow tree it was one of the first things I thought. You struck me as an impossible thing to hide. Like you were vibrating off the deep end. But since then…I've seen the way you look around and take it all in…like if you were decorating a room you'd put all the furniture inside it first before you started moving it around."
She was looking away from him. Out her window at the dragon's tail.
"You're like a raven now," he kept going. "Yeah, you're worried, and you should be, but you know there's always a way through things."
"Yeah," she said out the window. "Long as you find it in time."
"That's the thing about ravens," he told her. "They always seem to figure it out."
The tattooed part of her skin felt warmer than the rest somehow. She pressed his fingers deeper into her flesh.
"They say ravens mate for life," she said. "But I don't know how they can know things like that. Not for sure."
He was quiet a moment longer. "I don't think you should do anything to change the tattoos," he finally said. She started to say something but then didn't. "Yeah yeah, I know. They're like the flag of your whole life. And I'm supposed to tell you to change them. Wear clothes that cover them up. I'm supposed to teach you how to change everything, down to the way you talk and move. But I don't want to. The more I know you the less I want to see you change into something else."
She turned her face back into the cab and looked at him with embers in her eyes.
"Most people who come to me need changing to begin with…but you…you're like this Maori warrior princess, all inked up to be more beautiful and fearsome.
"Thing about Trey…he's no more or less than a rattlesnake. Step in his nest and he'll strike, but get him too far out of his comfort zone then all he can do is hiss and writhe until something bigger or smarter puts him out of everyone's misery.
"Just keep moving," he said. "Trey will never make it as far as you will." He stopped a moment and took a breath. "I don't know what else to say. I can't remember when I've said this much all to one person."
She leaned across the cab of the truck and put her lips to his scar. They never pursed into a full kiss – just touched him – light and warm. His palm slid to the inside of her thigh, and a light rush of her breath blew across the signature Trey had left on his face. He thought about the way breath was nothing but air you pull down inside your body only to push it back out along with a little bit of whatever you're made of. He closed his eyes and dug his fingers into the stingy meat of her thigh.
"I think I knew that," she said, laying her head onto his hard shoulder. "It's not really Trey I'm running this hard from. It's me."
They sat in silence a moment or two, just looking out at the big, rusty dragon head. The tips of his fingers slid under the frayed hem of her cutoffs, just at the edge of her panties underneath. It felt like vibrant heat was pouring off her skin.
"He probably knows The Monk sent you here by now," he said. "The sooner you go the better."
Her face turned into his shoulder. "We won't have enough time, will we?"
All the possible things there wouldn't be enough time for hung in the air – memories that would never get off the ground.
"No," he said, "but you don't have time for any unfriendly confrontations, either."
"What about you? What if he comes looking for me?"
"Your business with Trey is finished. I can explain it to him in a way he'll understand."
Desert wind was blowing fine dust through the tall, rusty arches of the dragon's body. Echo's face moved against his shoulder while her hand came to rest on his thigh.
"Do you think people are the sum total of everything they do?"
"Almost never," he said. "We're supposed to believe actions speak louder than words, but it's a person's thoughts that trump it all. People do all kinds of things, but what's inside doesn't always align with whatever's on the outside. Whatever somebody does…what they're really made of can be a lot more or less than it looks like."
"Even psychopaths and whores?"
"You mean like you and Trey?"
She nodded against his shoulder without lifting her face.
"Especially psychopaths and whores," he said.
"Sure," she replied with weak conviction. "Is that your party line for all the whores you help escape their own catastrophes?"
Hawke sighed and shifted his weight, bringing his hand up from her thigh and gripping a firm but careful handful of her hair. He guided her head toward the rearview mirror, leaning in close so both sets of eyes were reflecting back from the rectangle of glass.
"Everything I do is bullshit," he said. "No one can ever teach you how to be someone else. No one can make you into anything you're not already made of. But if you think someone like Trey treating you like a whore makes you a whore then you're wrong."
Her eyes were darting back and forth between his and her own in the mirror. "What if that's all I am?"
He tightened his grip on her hair and leaned them both closer to the mirror. "Look at her," he said, staring into the reflection of her eyes. "Can you look at her and believe that? Can you look in those eyes and say it out loud?"
An indefinable sense of longing pushed against Hawke's chest from inside as he watched moisture and shadows wrestle back and forth in Echo's eyes. A brief tremor passed through her body and she turned her head down and shook it. She turned away, and he got out of the truck to give her the moment to grieve alone.
He walked toward the massive, rusty dragon's head, standing more than twice his height where it rose up out of the sand. Five arches stretched out behind it, with a massive, iron tail jutting up out of the sand on the other side of the road. Hawke suddenly remembered it was the year of the dragon, and he estimated Echo had probably been born in another dragon year.
Live or die, it looked like it was going to be her year after all.
He sat down in the shade under the big head and leaned back against the dragon's wide throat. Nothing ever seemed urgent under the desert sun, never until it got low and the burn of day flipped over and turned to pure chill. The chill was hours away, but Echo's time was already here.
DW's message from The Monk hadn't really come from The Monk. Too many questions about Echo and Hawke weren't right. DW had agreed with Hawke, that Trey had likely caught up with him in the trailer where he lived and did his business in information and introductions. Echo would have found out about The Monk through Trey, and even she had to have known it would only be a matter of time before he knew which way she'd turned. It would have been better if it had taken him longer to find out, though.
Hawke was only slightly worried about The Monk. Even Trey wasn't crazy enough to kill him – not when all his prison sons like Hawke and DW were paying attention – but what he was capable of doing to Echo given the chance wasn't an option.
She had to go. Hawke would wait, and when Trey showed up looking for her, they'd finish the business that had begun in prison years before. He would bury Trey under the willow where he meditated. He'd sit on the grave of the only true enemy he'd ever had and breathe his way into moments of grace. It wouldn't matter what color Echo dyed her hair.
Hawke watched her cry in the truck. She was a living thing about to break into blossom, and she was rubbing off on him. For the first time since he could remember, a curiosity about love had settled down inside the meat of himself, and all he could do about it now was mourn.
Echo watched him lean his head back against the dragon and close his eyes. She wiped her own with the backs of her hands and got out of the truck. When she got close, he looked up and reached for her hand, pulling her down to sit with him in the sand. She followed his hand down in a natural gesture, sinking onto the sand between his legs and leaning back against his body. He was wider and harder than she was. It felt like a familiar place to be.
Hawke's chest moved against her body with his breath. His chin came to rest on the top of her head while his hands laced across her belly. She thought about the look on his face when he'd gotten back in the truck at DW's. The urgency was clear in his eyes without having to say the first word. She'd known. Her stomach had rolled over with dread, knowing she would have to run before she was ready.
Sitting as they were, nothing seemed urgent in the moment. Hawke seemed to just flow around her, the way it had felt that morning behind his house after he'd washed her hair. It was disorienting to feel embraced through a harrowing time.
His chin moved and settled onto her shoulder, bringing the side of his face the scar was on next to hers. The sensation of strength flowing into her from the cradle of his body lit up a sense of the strength already inside her.
"It's getting late," she said, watching the shadows of the cholla cacti grow long. "You're gonna tell me to leave tonight, aren't you?"
"It's better for you."
"Maybe." She raked her fingertips over the backs of his knuckles. "But there's so much left to do. I'm still not sure how to become Echo James."
"Then don't. Let Echo become you."
She sighed and pressed his hands against her belly. "Too bad you don't teach people how to become themselves. That's what I'd really like, but something always seems to get in the way. Like me, myself and I."
His body swelled and deflated with a long, deep breath. Fingers unlaced and opened the button on her cutoffs, tracing the delicate edge of the panties underneath.
"There's more of you in here than you think."
"Didn't you ever just want to reinvent yourself and disappear – do it for yourself like you do for other people?"
"I can't get out of prison," he said. "It wouldn't matter."
The ends of his fingers slid beneath the waistband of her panties and she wrapped her hands around each of his wrists.
"Did you know when you move you make me think of running water?"
"Don't say it," he told her. "Not out loud. Not now. In a few more hours you'll be gone."
"Gone." A word half made of breath.
Hawke's left hand made a hard crawl up the front of Echo's body until he was gripping the base of her throat. The fingers of his right walked deeper into her panties. Walking and raking. Curling down over the curvature of her silken lips. She began to ache and flush.
"You're already gone," Hawke rasped against her ear. "You're beyond the reach of men like Trey and me."
"You wouldn't say that if you'd ever seen…"
"So you say," he cut her off.
A thick length of hard finger burrowed with soft insistence along the valley between her nether lips, laying into the rising core of heat. The finger curled into her yielding nest while the hand at her throat tightened its grip.
A barely perceptible tremor passed through his body. Echo felt surrounded by waves of anguish harbored too long inside him, gathering force to burst out in a sudden shower of burning ions. The gentle grind of the finger inside her was turning her core into a knot of impossible longing. Digging circles. Blood shifting gears in her veins. The hand around her throat pulled her back, pinning her tightly. She squirmed slightly – not in protest of his grip, but to feel it deepen against her skin.
"How many times have you turned new again today?" he asked.
She closed her eyes and arched against the dig of his finger. It felt as if her body heat was pouring into his hand while she thought back on the notion of her cells changing over every minute. His hand released her throat and gripped the open edge of the blouse she'd put on to hide her tattoos. He pulled, ripping it open as the buttons popped off one by one.
"I want you to tell me something," he said, his hand grazing over the smooth swell of breast billowing up from the cup of her bra. "Think hard. In all your time with Trey…through all his little salon cluster fucks and sideshows…did you ever kiss him?"
His hand shifted to the other breast, slipping under the cup to grasp her warm flesh. His finger kept rolling over her billowing clit, and instead of making it hard to think straight, an unusual sense of clarity settled over her. The last five years came back to her in a flash of pristine images. For the hundreds of times she'd sucked Trey's cock – or those of his cartoon hangers on – for the times she'd dragged her tongue over their acrid bodies – the times her lips had been smeared with spunk or somebody's girlfriend's pussy juice and Trey had kissed her like a terminal patient taking treatments without hope for a cure – she'd never once kissed back.
She started to laugh, but both of Hawke's hands clutched harder and the snicker dissolved into a gasp.
"I thought so," he said.
She reached up and touched the side of his face as she turned her head to him. He was grinning in his eyes but not on his mouth. She gave him a moment to kiss her, but he held back, his finger grinding agonizing circles around her clit while her nipple throbbed under the rolling pinch of his other hand. She angled her head and kissed him, pinning his broad lips with hers the way she'd been thinking about since watching him eat steak the night before.
It was as if his mouth had been waiting for her to realize taking and be taken were the same thing. She kissed him hard and his lips opened along with hers. Their tongues converged in swirls and his hand slipped out of her bra cup to the back of her head. She felt her breath flow from her body into his while he uttered a gasp that sounded like a backward moan.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, his finger slowed and the raw statement of the kiss became a somber dance of shared hunger. Hawke drew his hand from under her panties and backed away from her mouth while he smeared the honey from his finger across her lips. Echo barely had the moment to taste herself before he took her lips back with a voracious growl that rattled out of his throat into her mouth.
His cock was forming into a rigid bulge inside his pants that nudged Echo's body as she sat tucked against his crotch. Her torso was twisted toward him as she leaned into the kiss, but she reluctantly eased away from his mouth and turned around to face him. Kneeling inside the span of sand between his legs, she quickly scanned the road as she pulled off her blouse and unhooked her bra.
"I thought I forgot what it's like to kiss someone back," she said.
"You kissed me first." He was looking at her as if the door behind his eyes that had only been ajar had blown wide open.
"No," she said. "You just didn't use your mouth until now."
She was squinting. On her knees in the sand but upright and tall for where she was. Hawke reached forward and slid the bra down her arms. She glanced again at the road and folded her arms under her breasts, her tight nipples peering at him from the ridge of her forearms.
He watched her eyes drift down to the straining bulge of his cock while he unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. He pushed them down his legs, letting his stiff shaft snap out and up against the taut flatness of his belly. There was a longing in her eyes that somehow reached beyond where she could see. There was a hunger in the shadows of her countenance.
He curled his fist around the fat girth of his cock and slowly dragged up and then down, her eyes following the gesture.
"I find myself not caring about things that used to matter. Must be running for your life does that to you," she said.
She got to her feet and opened her cutoffs. They slid down her legs and she stepped out of them. She stepped toward Hawke and he pulled his legs together as she planted her feet on either side. From the angle of his seat against the base of the dragon's throat, the shaven pout of her pussy stung him like the memory of every good thing he'd ever ruined and never had the chance to put right again.
He couldn't bring himself to lift his eyes to her breasts. He knew she was kneading them with her hands now, tweezing her nipples to a puffy, rose-like crimson. He thought of the way they'd looked that morning when he washed her hair. He stroked his yearning cock and swallowed down the dryness in his throat.
"It's not the running. It's the thought you've probably wasted more time than you've still got coming."
She lowered herself down on his legs, straddling him close to his waist. She put her hand over the hand stroking his cock and pressed his shaft against her mound. He pulled his hand away and let the feel of her hot skin on the underbelly of his cock sift into the flow of his blood. She fit inside the stream and flowed through him.
He reached for her breasts – smooth, pliant things that almost seemed separate from the rest of her until he rolled her nipples hard in his fingers and she let her breath catch the bottom half of a moan. She arched her hips and smeared the dampening furrow of her slit along the length of his cock, her fingers spanning down the spine side of his shaft.
"Remember what you said?" he asked. "About the male of any species…"
"…always protects the animal he's fucking. Yeah. You said it never goes smoothly with humans."
"Yeah…but I find myself not caring." He ground his cock against her lacquered slit, her hands grinding and rolling his shaft in the nest of her petals. "I keep trying to think of how I can tell you you're more than whatever Trey spent those years training you to see. More than agonizing lips and narcotic sinew and flesh. But the only way I can see through to saying it right is to bury myself so deep inside you the words don't matter. Some things you can only say with your skin."
"Then say it." She pushed the oozing tip of his cock into the scalding gap of her maw. "Fucking say it."
Hawke released his clawing grip on her breasts and reached for her shoulders, pulling her down as she corkscrewed her hips, enveloping his hunger swollen cock into the swirling darkness of her core. It was a hard position for thrusting, so they made do just rocking their hips in counterpoint. It wasn't so much that he was fucking her, but stirring her from inside. The jagged rushes of breath in and out of her body began to sound like anguished sobbing. Her breasts quivered with her tiny heaves, leaving Hawke in a state of abject despair. She was running for a life he would never be part of.
He circled his arms around her body and held her so tightly against him she whimpered from the center of his desperate grip. He pressed the scarred side of his face against the flawed perfection of her breasts – not small enough, not big enough – nipples that couldn't decide how pink to be.
He was holding her like he was the one who'd break into pieces if he ever let go. She laced her fingers through his hair, clutching his face tighter to her breasts as she sobbed and rolled her hips against his pulsing cock in voracious figure eights. Suddenly he felt the smooth mounds of her breasts go wet and realized the moisture was pouring out of his eyes. He uttered a strangled howl and shoved his body upward, not thrusting so much as lifting her up with his hips.
A red tailed hawk circling overhead answered him. A silent vulture circled another part of the sky ignoring them. They were too much alive to be worth a damn.
Hawke's left arm held on tight enough for both of them as he pushed his right hand between their bodies and sought out the scarlet pearl at the apex of her slit. He mashed against the tiny, wet bundle of nerves with the pad of his thumb. Growls caught in his throat as he pressed and rolled and mashed her clit while she hugged herself against his disfigured face and shuddered. Her hips rocked harder but lost the flow of the rhythm they'd had before.
Hawke's body kept trying to jerk and lunge but he could barely move between Echo's writhing and the unyielding iron dragon behind him. Under the grinding circles of his thumb, it felt as if she were rippling like a tide of pollinated heat inside. Her lithe body jerked hard against him and she cried out sharply when he clamped her nipple in his teeth.
When the rocking spasms in her body subsided, she leaned back and held him by the shoulders. He pulled up a fistful of hair at the base of her skull with his left hand and drew her face in close. He kissed her in a synchronous blossoming of lips and rolling tongues. She raised herself higher on her knees, allowing him the freedom to move underneath her. Kicking his pants the rest of the way off, he pulled his feet up and guided her backward onto the sand.
Neither his tongue nor cock completely withdrew from her through the shifting movements. He was pinning her to the hot sand with his body – her hair still gripped in his fist – his broiling cock deeply embedded inside her while her smooth thighs formed a circle around his waist.
The long, hard kiss gradually transformed into a chain of smaller, softer ones. Hawke drew backward, bringing his cock out into the air until the blunt dome was poised inside the lacquered kiss of her sex lips. Dry, desert heat prickled against his ass and balls, and he waited, feeling the gentle grind of her pussy as she taunted him to hammer himself back home.
He leaned down and put his lips to the hollow at the base of her throat. She tasted slightly of salt and residual perfume. He pursed his lips halfway into a kiss, but let his tongue reach for her skin. His lips and tongue slid up her neck and over the curve of her jaw. When his lips were close to her ear, he began to glide his aching cock back down the hot, wet channel into her body.
"I'll walk you to any border you want to go," he whispered. "You won't have to go that far alone."
She touched the back of his head and rolled her hips while he drew backward and thrust again, harder this time.
"Why…would you…?"
He drew back and thrust hard. "I don't know how not to."
He began to rock his shaft in long, sweeping lunges through the slick heat of her living core. He tightened the grip of his fist in her hair without pulling, just holding her there against the sand. The slightest rocking motion of her hips felt like the roll of an incoming tide. He wasn't thrusting so much but grinding and twisting the hard spine of cock deep inside her while he nibbled and lapped her damp, saline neck.
It would've been wrong to think she was coming to life underneath him – she was born alive and had never been anything less. She was looking at him with her head half turned away, with a delirious drive in the eyes blazing back at him. Her whimper-cries turned to gasps bottlenecked in her throat.
"I don't…want to stop…don't stop walking," she half choked.
Hawke drove himself into her with grinding pumps. Wet slaps of his body onto the undulating pad of her flesh and bone. He kissed her with a long, deep, probing hunger. Then he let go of her hair and planted his fists knuckle deep in the sand on either side of her head. He rose up on straight arms, pivoting on his knees as he began to rock his stalk in and out of her body's wet clutch. A bead of sweat rolled along his scar.
Echo's hips started to undulate to the fluid lunging of Hawke's straining body. The way she winced and her throat caught on paralyzed breath struck him in the center of his chest. Somehow, in the shroud of abject hunger enveloping him, threads of peace and clarity ran through the same fabric. It was the kind of feeling he caught just a few minutes at a time when he sat under his willow tree and followed the method The Monk had taught him back in prison.
Motion and sweat. Dying desert sun. Circling predators screeching in the sky. A woman out of nowhere cupping the last unbroken piece of his soul in the cradle of her damp thighs. She was flowing like a river flowing through itself.
He knew.
He needed to show her a snapshot of grace and survival in the hard hours before the great showdown between this life and the next. But she was rippling like a tropical storm inside and he was pounding his flesh through the eye. The tendons in her delicate neck tensed as she wailed in hunger and release – her voice piercing the silence of the vultures above. She balled her fists and beat against his arms and shoulders while her hips and pussy went spasmodic. Her gasping went staccato to the tense convulsions of her body.
Hawke arched his spine until the sun was hitting his wet face. He closed his eyes and felt the electric rush of cum crash through his cock into Echo and swore he was melting into her bloodstream.
She was still gripping his taut arms when he slowly lowered himself toward her. Leaning his weight onto his elbows, he buried his face in her neck. Her fingers dragged lightly across the back of his head.
Lying in the jagged shadow of the dragon's head, Hawke couldn't speak, but he knew he didn't have to. When he kissed her throat, it wasn't so much to love her as to pull the taste of her skin into his mouth.
They showered behind the house, but there was an urgency to move they hadn't had to worry about that morning.
Hawke led Echo naked and dripping into the backdoor. The sky was turning colors she'd never seen before. Improbable cobalts and shades of scarlet she thought lava would look like.
In his bedroom, she fished through her pack for something fresh to wear. Blue jeans and a simple floral blouse with short sleeves. She didn't worry about hiding her tattoos anymore. She was going to wear them as long as forever would last in her case.
Hawke pulled on jeans and a T shirt. He opened a panel in the floor of his closet and pulled out a black, nylon bag. He tossed it on the bed next to the bag of cash he'd given back to her. When he unzipped it she could see it was full of cash, but when he fished through it he pulled out a small bundle of passports bound with a rubber band. He flipped through them, pocketing one and stuffing the others back in the bag with the cash.
He scanned the room, looking like he was trying to decide something, but he finally turned toward her and paused. He seemed focused but calm.
"Is there anything left in the trailer you need?"
She looked at him and then the bag of cash she'd brought with her. Now it had the papers DW had forged in it, too. She shook her head. Hawked nodded, satisfied.
He stood and picked up both bags of cash while she shouldered a small duffel with a few changes of clothes for each of them. Everything they had was in one place.
"Let's do it," he said, and she followed him outside.
There was a row of Molotov cocktails standing on the hood of her BMW. She handed him the duffel, and he threw it along with the cash into the cab of his truck. She got a disposable lighter out of the car, and leaving the door open, started lighting the wicks in the bottles of gas he'd syphoned out of her tank. She was on the third one by the time she felt him come up against her side.
He stood in silence while she finished lighting the wicks. She wanted to ask him if he was sure he wanted to do this, but she already knew the answer. He grabbed the first bottle and whipped it through the open door of the trailer. The glass shattered and the fuel burst into flame.
He threw another one into the trailer, then five in through the open door of the house. She walked toward his truck while he heaved the last two through the open window of her car. Everything behind him was burning as he walked toward the truck.
Standing in front of her, he touched her face and met her eyes head on. "It won't throw him off for long, but it ought to be long enough for us."
She felt herself smile, and he put his arms around her and tucked her inside him. She silently noted the way he'd said us, then something popped somewhere in one of the fires. Gasoline and propane tanks would start exploding before long. She felt a deep, calm breath fill his powerful body and then seep back out. Then he kissed the side of her mouth, walked around to the other side of the truck and got in. He had the engine running before she pulled the door closed on her side.
He took it slowly down the slope back toward the desert road. She watched him keep checking the rearview mirror as the fires grew but faded in the distance behind them.
Echo's Run Part 2
Tags: contemporary romance, erotic desire, erotic fiction, erotica, Frank Lee, oral sex, sex stories
And…Part 2. Hope you continue to enjoy. Thank you for your time…always. Frank Lee on Amazon
"Echo," he said. "It's time to get started."
She had to blink a few times to get focused. Hawke was sitting on the bunk opposite hers in the trailer. He was leaning onto his elbows down on his knees, watching her face even though the cropped T she went to sleep in had ridden up over her left, candy tipped breast. She wasn't even aware of it until he reached over and gingerly pulled the edge of the T shirt down to cover her nipple.
She smiled and closed her eyes again. The sound of her new name made it feel like the morning of some mythical tomorrow. She caught a brief sense memory of the night before when he touched her palm with the tip of his finger.
"Come around behind the house when you're ready," he told her. "Don't wear anything you're afraid of getting messy."
By the time she opened her eyes he was halfway to the door. As she watched him walk out, she wondered how a man his size could move without making any noise. He might have come off as bulky if it weren't the fluid air about him. Even moving around his cramped kitchenette last night reminded her of the way he'd been moving through his Tai Chi exercise when she'd walked in.
She kicked the sheet off her legs and swung her feet to the floor, taking a moment to wonder what Hawke meant when he said messy. She pulled off the T shirt she'd slept in and got up to look for something else to wear. She slipped on fresh panties and finally found a man's button down shirt hanging in the cramped little closet adjacent to the sleeping section.
In a pair of flat heeled sandals, she went out of the trailer and walked around to the back of the house. It wasn't nine o'clock yet, but it was already eighty-five.
There was a makeshift, open air shower to the side of the rear entrance, with dark slate stones for a floor and a hand held nozzle attached to a hose. There was a dingy, white plastic patio chair set on the slate, and to the side was a matching plastic stand.
Echo turned her back to the house and looked over the valley below. She saw the long snake of road she'd driven up on yesterday. The sight of where she'd been didn't seem to connect anywhere with the last twenty-four hours of her life. Then she spotted the big willow tree up the slope and realized that's where Hawke had come from the afternoon before. A moment later he came out of the house with a large coffee mug in one hand and a plastic bag in the other.
"Didn't know if you were a coffee drinker."
"Oh yeah." Her eyes lit up at the sight of the coffee. She took the mug and drank. It was black, but it had enough sugar.
She kept sipping and watched him take scissors and hair dye out of the bag and set it on the little plastic stand. He toed off his sandals and then pulled off his T shirt, standing in a pair of dark, drawstring pants as he gave her a couple of minutes with the coffee. The sight of the scissors made her nervous. She passed her free hand through her hair two or three last times, but found herself distracted by the small tattoo of some kind of symbol on the left side of his chest, a couple of inches above his heart. It looked like writing in some obscure alphabet.
"Ok," he finally said. "Why don't you take a seat."
He nodded toward the plastic chair, and she blew a sigh of resignation as she set her cup down on the plastic table and sat. Hawke moved behind her and wrapped a towel around her shoulders, then guided her head back. He picked up the nozzle and started to wet down her hair. He poured shampoo in his hand and started massaging her scalp. His fingers felt as if they knew her skull. They were patient and firm. He handled her hair like something that mattered. She didn't know whether or not to be surprised.
Then he rinsed her hair and guided her head back upright. He picked up the scissors and started cutting around the base of her neck. Her locks fell away in long, wet strands. The air hit her neck and shoulders in a way she hadn't felt in a long time. She almost forgot to worry about whether or not he knew what he was doing.
After he finished cutting, he rinsed her hair again and patted off the excess water with a towel. He walked in front of her and took a jar of Vaseline out of the bag and started to thumb-smear a bead all along her hairline. He was focused on what he was doing and didn't seem to notice how she watched him. She let her eyes dart toward the dye, curious to see what color she was going to be.
"Never had dark hair before," she said. Some kinds of time just needed killing.
"The color of a person's hair is one of the most noticeable things about them. You'll be a lot harder to recognize now."
He was rubbing the jelly all around her neck.
"Yeah, ok. Just never changed my hair before."
"Why would you?" he shrugged.
He pulled a pair of rubber gloves over his hands and positioned himself behind her again. The sun touched her throat as her head leaned back into his hands. When he started smearing the black dye into her hair, a short snicker escaped her throat.
"Afraid I'm ruining your head?" he asked.
"Not really. I can do pretty well fixing the cut as long as you don't hack it up too badly. I was just thinking how my fate is literally in your hands."
"Not really," he noted quietly.
She kept going as if she hadn't heard him. "Then again, I've spent half my life letting someone else read the map. I guess that's how I ended up in Hell. Now I'm here trusting a man I haven't known twenty-four hours to navigate me through the trickiest part of the road."
"I just provide a service," he said. "It's not about trust. It's just business."
A brief silence fell while he combed the dye evenly through her severely shortened locks.
"So this is what happens. Live or die turns into a stranger's business. Maybe I'm just getting what I deserve."
She felt the careful drag of the comb punctuate his brewing thoughts.
"It's always like that. For everybody," he said. "Live or die is out of your hands, and it's out of mine. But you took your own map back or you wouldn't be sitting here, so that's something. Just follow your instructions and you'll be fine. No one will ever find you. Hell is where you'd be if Trey ever catches up with you, but we'll make sure that won't happen."
She sat upright and turned to look at him at the sound of the name.
"You know him?" She had to squint to see anything.
Hawke nodded.
"Prison."
She hadn't known Trey was ever in prison, but it made sense. The fact Hawke had actually known him then was still too surreal to process. He set the comb down and picked up the plastic shower cap. She kept her eyes on him the whole time he stepped back around in front of the chair and pulled the cap over her head, tucking her hair up underneath. Then he peeled the stained gloves off his hands and tossed them aside.
He took the little plastic stand and tipped everything off it, setting it in front of her and sitting down so their knees were almost touching.
"Trey, The Monk and me were all there at the same time," he said.
His eyes were cast on her lap, where the split in the lower half of the shirt parted to reveal her panties, but she felt his gaze was somewhere else, his eyes averted downward in a gesture of deference. She felt the same sensation she had the day before when the car had spun out of control.
"I know you're wondering if we were friends," he went on. "This is his signature I wear on my face."
She touched his face and ran her fingers along the long curve of scar tissue. She didn't expect him to sit still for it, but he did. Silently. She felt his hand settle on her bare thigh at the same time.
She thought of the long scar running down the inside of Trey's leg and realized Hawke was the one who put it there. Now she knew why The Monk had sent her to Hawke when she'd asked him for help.
"It's not like you think," she said. "You think people turn away because it makes you ugly. It's just extreme. Extremes make most people nervous. It's not that they don't want to see where you are – they're afraid to see where you've been."
She put her other hand on the other side of his face and he lifted the shirttail, exposing more of the ink on her hip.
"The tattoos are going to take time to change," he said. She could tell he was still taking in what she'd said in the back of his mind. "Or else you're always going to have to be very careful about ever letting them be seen."
He hooked his finger under the edge of her panties and pulled them aside to reveal more of the image. He traced the lines with the tips of his fingers. No one had ever touched or studied them the same way. He did everything with her hands on his face. She didn't want to let go for some reason.
"Three days ago I fucked two guys on Trey's living room floor. They were friends of his. That's all I knew about them, even though they had me in the middle, one of them up my pussy while the other went up my ass at the same time. It was for Trey and a bunch of his other friends. It was always for Trey's friends. Fucking gutter trash that made him feel like the grand impresario. Just another one of his little parlor shows he liked to put on for his freak buds. He's like a dog telling jokes to its fleas. But I fucked 'em both like I meant it. It's just something I always knew how to do. Fuck, I mean.
"They were drinking absinthe and sitting there like a bunch of opera critics, except the arias all ended with cumshots. They had lots of laughs and plenty to say. Critics rating the soprano's performance. Open debate on the way I was grinding those fucks on the rug. Even the color my slit turned soaking wet and pounded hard for the boys.
"Trey even asked us to stop in the middle of everything and move 'cuz they wanted a better look at my asshole. It's something he'd do, make sure we all knew he had the best view of me getting plugged in, always reminding me he was there. But I think he just likes watching better than fucking. Fucking's too much work.
"But then he told the one in my ass to spank me. So he did. I tried not to flinch, but it took me by surprise. He laughed and just smacked me harder. However hard he smacked me they just kept telling him to smack me harder. He hit like a fucking girl but they all loved it. He finally got so excited he pulled out and started spanking his cock.
"The others were laughing and telling him to squirt on my ass, but he just whacked himself so hard he started shooting everywhere and he ended up squirting half his cum on his buddy's balls. His buddy freaked out, like he was too big a stud for that shit, but his cock started twitching and he shot off like a firecracker. He waited until he was done before he just shoved me off onto the rug and got up and started pushing his buddy around for getting spunk on his balls.
"Everybody was laughing, except the guy with cum on his nuts. He was puffing up and telling everybody to fuck off, but he kept rubbing his balls the whole time, like he couldn't get enough of feeling his own cum spattered nuts.
"I don't even remember if Trey bothered telling me their names. Thing is – I know I wouldn't have been listening if he had. What's the fucking difference if it was Bill or Bob?
"Anyway, later on, you think one of those motherfuckers would look me in the eye without that what a nasty little fuckwhore you are gleam in their eye? You've probably never seen it. It's like someone's looking at you but not seeing you. Even Trey, like always. He'd get this fucked up glaze in his eye like he wouldn't dare touch me in front of his friends. But it never failed. He never wanted me to clean up. Just wait for him. He liked me used up and messy.
"So," she finally paused, "a little score on your face isn't what makes you ugly. Even if the devil himself put it there."
When Hawke finally looked up at her face, there was the same guarded silence in his eyes that had been there every time he'd looked at her long enough. Nothing had changed. She waited to see the clouds of derision pass through them, but they never came.
His hand slid off her thigh and he lifted her arm with both hands, holding it up and studying the illustration just as he'd studied her hip. Exaggerated red tail hawk descending on thorny roses.
"We'd have to go some to find an artist who could do a passable job of altering these," he mused. "We'll work around it. There's always a way."
"Ok." She nodded.
He set her hand down on her thigh and came upright, facing her without flinching.
"Some days are sunny and sweet," he said. "Others you just get caught in the shitstorm. It's just whatever the day blows over you. Doesn't hurt to have a good umbrella, though."
She reached to touch his naked upper body before he had a chance to keep going. "You're here now because you finally realized how much stronger you are than all of them," he said as her palm moved across his chest. "It's like that guy who got his friend's cum on his balls. He's walking around feeling like he's got a stain on him now. Even if he's aching for more. But I think you know the only stains are the ones we put on ourselves."
He had a way of smiling with his eyes without having to use the rest of his face. She could feel her cells changing over – driving her toward that next minute of newness – while her own smile hit her face. He smirked, looking at her as if the shower cap made her look silly.
"You know, Echo," he said, brushing his knuckles across her cheek. "I think you're gonna look beautiful with dark hair."
Hawke watched Echo kill time through the rear window of the house. In about twenty minutes, she could take off the cap and rinse her new hair. After he'd gone inside, she took off the overshirt and sunned herself in the chair. Nothing but scant, white panties and tattoo ink. She almost looked relaxed. Her breasts sat on her crossed forearms like rose tipped delicacies that sent a feeling of restlessness coursing through his veins.
He tried to reconcile the image of her sitting there now with the one she'd revealed out of her life with Trey. A feeling of responsibility nudged at the edges of his consciousness. He didn't know if he'd feel the same way without his own history with Trey. He wanted to believe he would, but he wasn't convinced.
There would have been a kind of elegance in the things she'd done for Trey and his friends. It was ingrained in her. A stirring of sensation swirled in his cock as he began to think of her with unmentionable shades of pride and jealousy.
Soon, the cap would come off her head and she'd look different. He'd teach her how to be someone else, while the same essence that made her what she was would always remain inside. She'd learn how to disguise a basket of gold as coal. They were about to create a woman who would never really exist.
She was going to be a magnificent ghost.
He turned from the window and went to the sofa where the backpack full of cash was lying where he'd tossed it the night before. He picked it up and quietly carried it out of the house across to the trailer. He went inside and left it on the bunk she'd slept in.
The clothes she'd been wearing the day before were strewn across the other bunk. There wasn't much to them. A scant pair of shorts, Tshirt and panties. Something about it felt sad, as if there was somehow less of her to help disappear from the life she was fleeing. But the truth was that she would be easy to notice wherever she went, and he knew Trey well enough to know he would never give her up easily.
He picked up the T and held it to his face. When he inhaled he felt like his head filled with something that had been part of her. He felt light headed and put the shirt back down. He looked at the scant, rumpled panties lying next to it. Knowing how bad an idea it was, he picked them up and held them to his face. The rush of her scent forced his pulse to spike.
It felt like his entire consciousness was filling with something raw and primal. She became a stark reality that drove his blood. His cock swarmed with sensation while images of the animal she became on Trey's living room carpet jolted his brain. Depraved lust elevated to gestures of grace and power. The animal she became was inside him now.
He closed his eyes and sat on her bunk, pressing her panties to his face with both hands. There were faint traces of body soap filtering through the patina of her sweat and honey. As always, his body was still and centered, but inside his bones began to rattle.
He took one more lingering breath and put the panties back where they'd been. He wanted to inhale her again, but he needed to keep his head clear. He couldn't remember the last time he'd met anyone who'd spent as much time alone as he did. She was the entire list.
He floated silently out of the trailer and walked around the house to the back. The shower cap was lying on the slate around the shower nozzle, along with long, discarded strands of blonde hair that didn't seem to belong to her now. She was spraying herself down, head back as she fingered out the strands of hair.
The spray glistened, ringing her dark head in a halo of sparks. The water and her body seemed like parts of the same continuum. Her skin had a buttery quality, and she moved around inside it as if she were connected to something unseen but there in the air surrounding her.
When she cut the spray and palmed the water off her face, Hawke's senses brought the pungency of her essence back to life in his head the moment their eyes met. She seemed perfectly at ease with her nakedness as he stepped toward her and picked up the face cloth he'd brought out earlier. He held her by the back of her head and wiped the remaining Vaseline off her face.
"You look like a gypsy woman now," he said.
"Guess I'll be living like one. On the road and all."
"For a while."
He dropped the cloth and picked up the conditioner from the dye kit. She bowed her head and let him massage the conditioner through her hair. The scent of the conditioner blended with the sense memory of everything he'd inhaled through the panties in the trailer. His fingers worked her skull with firm patience, and he felt her hands come to rest on either side of his bare torso.
He couldn't answer. It would've been better if they could have done all the talking they needed with their hands.
"…I get scared," she went on. "Like it comes and goes. It's not all the time."
"Being scared isn't always bad."
Her hands made small passes over his skin. "I think I'm more scared of fucking up than anything else."
"That's good, except most of the time we don't know we're fucking up until much later. Seeing you reminded me of that."
He took his hands out of her hair and took hold of the nozzle. She was still touching his sides, her palms tracing slow, familiar circles. Water dripped off the tips of her breasts. Her nipples were thick now, and her shaven pussy was never completely out of his peripheral vision.
"How?" she asked.
"Years ago," he told her calmly, "I had the chance to kill Trey. There was a riot, and no one would've ever known. But I didn't want to have to live with that. Even a sociopath like that. But now, seeing you…a glimpse of everything he's done ever since…maybe it's just as bad having to look you in the eye and know I could've spared you everything you ended up going through."
He squeezed the nozzle and started rinsing the conditioner out of her hair, using his free hand to finger-comb the strands back.
"Now I know why you scarred each other up so bad," she said, tugging the knot on his drawstrings. "You're the complete opposite of each other."
The pants fell around his ankles, and keeping her left hand on his hip, she caressed his cock and balls with the other. The blood pouring through his body turned into something vaporous while his shaft inflated in the stroke of her hand. He quit finger-combing her hair and held the spray just above her head a few seconds more. Then he cut it off suddenly and let it drop and dangle off the hose against the side of the house.
He reached for her face with both hands, but she was already sinking down to her knees. She warmed the head of his cock with her breath as she massaged his growing shaft. Her left hand moved under his balls, cupping and rubbing them as he swelled in her stroking fist.
"There's another thing," she said, letting her tongue flash across his cock head. "If you'd killed him back then, we wouldn't be here like this now. So maybe everything went the way it was supposed to."
She leaned in and took the dome of his cock into her mouth. Hawke held the sides of her face and watched her cheeks move as her tongue rolled around the ridge of his head.
The moment the slick heat of her mouth enveloped his flesh, everything was suddenly magnified: every touch, gesture and furtive glance. He would never be able to see her objectively now.
He could feel the heated ooze of his precum seeping onto her searching tongue. He fingered dark strands of hair back from her forehead and ears. He almost didn't recognize her. Even the ink on her body seemed different. She wasn't the same woman who'd driven up the day before.
"So this is the way it was supposed to go?" he uttered between the quiet rush of each breath.
She slipped her moist lips further onto his considerable shaft and lifted her eyes toward his face. The exotic color of her irises darkened as her look defied him to say otherwise. She looked at his face with neither sultriness nor innocence. Nothing but the unvarnished truth flashed in the wet jade of her eyes.
Hawke knew the only thing about being faced with the naked truth was there was nothing to do but believe it.
He traced the ring of her lips with the pad of his thumb, feeling the restless motion of her tongue inside her mouth. Her eyes averted as she moved her head, sliding her lips back and forth along his cock while she fondled his churning balls in the palm of one hand.
She wasn't used to the new length of her hair as it kept slipping loose from behind her ears and dangling in her face. Hawke laced his fingers into her damp locks and pushed them back. He didn't want to look away from her face. He wanted to see her eyes again but she wouldn't look up.
His cock felt like pure, throbbing heat as she fucked him with her tautly pursed lips. The wet ring of her mouth slipped along his burning flesh with steady patience. Unhurried determination. She was focused, but on herself as much as him. She was there to take as much as she was willing to give.
Blood gushed through his body with fresh force, while the hand under his balls slid further. She clawed up a fistful of his ass cheek in her left, pulling him open while the middle finger of her right pressed lightly against his rim.
Hawke's fingers curled into fists, grasping Echo's short, dark hair as his deepening breath transformed into a tide flow of snarling. She was pulling air into her lungs almost as desperately as Hawke, uttering sudden gasps around his cock while the tip of her finger ground harder against his tight hole.
When her finger made a careful surge up inside him, the grip of his fists tightened on her hair. He wanted to tell her everything sweeping through his mind, but he was lost, falling through the warm, dark space of her touch and wet heat.
Her fingers clawed harder into the tight muscle of his ass, while the finger inside him began to rock in and out to the second knuckle.
Hawke breathed in staccato grunts while air rushed in and out through Echo's nose, her mouth remaining in constantly building motion along his pulsing shaft.
Suddenly, he released his grasp on her hair and beat his fists against the side of the house as his cum burst like a sudden storm in her mouth. She quickly yanked her finger from his ass, sending a wave of gushing sensations through his body.
He could feel the muscles in her mouth move as she drank down the rushing flow of his cum. They became a single river of sensation, two tributaries flowing together as her desire to run and live merged with the marrow of his bones.
After everything went dark and light, he remembered to look back down and discovered her still holding his cock in her mouth with closed eyes. Her tongue rolled in lazy circles as he brought his hands back to her face. Her skin felt soft as orchid petals, but his heart had only begun to learn just how durable this Echo could be.
Posted: October 30, 2016 in Uncategorized
Tags: Echo's Run, erotic fiction, erotica, Frank Lee, masturbation, sex stories, shower sex
For a brief time, I'd like to make my novella, Echo's Run, freely available here. Due to its length, it's going to be posted in three parts. This was a story that resonated with me in the writing perhaps more than any other, and I hope it may speak to just a few more people as it's posted in its entirety here. The second and final parts will both appear before the week is out. Thanks, as always, for taking whatever time you have to spend with what I write.
Echo's Run I
The machine streaked across the desert, screaming through bleak vistas of scorched earth where nothing lives without a little outside help. Joshua trees and desultory vultures. Fossils buried under the salt floor of ancient seas. She was hammering the gas, white knuckling the wheel until the screaming of the engine drowned out the screaming in her mind. She was riding inside a shot bullet, all done and hurtling toward any bull's-eye she could hit. There was a world of shame in the rearview mirror and a vortex of impossible questions ahead in the blinding beyond.
Lean muscle danced under the blue ink hieroglyph down her arm, taut sinews singing as she pushed the tiny flash of metal past RPMs she didn't bother counting. Everything played games just below the surface of her skin: angels and devils flirting with delicious catastrophes, the appetite for better dreams swimming against the rush of her blood. When she caught a flash of her eyes in the mirror, the shadows she knew had been living behind them were gone. She didn't know where, but it didn't matter anymore.
The whole idea of gone took on a strange new meaning. It was where she was now – where she was headed – and the sudden revelation of freedom made her cells prickle with something soft and electric. She'd never been more alone, yet she couldn't help thinking maybe this was what being in love must be like.
She almost felt herself turning beautiful again, the way she was before the dark ages of manifold appetites and penthouse excuses unplugged her sparkle. Even under the ink and scars it felt like her skin was changing into something better than it used to be.
A new name, a couple more borders and she was home free.
Then something moved in the middle of the lane ahead, and by the time she realized it was only a scrubby headed turkey vulture gnawing up roadkill she'd already hit the brakes too hard. The car fishtailed and she pulled the wheel too sharp into the skid. But even as the car veered onto the rocky desert sand a strange sense of calm came over her. Whatever happened now could never go as wrong as everything before it.
She took her hands off the wheel and pressed them up into the ceiling, closing her eyes while she felt the vehicle bounce and spin. She took one bounce hard enough to make her wonder why the car didn't roll, but she felt separate from it all, pressing her hands even harder into the ceiling, pinning herself down against the seat. She was steady under all the layers of chaos. There was nothing to do but wait for the car to lose momentum and finally crunch up against a tree on the passenger's side.
She sat a moment, waiting to be sure the car had really stopped. She pulled her hands back down to her lap and opened her eyes, realizing the engine hadn't even stalled. She shut it off and got out. The car was layered in grit and heavily scuffed. The dust trail behind her still drifted on slow moving air. The right front headlight was smashed, but the tires were all okay…and so was she.
She walked over to the road and looked off in the direction she'd come from. The vulture was already back where it had been before the skid, finishing off what was left of its meal. She laughed a moment or two, then looked around at the vast expanse of beautiful nothingness. She wondered if it was wrong not to feel disoriented, but as the desert heat licked at the pores of her skin she felt calm. Her heart felt strong and steady, like a secret fist.
Every moment was nothing more or less than whatever was happening inside it. She was alive and perfectly self-contained, even if she wasn't supposed to be.
The long, black thread of road shuddered with heat ripples in both directions. She pulled her cropped T shirt over her head, then toed off her sandals and unzipped her cutoffs, pushing them off along with her panties. She stood naked in the center of the road and touched her breasts. Her body felt weightless, but there was a heaviness to her breasts that felt comforting. Hot desert air swarmed through the space between her sinuous thighs. Shaven slick as Teflon, her pussy felt touched.
She looked up and then down the road again. More of nothing piled on top of nothing. Freedom was letting the sun kiss her body like a secret lover in the middle of a road no one needed anymore. She closed her eyes and pinched her nipples. The heat felt like ions raining on her skin.
She opened her eyes and started walking toward the vulture, the heat of the pavement nearly burning the soles of her feet, but she was too consumed with being alive to care. She stopped and stood fifteen feet from the vulture. It just kept digging and eating.
"You don't want me, so I guess that's a good thing," she said.
The vulture ignored her. It made her think of those twisted old widows she saw once in Mexico. She turned and walked back toward her strewn clothes. She owned the last remaining secrets of the world now, and the notion was almost enough to make her wet.
She stopped in the middle of the road, her feet planted on either side of the ghost of a center line. The desert air merged with her skin. She touched her palms to the insides of her thighs and followed the line of empty road with her eyes until it thinned into whatever was going to happen next. She pushed against the meat of her own body until her blood stopped. The pressure against her muscles pried against the petals of her pussy.
Air hotter than her skin licked at her half splayed lips. Open desolation lay out in every direction. Her hands slowly closed in on her pussy, thumb crossing over her mound while her fingers dragged along her folds. Sense and moisture. Right hand finger dug and parted her flesh. She flushed slick and pushed her finger inside.
She owned everything and possessed nothing. She stirred herself slightly, feeling her blood rush and then slowly dragged her finger back out. She set her feet further apart on the pavement and rolled the clustered pads of her fingers along the slippery crease of her sex. Something caught inside her she couldn't stop. Something she didn't want or try to stop.
She threw back her head and closed her eyes. Highway and desert spun around her in the darkness, and the caught thing inside her locked up in her muscle and sinew. Her fingers slicked up inside her, pump strokes of her own, haphazard design until the scarlet pearl riding the apex of her core pulsed in waves that shivered through the stone clench of her body.
She couldn't stop the caught thing inside. She couldn't stop anything, couldn't stop being alive until the waves became a vortex and she opened her eyes to see the open world around her. The only real living thing for miles in every direction – naked and taking flight – she felt like a secret too thrilling to even tell herself. Her body clenched around the explosion of heat in her cells. She buckled from the middle and lightly stamped a bare foot on the tar as the waves of sensation rose up through her body and disseminated in the air.
She was twenty-six and knew how to move in and out between beats of the earth's heart, but it was the first time there was ever a vulture over her shoulder that wasn't there to eat her alive.
Her finger moved and stirred inside. There was a difference between touching and feeling, but she had yet to learn what it was. She slowly drew her finger out of herself. She stuck it in her mouth and sucked. She was free enough for now.
She gathered up what little there was of her clothes and put them back on, then went back to the car and started it up. It took a couple of minutes to work it back onto the pavement. She idled a moment on the shoulder and took another look at the hand drawn map on the passenger's seat. She knew every line and scrawl by heart now. The X on the map wasn't much farther. A man she'd never met before would be expecting her, and so was the person he was waiting to help her become.
Hawke was sitting Lotus style under the old willow behind the house and trailer. His back was to the trunk, his eyes focused on the blurred lace of the tree's canopy against the sky beyond, but he wasn't seeing it now. It was only the point where he always started. After focusing on the leaves for several minutes, his thoughts would begin to blur and merge until his mind became as clear as water. It never lasted more than a few minutes, but the feeling of being in tune with himself would be with him for hours.
Prison zen that had stuck with him.
Breath went in and out of him like a circle, but when the car pulled in he was nearing the end of his usual peak. He'd been expecting her, but he didn't move when he heard the tires crunch up to the front of the house. The engine shut down and the door opened and shut as he sat a moment more. He took one more, long, slow breath and floated to his feet, but he stayed where he was in the cool shade under the willow, hidden behind the dangling skirts of its branches.
She was driving a 3 series BMW that had seen better days than today. She walked a circle around it, cautiously checking out the house and the trailer that faced it on an angle, keeping her distance. She scanned the area, her gaze sweeping across the hillside where the tree was, but she didn't see Hawke hidden behind the skirt of branches and leaves.
She was out in the open too much. She moved too much like a bird and not enough like a cat. People were earth bound creatures. She was going to need a lot of schooling.
Her legs had a long, sapling-like quality about them in cut-offs too small to let her be anonymous. The tattoo on her upper thigh probably reached up across her hip. It matched the ink on her arm; same motif and style. Probably the same artist, Hawke assumed. Her breasts weren't overly large, but they were slightly out of tune with the hard willowy look of her body. At least her long, blonde hair could be cut and dyed.
The tits and ink were going to be a problem, though.
She called his name a couple of times, once toward the house and once toward the trailer. She finally went to the front door of the house and banged her small fist on it a few times.
Hawke waited. If she was bringing anyone else along to the party, knowingly or otherwise, now was the time to find out. He waited long enough to let her start thinking he wasn't there. She banged on the door of the house again and then stalked across the gravel drive and banged on the trailer door. She started to look worried and paced around the car some more.
Her body started to fill with tension, but she finally seemed to deflate and went to sit in the small square of shade under the awning over the door.
Hawke watched her sit another ten minutes or so. She was understandably tense, but she knew how to wait. That much would always be in her favor. When The Monk had called to set up the meet, he'd given Hawke the impression she was just another party favor running from her own bad choices, but there was a weight about the blonde that wasn't on her resume – self-aware without being self-absorbed. He could feel it from there under the tree. She was rumpled and dusty, a woman not above allowing herself to get smudged.
Instinct prickled the follicles at the base of his neck. He passed a couple of minutes considering whether or not to wait long enough for her to get fed up and leave. She didn't read like the type who would need his help, but he finally stepped out from under the tree and started down the hill. As he drew closer and got a better look at her car, he caught a good idea of the kind of time she'd had getting there. She didn't notice him until his shadow cut across her bare legs and she looked up squinting.
"You know who I am?" she asked.
He nodded. "Only what The Monk said."
"So, then…you knew I was coming?"
"Let's go inside."
She stood up and looked a little awkward as she waited for him to open the door. The house wasn't much bigger than the trailer, with a small kitchen and dining area on the left and a living room on the right. Hawke went to the refrigerator and pulled out two bottles of water. She was still standing by the door when he turned around. He set one of the bottles on the table and leaned back against the counter, uncapping the bottle he kept for himself.
She didn't seem to know what to do next. She was watching him for a sign, but all he did was angle the water bottle to his mouth and drink. She moved to the table and sat, opening the bottle he'd set there and drank.
He watched her throat move as she drained half the bottle. Something shifted inside him. Delicacies always sneak out from the corners you don't expect. A feeling came over him that call from The Monk would have been a good one to miss. Whoever was looking for her was probably committed to finding her. It's what Hawke would do if he lost something like her. Once upon a time, anyway, in the days before he'd lost himself.
But he was used to losing things, and he was better at it than most people. She put the bottle back on the table and looked at him expectantly.
He watched her wait. She had the kind of beauty that was intense but not angry. Even now. Her eyes were serious but without fear. Maybe that was even a good thing.
"Did The Monk tell you anything about what to expect?" he finally asked.
"He just said I should do what you tell me or I'm probably fucked."
Hawke nodded thoughtfully. "You're down to your ninth life or you wouldn't be here. I'll help you change the most recognizable things about you. Few more days and you'll be somebody else." He paused a couple of beats and she nodded, the attentive pupil. "Are you careless or stupid?"
She shook her head no. There was no exaggeration to the gesture but no hesitation, either. Hawke reached in his pants pocket and pulled out a key, then slid it across the table in front of her.
"You'll stay in the trailer while you're here. There's not much in there, but at least the basics. Clean sheets, lights and hot water. There's no food so you'll have to come back here if you get hungry."
She didn't say anything, but as soon as he said the word he realized she'd probably gone most of the day without food. Her eyes were pale jade, but there was something darker about them –a shade that had nothing to do with color – like someone else was sitting inside the raw shell of woman sitting at his table.
"You'll be comfortable enough in there for a couple of days. Go settle in. Shower's working if you want. I'll see about putting something together to eat."
She looked disoriented for a few seconds when he mentioned eating, but she caught herself and nodded. She got up to go and then paused with her hand on the door.
"Do the people you help like you're helping me ever say thanks?" she asked without looking at him.
"Not ever?"
He watched her study the door knob a moment longer. She fingered strands of stray blonde behind her ear. The relationship between her jaw and cheekbone were like few things he'd seen.
"Do they ever tell you their names?"
She nodded – unsurprised by his reply – and walked out. Hawke opened the refrigerator and started taking inventory.
The trailer was cramped but everything was crisp and tidy as an old motel room. Fresh sheets were folded and stacked on one of the bunks. The lights turned on and water ran in the kitchenette. The moment alone made it all feel more comfortable somehow. She tested the shower and water ran there, too. She left it running and peeled off her top and shorts.
She stepped inside the tiny stall under a weak spray just warm enough to pretend it was hot. Dust and fatigue ran off her skin and pooled around the drain. She thought about the scar running down the side of Hawke's face from his brow to the edge of his jaw. She'd wanted to ask him about it. He was handsome all around it, but he kept turning his face the other way when he caught her looking.
It wasn't the kind of scar a boy gets falling off a swing.
She thought about scars as she slid a fresh bar of soap across her wet skin. Hers were all on the inside, and until recently, she'd thought they were self-inflicted.
Suds ran down the ink on her body. Right arm, left hip. The images were crisp but the colors were dull when you looked at them too long. It was the quality of her skin that made them vibrant. Blood red flowers and mythical war birds. She was a story with a beginning and end but no middle.
She realized the ink on her body was as much a burden to her now as Hawke's scar was to him. For all the promises The Monk had made about what Hawke could do, she knew he could never turn her skin upside down. She hadn't missed the way he'd quietly studied her. He'd kept the annoyance off his face, but it had passed through his eyes like the shadow of a pendulum.
The Monk had told her she would need a miracle to slip away from Trey, but Hawke had looked at her like she'd squandered all the currency she had to buy one. She realized the truth of her survival rested somewhere in between.
She leaned back against the cramped enclosure and closed her eyes as the dull jets of tepid spray pelted her breasts. She reached up and clutched each one hard, squeezing and kneading her pliant mounds until her nipples ached. She pinched her growing nipples and thought back to when the car had spun out around that vulture in the desert.
Her knees started to bend as her right hand dropped down her body. Her skin felt wet and slick as her fingers formed a half cup over her bald pussy. She felt warm, pliant and alive. A thousand oily liars had told her she was beautiful, but the words had only ricocheted off the shell around the burning lamp down in the window of her soul. Everything they said – the way they'd all looked at and touched her – never connected with the lost animal inside.
The web of her fingers pressed into herself. In the moment she closed her eyes and felt only the spray against her body and the pressure of her hand between her thighs, she felt herself turning beautiful the way she had just before the car spun out of control. But it was a different kind of beauty the parlor freaks had all told her she had. They'd all looked at her like something they were about to wound. Hawke had looked at her like something wounded that needed fixing.
At least if you look at something like it needs fixing, you have to harbor the belief it can be fixed.
Her middle finger settled into the furrow between her flushing sex lips, and the animal inside called out to say it had never been lost at all. She pressed her weight against the side of the stall and let her thighs drift open.
Her finger moved. Her pussy swarmed wet heat around it.
She didn't need Hawke to fix her. If he could help her reinvent her identity, she'd be just fine fixing herself. Still, as her pussy flushed hot sap around her deepening finger she wondered what it would be like to be touched by a man like him, who'd caught a glimpse of the hidden animal. One look at his scar and eyes was enough to see he knew something about healing from a deep wound.
He would have hands like any other man. A million hands all made of fingers and thumbs, but the man is always revealed in the shifting weight of his touch. Every set of fingertips forge their own relationship with the surface of a woman's skin.
Her finger curled up inside and she felt like something new and unbroken. The slick cavern felt like the flesh of another creature, but the shiver of sensation seeping through her cells brought her back home to herself.
"I can be beautiful," she aloud as she slid her finger deeper. She pushed another inside along with it, feeling sweet tension sing through her sinews and muscle.
She flashed back on her life with Trey and his coterie of parlor freaks. Five years summed up in a fleeting hallucination of memory. "I'm not the kind of beautiful you think you made me…I'm something else…I'm the kind of beautiful your wretched eyes will never see."
She ground her heels against the enclosure floor and pushed her fingers back and forth, slip-sliding through the center of her body. She remembered hearing somewhere how all the cells in a human body die off and regenerate every minute or two. It was like becoming someone new every minute.
Every minute of her life was just about to begin.
Hawke stood outside the trailer, debating whether or not he should knock. When he heard the way she was talking to herself he decided not to. She'd smell the steaks and come across the gravel when she was ready. The wretched eyes she was talking about weren't his, but he knew the kind of eyes she meant.
"Eyes I dare not meet in dreams."
He knew his eyes weren't wretched, even though people rarely met them head on. It was the scar that made them turn away. The only wretched thing about his eyes was how the light inside them kept flickering on and off.
She'd looked at his scar without turning away. It was his eyes she turned away from.
Times like this, when everything held still for the sun to go down, he felt the intricate motion of it all. Sun, moon, sky – jagged horizon. He listened to her through the trailer wall and studied her face in his mind. He had a strong feeling she wasn't going to resist having to reinvent herself from the ground up. It was as if she'd started well before she got there.
She let out a muted gasp that almost sounded like crying. He knew how badly she needed to be alive. Even the first time he'd spotted her earlier, from the hillside under the willow, he could tell she was a ravenous organism hell bent on staying alive.
He suddenly felt an odd sensation of missing someone – someone he'd never met before – and the odd futility he probably never would. Most people would never set foot in the same room with the one person who'd end up changing their lives. Believing in fate didn't necessarily mean believing it did you any favors.
He didn't want to care about the kind of beauty she was talking about to herself in the shower. If he started to think about the vibrant synergy between herself and the way she moved – the way she would ask a question and then knit her brow to consider the reply – or even the way her jaw curled in and down toward the delicacy of her throat – he'd lose his objectivity, and he'd never be able to do the job she was paying for.
He didn't want to stand there and listen to her drive herself through the center of a thousand firing synapses. He turned and walked back across the gravel to the house.
There was a worn carpet in the living area where he practiced his Tai Chi form until he smelled her shampoo and knew she'd come in. She was standing just inside the door watching him.
"Smells good," she said from the doorway.
Her hair was still wet. She was wearing black leggings and a cropped, white T shirt that make her ink and nipples stand out like an awkward greeting. A black and blue nylon backpack dangled from her right hand.
"Steak and beet greens," he said, floating out of his form to stand and face her. "There's plenty of greens if you don't eat meat."
"It's ok," she nodded. "Meat's good."
She was looking at his scar without flinching. He didn't turn his head this time. Unspoken thoughts hung in the still air. Hawke studied her face while she studied his scar. There was a quality in the stretch of her skin over her tendons and bones that didn't seem to match the husk of her voice when he'd listened to her talking to herself about being beautiful.
He caught himself wondering what the hollow of skin at the base of her throat would taste like when he realized just how valuable a piece of candy she had to be to Trey. He tried not to speculate how much The Monk might have told her about the jagged history they all shared.
"Let's sit down," he said, moving toward the Formica table that was half blocking the entrance to the kitchenette.
"Here," she said, holding the backpack up to him as he passed. "Might as well just give you this now."
He took the pack without looking at it and flung it sideways onto the worn sofa in the living area.
"Aren't you going to count it?" she asked.
"Any reason I should?" he countered as he stepped into the kitchenette and set the steaks and a bowl of cooked greens on the table. There were already plates and tin dinnerware he set about arranging into crude place settings on opposite sides.
She sat down on one side and he stabbed one of the steaks with a fork and put it on her plate. He put the other on his own plate and started cutting. He almost expected her to say something more about the pack full of cash, but mercifully, she didn't. She cut a piece off her steak and chewed hungrily. She ate as if she needed the food more than the freedom she'd come to buy.
Hawke ate slowly, watching her tear into her steak with predatory zeal. He suddenly got up and got two bottles of water out of the refrigerator, setting one in front of her. She paused and opened the bottle. The drink broke her rhythm and she went back to her steak more calmly.
"What's my new name going to be?" she asked suddenly. It sounded like something she'd been wondering about but hadn't been planning to ask. There was a curiosity in her tone that almost sounded naïve.
Hawke paused over the question. "I don't know. Why?"
"It's hard not to be curious. Besides, I can tell you don't want to know my name, but you still need something to call me."
"You can choose one," he said. "It's not like it's all planned out ahead. Is there a name you always wished you had?"
She stopped eating and looked at him. Straight at his eyes this time. She looked even more surprised than he felt. The right corner of her mouth curled into half a smile, making her cheekbone dance.
"Why don't you pick one?"
Hawke felt as close to confused as he'd been in a long time. The idea of having a name to call her made his wrists sweat. It wouldn't change the delicate desperation of her features, but he'd never be able to look at her exactly the same way again.
"You can have any name you want now," he started to explain.
She reached across the table and touched his hand. "Sure," she said, "but how many people choose their own name. Most of the time your parents give you a name they like for some reason, or maybe something that reflects what they hope you turn into. Friends give you nicknames that say something about how they see you. Whatever. It just doesn't seem natural to pick your own name."
Hawke felt a smile fighting to break out on his face. He fought back, but he could feel it filter through his eyes. She was looking at his eyes again. There was a glitter in hers that entered him in a way that reminded him of breathing. Her eyes were green with random flecks of amber. He looked at her face and thought about names. She watched him think and he turned his hand underneath hers, touching her palm with the tip of his finger.
"Echo," he finally said.
"That's not even a name," she said, although her eyes flickered with curiosity.
"It's a very old name," Hawke told her. "Echo was a beautiful nymph who used to tell stories to an immortal queen so her husband could sneak out and play."
She uttered a half laugh. "Some claim to fame."
"Well, that's not Echo's whole story. Do you know about Narcissus?"
"Sure. The guy who fell in love with himself."
"Right. But Echo was in love with Narcissus. Can you imagine being in love with a man who loves himself more than anyone else?"
She suddenly seemed shrouded in worry, but she was tracking Hawke's face. It hadn't been such a difficult chord to strike. A man who loved her might be flattened over losing her, but he'd have to let her go. A man who loved himself enough to believe he could own something like her would pursue her all the way to Hell.
"One day she followed Narcissus into the woods," Hawke went on. "All she wanted to do was hold him, talk to him, but she was afraid to reveal herself. She was a fretful creature without much in the way of self-worth. Narcissus sensed he wasn't alone and called out, not knowing who was there, but Echo choked and all she could do was repeat everything he said. She couldn't make herself approach him. Narcissus freaked and started to run, but when he saw his reflection in a pool of water, he became so entranced by his own beauty he was paralyzed. Echo wandered through the woods calling out to a man doomed to admire his own reflection so much me would never see beyond it. She kept calling and calling, trying to get him to see her, but she finally faded away into nothing but the echo of her own voice."
"It's a beautiful name," she finally said. "But Echo doesn't come out all that well in the end." For a moment, her green eyes looked like they were about to spill.
Hawke broke into a full smile.
"If you ask me, Narcissus was the real loser. He would never love anyone but himself. There was no one to love him back but his own reflection. Can you just imagine how alive Echo must have felt? How her heart must have been swollen with love? And in the end she turned into a song."
She blinked hard against the moisture in her eyes, but her mouth joined Hawke's in that smile.
"Where'd you hear all that?" she asked.
"It was in a book I read in prison."
She didn't look surprised, but she nodded in silent approval. Hawke squeezed her hand.
"Eat up," he said, going back to his steak. "You need a good meal and a good night's sleep. Tomorrow we go to work making you disappear."
Pretty Mama
Tags: erotic fiction, erotic stories, Frank Lee, sex, sex stories
Jimmy was flat on his back with his head under the front end of the Fairmont. He was trying to loosen a rusty bolt at an odd angle.
As soon as he spat the word he spotted a small pair of lime green sneakers in front of the car. Lime green sneakers, white socks and the sapling-like shins of a child. A ratty looking teddy bear was hanging down beside the shins.
He put down the ratchet and blew a sigh. He didn't like cussing that way around kids. It seemed contrary to the most basic and unwritten rules of living. Grown-ups had done plenty of cussing around him when he was a kid. It hadn't harmed him, except maybe for growing up to be the kind of person to cuss a vapor trail of bile when the mood struck.
He slid out from under the car and squinted against the sunlight.
"Sorry, Jess," he told the smiley, towheaded wisp. "I shouldn't be using words like that."
Jessica giggled heartily for a long time. Jim sat against the front bumper and watched her face break open with glee. Covered with sweat, fingers black with engine grease, the sound felt like something perfectly clean – something pure – like jewels raining over leather.
"It's okay," she said. "Mommy's boyfriend says that all the time."
Jim frowned. It didn't make it okay. He'd never seen men coming or going from the townhouse unit the girl lived in with her mother across the parking lot. But she wasn't a woman who would've been a long time alone.
The girl's mother probably wasn't twenty-five. She was darker haired than her child, with a kind of severe prettiness. She looked angry and in a hurry all the time. She'd never so much as given Jim a sidelong glance as she stalked back and forth from her car in tight miniskirts that showed off thighs and an ass that were just this side of thick. Breasts that would just fill a man's hands.
He didn't know her name, but he didn't have to. The woman had to have survived her share of car crashes. It was hard to imagine anything as sweet and guileless as Jess keeping her sparkle in the midst of whatever it all amounted to.
Jessica always came to visit Jim whenever they were both outside their apartments at the same time. He'd come to look forward to her visits. She had this ethereal sense of wonder about her that made him feel good about being alive. He'd never wanted kids. Still didn't. But if he did, it might not be so bad if the kid were like her.
He realized he'd never shown another person – a child – anything like how to tie a pair of lime green sneakers.
He wasn't built for it anyway.
Two of Jessica's friends were playing on top of the big, grey transformer box near the corner of the building. It had big red stickers on it that said "Danger: High Voltage". The kids didn't care that electricity for twenty-five apartments was constantly humming through that box.
"We're having a birthday party," Jessica said happily. "We're gonna have cake and ice cream. And a sleepover party. You can come if you want to."
Jim laughed out loud. He would have been an odd guest at a party like that. He almost asked Jessica if he could have a sleepover party with her mother instead.
Jessica was looking at him with a smile that could turn vinegar to sugar. In a few more years, she'd probably learn to look at the world through a haze of amorphous anger. Then he felt a brief wish that her mother had been like Jessica when she was young. At least there would be some part of her life that was free of anguish, and once in while, maybe she could reach backward and touch it.
"Is today your birthday?"
"Mmhmm," the girl replied with a pronounced nod.
"And how old are you today?"
"Six." She said the word with a little ring in her voice, as if reaching the venerable age of six was a rare and astonishing experience. Jim supposed it probably was after all.
"Well I hope you have a great party," he told her.
"You can come, if you want to," she said again.
"We'll see," he lied.
A little later, Jim went to the hardware store to buy some WD 40 to loosen those bolts. Driving through town, he started to feel bad about lying to the kid. Not bad enough to actually go to a six year old birthday party, but he thought he should at least buy her a present.
He stopped at a shop that sold toys and children's books. It was full of brightly colored things, posters of cartoon animals, all happy and smiling. His clothes were grimy, and his hands were still stained with grease. He smelled like gasoline and rusty steel. Everything in the store was maniacally bright and cheerful. He couldn't wait to get out of there and almost forgot why he'd gone in the first place.
He bought a book called The Polar Express. He didn't know anything about the story, but the artwork resonated with him. It was hard to imagine pictures on the walls of Jessica's house, and he thought maybe her imagination could use somewhere to go.
Late in the afternoon, he finished working on his car. He went inside to shower and change. Then he wrapped Jessica's book in paper with little Santa Clauses and candy canes on it. It was all he had.
When he knocked on the door to Jessica's apartment, one of the ladies who lived in the same block of apartments let him in. There were two mothers along with their daughters at the party. Jessica's mother wasn't there, and Jim didn't ask about her. He just gave the girl her present. She got up from the game she was playing on the floor with the two other girls to come over and thank him. She even hugged him, and then went back to her game.
The mothers of the other girls were also neighbors of Jim's, and he knew them both. He knew their husbands. At least enough to say hello, but not much more. He wanted to leave, but one of the mothers asked if he could stay with Jessica until her mother came home.
"We just can't stay any longer," the woman told him. "We've got to get back to our families. I'll call Jessie's mom and let her know you're here."
Jim wanted to invent a reason he couldn't stay, but the two women were so anxious to leave they weren't going to give him enough time to think of a good one. The woman who'd spoken was already dialing the number on her cell phone. She rolled her eyes when she was put through to voice mail.
Both of the mothers hustled their daughters out of the apartment like the place was on fire. Jim was committed, and he didn't have a clue for how long. He looked around the small kitchen and living room. There were no pictures on the walls as he'd thought. No books, not even cookbooks, except for the one he'd given Jessica.
The girl was still sitting on the floor, playing and talking as if the other two were still there.
Half the cake had been cut and eaten. It was a store-bought cake, but it still looked pretty good. There were dishes covered with chocolate crumbs and traces of vanilla ice cream. He picked up the dishes and put them in the sink.
Jessica got up and stood in the kitchen doorway.
"Wanna have some cake and ice cream?"
"Didn't you have some already?"
"Yup. Sure."
"Are you supposed to have more? I wouldn't want you to get sick."
"Yeah, but it's my birthday."
"Special dispensation, huh?"
She tilted her head and looked at him curiously, as if pretending she understood what he said. Then she giggled just like she had when he said fuck under his car that afternoon.
He finally found a pair of clean dishes and cut two more pieces of cake. He made hers a small one. He found the ice cream, too. Then they sat at the small kitchen table and ate.
Jim felt like he should say something, but he didn't know what. Making conversation with a six year old wasn't something he did very much. Fortunately, the kid was still a long way from learning how to feel awkward over gaps in a conversation.
"How about if we read your book?" he suggested after they ate up their cake.
Jessica's face suddenly grew bright. "Yeah!"
They went to the living room and sat on the worn little couch so Jim could read and Jessica could follow the pictures. She was more interested in the pictures than the story, but she was quiet while he read, as if the sound of his voice were a good thing.
When he got to the end of the book, Jessica smiled and asked him to read it again. He read through it two more times. It was dark outside, and Jessica's eyes were beginning to droop with sleepiness. Jim got up so she could stretch out on the couch and sleep.
It was a warm night, so he opened the apartment door and put one of the kitchen chairs just outside. He sat and waited. Long enough to start feeling angry. He wondered if Jessica's mother had even heard the message their neighbor had left.
After a while, he got up and went inside. Jess was still sleeping soundly on the couch. The anger subsided, but he still felt profoundly off center.
A couple of hours passed, and Jim was still sitting in front of the apartment door when her car squealed into the development parking lot. He lifted his hand to shade his eyes from the headlights as the car stopped a few feet in front of him. The lights shut off, and he was momentarily blind.
She slammed her car door like she wanted to ruin it, then leaned against it and exhaled long and slow. She was unsteady on her feet, and wearing a dress so tight it seemed it couldn't keep pace with the tired movements of her body. There were long, dark streaks of mascara running down her cheeks. She looked down at the ground and avoided looking at him. He put the chair back inside and looked around to see if there was a box of Kleenex. All he could find was toilet paper. He pulled a small wad off the roll and brought it out.
She took the toilet paper without looking at him and wiped at her eyes. It just made the smudges worse. He started to ask if she was okay, but she just held up her hand.
Up close, he realized she was something more than pretty. Even with the smudges on her face, she had the kind of beauty that turned the lives of some women into a lamentable mess. He was relieved she wouldn't look at him. He didn't think he could look back.
"Jessica's fine," he said. "We had some cake. Ice cream. Read a story. She's sleeping on the couch."
He waited longer than necessary for an answer, but she only nodded her head. He said goodnight and walked across the lot to his apartment.
His kitchen was insidiously bright, and he realized there were no pictures on his walls, either. He decided he would go out the next day and buy some posters. Maybe a few. Something with some nature. Something with some art.
There was a soft knock at the door.
She almost looked at his face now, but never actually made eye contact. Her face was clean but her eyes still looked damp. She looked younger than before. She started to say something, but her body shivered once and she started crying. She managed a strangled thank you.
"It's okay," he said. "She's a wonderful kid."
She cried harder then. Leaned against him and shook with violent sobs. He felt stiff and awkward, but he finally put his arms around her and touched her hair while she cried. She smelled of whiskey, perfume and a little bit of sweat.
Standing in the doorway of his apartment, hugging a woman whose name he didn't know, he wanted to think of something useful to say. He could have told her that everything would look better in the morning, but he knew she wouldn't believe him, and he wasn't too sure he believed it himself. All he could think to say was, "Shhh. Shhh."
He held onto her for a long time. Long after the sobbing subsided and she was just breathing against him. Breathing inside the circle of his arms, her breasts pressing and releasing on his body.
"Bad night," he said. Question as much as statement.
"You could say."
She was talking into his neck. He was talking into her hair. Her breasts pressed in harder, without the help of her breathing now.
"You okay?"
"Good. Um. I don't seem to want to let go."
"S'okay. I don't seem to want you to."
"Maybe it doesn't matter if you love someone," he said. "Maybe if you just love the moments you spend, it's enough."
He didn't know where it came from. Just something that drifted through his mind unbidden. His left hand fingered into her hair and held her head from behind. Her face burrowed into his neck, breath pulsing at his skin. His right hand drifted over the full curve of her ass. Her dress was thin and tight enough it was almost like touching her skin.
She arched against him, slightly, as if a barely perceptible wave had rolled up and down the length of her body once and disappeared. Her lips touched his neck but didn't kiss. Breath. Touching his neck through an open mouth. A wider swath. Damp heat over his skin.
He moved his hand. Fingertips brushed across the hem of her dress, lifting it that scant couple of inches he needed to touch the under curve of her ass. Bare skin on the pads of his fingers. An illusion of flawlessness. His cock started growing, and another tiny wave passed through her body.
He wanted to say her name but didn't know what it was, and he didn't want to ask her now. He didn't imagine she knew his, either, but then, a name was about the least you could ever know of anyone.
She was facing into the open doorway while he was facing out. He wanted to guide her inside, but the moment was crystalline and in precarious danger of shattering. The Fairmont was parked in front of them. Her car was where she'd pulled in before, parked in front of her door which was hanging open wide as his.
The open area between the buildings was quiet. Deserted. It felt later than it was. He lifted her dress higher, exposing the springy roundness of her ass, discovering the thong nestled between her cheeks as he clamped his hand onto one sphere.
"Maybe this is…." His voice trailed off into a total lack of conviction. "I'm sorry," he started.
"Don't." Her lips pronounced the word against his neck.
At first, he thought she was telling him to stop. She probably should have, but her body was moving against his cock again. His grip tightened on her ass – soft hard pliant flesh – and he angled his head in to kiss her throat. He wanted her mouth more, but he was unsure. One person's mouth on top of another's – tongues dancing like lovers within lovers – was like setting foot in another country.
Tension ebbed from her body as he tasted the salt skin. Her thigh slid between his, pressing upward toward the vicious confinement of his ripening cock. She swallowed against his lips, and the movement of her throat made him harder and grip her ass more tightly. He felt in touch with the coursing flow of all the blood and nerves feeding her dreams.
Later, maybe he'd ask her if she had any dreams. He didn't think so. But for now, everything depended on becoming one.
He moved to taste her mouth. Cigarettes, whiskey and fruit. His hand was still clutching the back of her head, laced into the roots of her long hair. Her lips formed a wide circle against his and with the first movement of their tongues, the act of kissing gave way to a kind of devouring.
She was trying to rub at his cock with her thigh while her hands balled into fists, clawing up hunks of his T shirt. The hand behind her head moved, searching down over the contours of her body until he found the top edge of her thong. Her hips arched back, giving him room to feel, but keeping her leg between his. He cupped his hand over the tautly stretched thong. It wasn't as wide as the full shape of her pussy. His fingers encountered smooth skin everywhere they touched.
He cupped and pressed. She sighed into his open mouth while one of her hands released his shirt and moved to grope at the blunt shape of aroused cock in his pants. He fingered into her thong and grazed the flushed lips underneath.
"I'm sorry…didn't mean to…" Wet velvet swallowed the tip of his finger.
"I know…I know…." The whisper rode her breath across his tongue.
Her thigh moved free of his legs as his finger nudged deeper, exploring the very mouth of her core and then retracting toward the hot bud of her clit. She gripped and rubbed at his cock. Agile and desperately clumsy all at once. Her other hand moved between them. She was reaching for his belt and zipper, but he was already moving down, kissing the trail of her pulsing artery to the tangy damp of her chest, his hands moving up to pull the top of her low cut dress over the swell of her braless breasts.
Both his hands scooped and squeezed at her buoyant mounds, his mouth searching for her nipples – hot and erect – kiss, lap and suck. She had his belt undone, groped again for his cock, but he was already moving lower.
His knees bent until he was on the floor. He sat himself on the step in the doorway. His feet stuck outside while she held onto the sides of the doorframe, planting her feet in each corner. He fingered her thong aside and ran his tongue over her slit and mound.
She made a sound like an animal awakening.
Body syrup oozed and seeped from her slit as he kissed her pussy like another mouth. She hunkered and bent her knees, rocking and grinding against his mouth. Thick, lacquered lips arched into his face. His hands were moving over the satin of her thighs, one finding its way back to her ass while the other sent a finger up inside her sheath. Then he trapped her clit under his mouth.
"Yes fuck do it yes fuck…."
The words dripped from her voice the way honey was dripping from her pussy. She held onto the frame and fucked his face. Rode his finger.
Phony sitcom laughter filtered through the walls of someone's apartment. The walls of her sheath contracted in ripples around the steady pump of his finger while he sucked and lapped voraciously at her clit.
Moments later, she was hunkering even lower, settling on top of him. The dress was in bunches around her waist and under her breasts. Her face was still shining, but without the mascara streaks now. Hunkered in the doorway with her quivering breasts and bared pussy facing him, her naturally ripe curves seemed exaggerated. The quality of her body radiated an air of constant motion.
She kept her eyes on his face while she opened his pants and pushed them past his hips. Then she was looking back and forth between his face and cock while she took his shaft and balls in her hands. Caressing. Stroking his hard, throbbing length. Precum seeping onto her hand as she smeared it over his skin.
I'm here , he thought, trying to read her eyes. Gauging the distance between her mind and the glisten. I'm right here.
She moved back, lower across his legs, her exposed ass jutting out the door as she leaned over and held his cock to her mouth. She licked his shaft, tongue rolling over the head while she held him tight at the base. She was looking at his face when her eyelids hooded over and she slid her mouth down his shaft as far as her hand.
Jim melted against the cool floor while the roiling, wet heat of her mouth pulled at all his senses through his cock. He reached down and touched her hair while her head moved up and down.
"Did you ever just…look…at someone…and say…maybe there's someone…living inside her…I could fall in love with?"
He had no idea whether he'd whispered or spoken. Maybe he'd only thought it. He would've hoped so if his mind had been his own just then. But a moment after he'd said it, she was moving back up to straddle his hips. Watching his face with that glistening distance in her melting chocolate eyes, she splayed her pussy with one hand and gripped his cock with the other.
The glisten flickered and smoldered as she lowered herself down, swallowing him up with her body. Bracing herself with her hands inside the doorframe, she began rising and falling on his cock, stroking him with the whole weight of her body. Her breasts quivered with her motion. He needed them in his hands. Needed the stiff points of her russet nipples in his mouth.
He started thrusting at her hovering body. Contrary motion and the hot slap-scrape of hard shaft and the slippery glove of her pussy. The raw warmth of her ass rocking down on his balls over and over.
She let herself fall forward, breaking her own fall with her hands on the floor on either side of his head. Hips rocking and grinding as he thrust himself harder, deeper, voraciously into the lathered clasp of her hole. He reached for her and pulled her the rest of the way down. Her breasts billowed against his body and their mouths lunged into each other for the kissing staggered by the movement of their bodies.
"Yeah…yeah…I said that…I said that."
He was beyond knowing what she was talking about. He must have said something sometime. It could've been anything, yet nothing mattered now but taking flight.
Her pussy was rippling inside, the way it had when he fucked her with his finger. He wrapped his arms around her body and held her so tight she couldn't move from the waist up.
She whimpered and fought to breathe against his mouth while he slammed his erupting cock deeply into her pussy. Until he felt the dripping warmth of their mixture inside her. The movements ebbed. Slowed. She laid her face against his chest and they both breathed. Her pussy held onto his cock for a long time.
"What did you mean," he finally asked. It didn't seem they'd be moving out of the doorframe anytime soon.
"That thing you said before," she told him. "About a person living inside a person and maybe…ya know…maybe."
He remembered.
"But that's dangerous shit to talk about," she added.
"Maybe it's more dangerous not to."
"In your world. But not in mine."
"Okay. Sure. If you say."
They lay silent a while. Eventually, Jim moved to sit upright. She stayed on his lap. Straddling. Facing him. Looking and not looking at his eyes.
"I was thinking of going out and buying some posters tomorrow," he said absently. "Just…something to put up on the wall. Nature. Art. Whatever. Maybe you wanna come. Bring Jess or whatever."
They'd all be out together. Shopping for pictures. Almost like a real family. Jimmy wondered if they'd like looking at the same kinds of things. It promised to be a strange day, but a good one. And sooner or later, he'd find the right moment to ask her name.
As always, much thanks for your time to read. Please take a moment to stop by my Amazon page if you can. Frank Lee on Amazon.
EROTIC AUTHOR