Four writers for the price of one blog
He slammed the door knowing it wouldn’t wake her and zigzagged to the bathroom for a piss. The whole world had a yellow cast. It was a feeling that had stained everything. His head was already starting to hurt and he pushed down the regret he always felt when he’d drunk too much. His whole life was one big regret.
She was in a narcotic sleep that never ceased to make him hurt, no matter how much he’d just drunk to be able to deal with seeing her like that. He never got home in time to catch her dropping those little red bombs, but he didn’t have the strength to stay and stop her.
He left, then she did. Over and over, night after night. And yet they stayed together.
He tottered into the bedroom, pants around his ankles. Everything was yellow but she still remained smooth caramel, raven and rose. Her naked chest barely rose and fell in her drugged slumber and he felt like the air was slowly being sucked from his lungs. He hunched over with the weight of love.
She took a deep breath and he saw the delicate shadow of her ribs. Her nipples pointed at the ceiling and her skin was goose-pimply with cold, but she was too stoned to cover herself. He was filled with a nauseating mix of shame and lust. He wanted to fill the hollow between her hips with himself, remind her what it was she was suffering for.
She turned very slowly on her stomach and pushed her pillow off the bed. Her back was arched and her ass was raised so perfectly it compounded his guilt. It was all for him, but he was rarely present enough to appreciate it. How long had it been since he’d had her? His cheeks burned when he couldn’t remember.
He slowly took off her panties, savoring the perfumed penumbra between her thighs. She barely moved as he raised her ass further off the bed. He caressed the silky flesh, then squeezed. His big hand left a pink print that covered her whole cheek. He slapped and she jiggled, porn-perfect. He groaned roughly. He had forgotten, but it was coming back fast.
He spit into his hand and rubbed her pussy wet. She said his name groggily into the mattress and tried to move but slammed into her to the hilt. The feel of her sobered him up. Her heat prickled up his belly and made him sweat. She needed him so much she was wet for him in no time, regardless of her stupor. Her pussy grasped him so hard it fucked up his rhythm but he fucked through it.
How had he forgotten the luscious wink of her asshole, the tapering of her hips up to her small waist?
He wrapped his hands around it and cursed when he felt how much slimmer it was than before. Tears burned his eyes but he didn’t stop, he couldn’t. He wanted to wake her up, make her glow like he’d used to before failing her. She stirred, slowly reaching behind her to caress his belly. Her hand was cool but her touch was tender. She said his name again, more clearly this time. She reached underneath to caress his balls.
“You’re home early,” she said between thrusts. Her muscles were beginning to wake up, and her pussy tightened around him. She moved her hips in slow motion figure eights. Her lips parted in a smile, although her eyelids were still too heavy to lift.
“No honey, it’s late,” he said.
Her languid movements and her heat made him hold her hips against him as he spurted deep inside her. He was numb with drink, but pleasure still made his hairs stand on end. She dripped come onto the clean sheets as he withdrew and sank to the bed. He was too ashamed to hold her but she sought him, pulled him from the cold edge and into her arms. The dizzying mix of misery and love make him grasp onto her like a drowning man. She smoothed his sweaty brow and nuzzled it with her warm, chapped lips.
“It’s not too late, baby. It’s far from too late.”