2. Just Stuff

tumblr_mazlveM7I91rsskago1_500Here I am. Me. Shouting at you from the bottom of the stairs. Aren’t we late enough already? And now I can think of a dozen reasons to be mad at you. I’m coming up the stairs. I could cut stone with a word or two. They go rattling up ahead of me, knocking the shelves and banging the nails that hold them. I bust open the bedroom door and god-damn. And—god-damn but you’re not dressed for a night out. You’re standing there in your white cotton stockings with their red and purple hearts. Your crazy jaded purple-streaked hair is bungeed into two girly pony tales. You’re sucking your thumb and holding your bear. Your kiss-my-sweet-ass tattoo as hidden under a frilly pink mini-skirt and your pierced nipples hide under a pink and purple, heart-print pajama-top. There’s only one thing to do. Push you to the bed, on your back, lift your cotton-sweet panties mid-thigh, spread your knees and plunge inside. Your thighs shoot wide. You lift the small of your back. You stare at me as if you had no idea. You make a girly squeal with each thrust. What on earth am I doing to you? Your eyes are wide with shock. Your teddy bear tumbles out of your hand. Your thumb flies out of your mouth. You grip the sheets above you, twist them in your fingers. You can’t decide if it hurts, if it’s too big, or if your knees can go any wider. Dichotomy. Filth and innocence. There’s something so exquisite about the pink hearts, the pretty pinks and whites of your stockings and pajamas, and the dirty, fluidy, malodorous goings-on—cock in your cunt, thrusting, balls slapping. And it’s all I can think about. You, smooth, soft, pink, pretty, twisting on the bed with your long legs made to open for this ugly thing splitting them, fouling the thighs, hungrily thrusting between. What have I done to you? Your eyes have rolled under their lids. You’ve lifted yourself off the bed on your ass and head. Your toes have curled and you’ve twisted the sheets into tight little whorls. But I can’t stop now. My own fluids spurt inside yours. I shudder to be sure the last of it goes where it should. And then there you are. I’ve pulled out. You’ve closed your legs. The truth is sealed up within the slip between your thighs. The rest as pink, pretty, heart-prints, and perfect. And then, with that buttery smile that could melt the sun, you ask me what I’d been saying. ‘Nothing important,’ I say. ‘Just stuff.’

William Crimson | October 9 2015

Latest Comments

  1. vanillamom says:

    and again…for the win…another amazing viewpoint. Your words are like little bullets and shoot lust at whomever reads them…

    nilla

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