The Boy - Prey

He hit her till the skin bubbled and the blood came up.

She lay flat on her yellow belly, nervous, spread like prey and open to the attack.

He was breathing hard now.

He jerked all over the injury. Cooled it with his white filth. Shot her down.

She brayed and twitched, like dying. Wet with a beating pulse.

Getting Hit

The lip and flesh in the cheek have split. Cut out like a gorge. Blood in the river. Blood is cells and plasma. It drips from the lips in a red seduction. In an act of commitment and complete submission. It says, "I would never tell you to stop".

The platelets are what form the dry cracks as it pools in the valley bellow the lips. Drips down the neck. Spit on the floor. It dries like paint. Like Matisse, a harmony in red.

She makes a soft sound, between a moan and a gurgle. The firm hand that caused the injury cups her cheek. Red is the colour of danger and passion. Like a snake in the grass.

She mumbles into the open hand. The skin is hot and veined. Flamed like a burning tree. Her eyes are water and the stream is subsiding, banks broken. Red is the colour of power, and riches and pain and anger. Red is the colour of blood.

Boy Friday #2

Number 9 was out, as was I. We hooked up, it seems to be routine now. I took him back to mine again. I need to stop doing this.

We fucked in my living room. I have carpet burns on my shins now. It was exciting, but it a shame he's not better at it. With him, I enjoy the emotion and the passion behind the act, but the act itself is never fulfilling for me. But he enjoys himself, and I enjoy that he does.

Evidently I must have some sort of feeling for him, or I wouldn't still persist with the mediocre sex. I like what comes after. When he raps his strong arm around me, pulls me close into his chest and kisses my forehead.

If I get any busier I may have to hire a PA.

Boy Friday

I slid between his legs and licked him to a climax. I watched him, lapped him as he softened and waited to be told what to do. He told me to wipe my face and left me perched on my knees, while he went to clean up. When he came back he began to run his fingers dully over me. I was too wet and too anticipant, too excited and squirming. I shivered. I begged

"Please go down on me"

He smacked me across the face.

"Don't tell me what to do"

He rolled me onto my stomach and rained my bottom with spanks. I drifted in and out, tripping on the knocks of pain and melting over them in my head.

He wouldn't fuck me, though I begged to be filled. He forced me open with a toy instead. Spread and eager I bucked myself to orgasm, dripping and oozing plainly in front of him. He berated me coldly.

We curled up together, kissed and napped a little.

An Irish Man And A Welsh Girl Went Into A Pub

I went for a drink with an Irish man today. He is argumentative and cocky, he is fun to play words with. I didn't want to talk to him, I wanted to fuck him, but circumstance didn't allow it and well, it was the first time I'd met him.

I watched him talk, he talked about the army, about his job now. He talked a lot about himself. I was fine with that.

I watched his eyes, looked at his dark hair, traced the muscles in his arms and his legs, as he changed position in his chair, gesturing and chatting about opinions.

When we parted he kissed me, soft them hard. I was a bit clumsy. I tend to be, but it was nice.

I think he's going to be fun in bed, I'm looking forward to finding out.

Friday 13th. Unlucky For Some?

As fate would have it, I met number 9. I asked if he was out and he was, came to my rescue as I was being followed by a creep through town after work. We seemed so surprised to see each other, even though we knew we would be.

He held me tight, wrapping his arms around me. He kissed my forehead softly. I looked up at him and smiled. His head was shaved, I scratched it up and he laughed and he didn't believe me when I said I really liked it. He stroked my fringe and informed me that I'd had a hair cut myself. I was not surprised to hear this, because I had indeed.

I asked what had happened and he said that he had had a lot of feelings for me and felt unsure as to what to do, so ballsed out like a real man, and just stopped talking. He thought our friendship had been too intense. I thought we were just fucking in his car?

I said not to worry. I told him I had been confused and he should have just said something.

"I mean of course I like you but its not the romance of the century".

We went for a drink, he dropped me lots of compliments and kissed me. I touched his hands, still firm and calloused. His arms were still muscular and his eyes still creased when he smiled and I was honest and I said I had missed him. He said he had missed me too.

So why do I do these things? Why do I decide the way to cap off what could be a return to sweetness or friendship left on good terms, by taking him home and fucking him.

Because that's what I know how to do, better than talk and feelings.

So that's what I did.

I asked did he want to come back with me for a bit. Of course he did. He said in the taxi,

"We can just lay together, I just want to lay down with you. We don't have to do anything"

"But maybe I want to?"

I crept into my home with him, I sat across his lap and we kissed and touched and fucked and it wasn't amazing sex, but it was such a relief. Tension poured out like blood, but there was a knot in the vein, a sadness, a lump in my throat and a hurt in the pit up my stomach. He couldn't feel them but I could.

We curled up after and I lay against his chest, breathed in his smell that I had missed more than anything and let him comfort me unknowingly. A few tears watered out. Slid down my nose. I sucked my thumb. I don't really know why I'm sad. I should be happy that he's back in my life, but part of me wonders for how long. A drunken fumble is not a promise made on the bible.

Am I being used? Or am I still the user and why am I upset?

I sent him a message after I put him in a taxi home. "That was fun. Don't be a stranger". He replied, but will that be the end of it? Should it be?

Shaun, I am sorry.

Number 9

You sort of slipped out of my life a while ago now and you never really told me why.

That usually doesn't bother me, but I still think about you from time to time, and it aches a little bit.

I probably actually quite liked you. Simple and imperfect and kind.