Love or Hate

I dislike jeans most of the time but, today I’m ambivalent about them. Sometimes the sight of a lower body in blue cotton can be a masterpiece. More times than not, the struggle required to remove them simply isn’t worth the effort. And so I believed until the most of unexpected things happened at work.

I came into the office to find the exposed shoulder of my secretary looking at me. We’ve heavily flirted in her brief stint here. Mostly it’s us two in the office so, we’ve made it entertainment to test limits. I’m older than she is by some fifteen years, I’d guess. She must be in her mid twenties, no more than 26. She sat facing away from me; wore skinny jeans with a tank top, and an unzipped-hooded-shirt fell off of her right shoulder. A recent tan on the exposed area greeted me warmly. Goosebumps shivered up and down, and out of each of my limbs.

The unconcealed shoulder was her premeditated invitation to be seduce. Naturally, it was meant for me. There wasn’t time to spend conceiving a memorable scene to enact; seizing the chance was just about it all left to be done.

Desperately calm, I rushed over to remove a few hair strands that were interfering with a full view of the back of her neck. From the earlobe down to the lateral deltoid of her exposed shoulder, I gently traced with my lips. “Hi”, she said, then continued about her business. I kissed her without enticing much of a reaction. She laughed, “is that it?”, she questioned.

Something, be it my uncontrolled id or bruised ego from not really knowing how to react to the sarcasm, overran all of my limiting judgment. I stood her up, kicked the chair out of our way, and struggled like a male virgin unbuckling his first bra to remove her jeans, then tugged down the jeans just past her butt cheeks to where the hamstrings meet the gluteus. That was her masterpiece and I found it. I grabbed her by the head, bit her lower lip, and slowly lowered her face against file-cabinet.

Nothing, nothing was exactly her reaction. I situated myself behind her, got close to her ear and said: “lower your underwear for me.” She obliged like a good school girl. I wanted nothing more than to feel her butt against my pelvis. But I’m a reasonable man. After she lowered her undies, I placed my hands on her pelvic bones, directed my attention below, and began to gently lick, suck, nibble, bite and trace her buttocks until working my way precisely between her cheeks.

I traced the orifice nearly sending my eyes upwards into the pituitary gland searching for the third eye that grants all wishes. They rolled around without rhyme or reason, screaming to be allowed out of the face and closer into her. She tamed me.. each lick, each attempt to pierce inside her butt with my tongue introduced me to a world of whim I had never known. She breathed fast and deeply, didn’t move a sliver. The side of her face stuck to the file cabinet with her eyes closed corroborated that the bare shoulder was indeed a premeditated act. Blood rushing to my penis might as well have been semen spurting out. Feeling the increase pressure of blood uplifting it without the ability to spill its contents all over her, rejuvenated me.

Still my tongue traced, my lips kissed, my teeth contoured to her every curvature. That I wanted to pressed so hard with the intention of driving my very own face inside her body wasn’t far from the truth. Once in a while, to the rhythm of butt cheeks pressing against my face, I would reach far down and run my tongue tasting the wet slipping out of her. Sweet cakes of mocha, glory, hail the name of my secretary, I should have tasted this from the moment she walked through the door and broke a smile in my direction.

As I said in the beginning, today, I’m ambivalent to jeans. I might still hate to remove them yet, the reward for taking them off, at least so today, was strikingly convincing. I shall like them, after-all.

No Chance Encounter

Sometimes “tele-ship” other times “virtual-ship”, that’s how the long distance lovers came to know it. Not once had they met in person. Their relationship was built upon emails and texts… through time learning unverifiable truths about one another. Initially it was nothing more than meaningless chatter, but eventually, conversations became solely about meeting for the first time. Each text message, each email was more of the same fantasies and unrealistic union.

The virtual contents didn’t depict the usual giggles and laughter that arise when catching up face-to-face. No! The messages were detailed sexual fantasies; from teen-like shy engagements to sadistic alternative means. Thanks to distance and modern technology, the fear accompanied with interpersonal relationships hid not a thing. Candid emails, and text messages more so, stenched of sex; sexting as it has come to be known to popular culture was their favorite pass-time. It almost appeared that the two had forged the most of beloved physical relationships.

Unexpected in content, one day she received the following text message: “Luqa Airport. 22:15 hour. July 12th. I expect you to be there, unaccompanied, dress accordingly, ready and willing. I don’t feel much like a shy man. Goodbye until then.”

She frantically attempted to contact him. Text messages, emails, even pondered if she should call, breaking the agreement to only hear one another’s voice upon physically meeting. She nearly called, but her desire to abide by the rules kept her from doing so. She understood that it was up to her to accept or not, the arrangement. Just three days from receiving the text they were to meet. Just three days…

He had purposely discontinued contact in hopes to affect her delight enough to welcome his aspirations. He believed that three days of avoidance would devastate her nerves, just as it would her imagination enough to stow away any and all inhibitions. All of her contact attempts came and went unanswered, he didn’t even entertain browsing them.

Carrying out the plan wasn’t much of a joy for him, either. He had no recourse to confirm that either it, or her would turn out as expected. He was going to blindly fly to a foreign country without any guarantees, not that he would have had it any other way. The nerves kept hunger, work, even sleep hidden behind thoughts of her. She was the one subject not escaping his concentration. A devout man hasn’t prayed as much as he did asking for divine intervention. If he wasn’t magical enough to alter the results in his favor, perhaps the creator of it all was.

They were one and the same, he and she, of course.

She spent the days leading up to his arrival bouncing around travel agencies looking for a flight of her own. The flight had to arrive before his, not just arrive with a few minutes to scurry over to him, but with enough time for her to freshen up, find a suitable place to greet, and let it all happen. After All, where in the world was Luqa Airport!

Between travel agencies, in and out boutiques she came, aimlessly looking for an outfit to reveal her acceptance upon sight. From dresses to sweat suits to jeans, shorts, jumpers, she changed until finally settling in a vintage floral dress, flat-heel-lace-up mid-shin-high boots, and a six inch brim southern United States sun hat. If that didn’t divulge her thoughts, then he wasn’t to have her.

She was to arrive at Luqa Airport at 20:00 the very same date as he. The duration of her flight was a fraction of his. There was ample time after her arrival to ease the nerves and seek out an appropriate encounter location.

The date of the flight came with much anticipation. He went about calming down by jogging for too long a distance that a taxicab had to be hailed to bring him back to his flat. She, on the other hand, baked chocolate muffins — too many of them — just for herself.

She wore the outfit specifically purchased for the occasion. But he, he wore a hat, shorts, dress socks and shoes with a t-shirt. A small bag not two by two feet was brought as a carry on.

The anxiousness made him forget a small dosage of sleeping aid. It was meant to knock him out for at least three quarters of the flight. But now the torture from the slow passage of time in a long flight had to be endured. He decided to use the time to prepare for any and all results by thinking about every feasible and unfeasible scenario. Were it not for the captains voice notifying about the commence of the final descent, he wouldn’t have been prepared at all.

He quickly rose from the seat and rushed towards the bathroom where the A380 plane presents the comfort of showers. He bathed for about 20 minutes, dried, and got dressed; pressed, charcoal in colour, hip-bone-low-slacks; fitted charcoal shirt — two top buttons undone — and a body-tight-dark-gray-vest; at the back, a white waistband accentuated the vest. The hat, well, it would have been suiting even without the dress socks and t-shirt.

Not soon after he finished grooming, the announcement asking of everyone to be seated for ladning approach came in. He headed back to his seat fearing that been standing could increase the chance of any mishap, possibly sending him straight out of the plane into a local hospital. He buckled tightly into the seat, then picked at his nails until the familiar sound of screeching wheels on pavement reached his ears. He was the very last person to disembark; not purposely meaning to be cool, but that the fear of failure refused management until every last person had left the plane. He had to somehow look enticing, convincing, and in control. A cracking voice and sweaty palms don’t exactly strike confidence… He thought back at the many explicit emails and, between the physical reaction, and thoughts of her scent upon the male anatomy, he found the vigor to carry on as a man with a purpose does.

Meanwhile, she had already located, perhaps not exactly the most private or proper, accommodations. She stood at the entrance of the room looking down at the floor, tapping her right foot uncontrollably. There she waited for him until suddenly realizing that he would have to search the entire airport to find her– not a half bad idea considering the reward. She toyed with the thought of making him wait to claim the price; however, she was as anxious as he. Out went the text message: “Angels in the sky are to witness turmoil down below.”

Meanwhile, midway down the electric escalator his stoic demeanor faltered. The realization came that her whereabouts were not precisely known. How was the encounter going to take place with out that tidbit of neglected information? All of that thinking during the flight yet, he never once thought about a meeting location. She is clever and playful! He hesitated thinking that she would force a search of the entire airport. But, as their relationship had it, the mobile device alerts of her incoming message cluing him in of her location.

He smiled immediately. “Angles in the sky can only be found by the entrance to paradise, now… where is my Garden of Eden,” thought he.

At the bottom of the electric escalator, just east of the baggage claim carousels, two wall paintings hung from each side of a very wide entrance; one of a red and luscious apple, the other of a hand reaching toward it. A long corridor displayed photos and paintings of gardens from all different parts of the world, each with a writing elaborating on the art work. At the opposite end it opened-up to an angel-covered-dome-ceiling room.

Oh… but just at the end of the corridor, a few steps inside the large domed-room, stood a feminine figure wearing a flowered-vintage dress with laced up boots and a wide-brim sun-hat. He walked steadily towards her, saying not a word, hesitating not for a moment. When he got close enough to come into her field of vision with her head looking down at the floor, she looked up. She didn’t get a chance to greet him, not a chance to smile. His right hand shot forward grasping her by the nape of the neck, thrusting them into locking lips. With the left hand he raised her by the thighs and walked towards the wall at the back end of the room crashing against it.

The collision against the wall while kissing caused them to bump teeth, cutting his lower lip; still, they battled one another’s desire to devour first, fast and furiously. The kissing lasted for quite some time. He kissed her, she kissed him. He journeyed her neck and earlobes, she scratched his shoulders over the vest, and pressed her pelvis hard against him. She attempted to push him away trying to create space between them. The desire was to grasp his vest and tear it open, exposing his chest to her nails awaiting to imprint on him.

It was to no avail, he pressed harder against her, striking her back against the wall as if they were completely naked and he was invading her body. They burned for one another as if being fueled, making it impossible to resist their wants. All of that, and they had yet to lock eyes.

He grounded her feet firmly against the floor, shoved her by the shoulders flat against the wall, then turned her around to face against the wall. He fisted both sides of her undergarment that covered her harvest– one of those “time-matching” pieces to complete her vintage outfit: a pink in colour and ruffled pair of undies — then tugged and tugged but impatience prevented him from tearing it as he’d hoped. So he pulled it down over the boots, removed it completely and tossed it aside.

Grabbing her by the waist, away from the wall her waist came arching her lower back into a fine view of her ass. He lifted the dress with his left hand and while holding it in place the right hand spanked her mightily. The sound generated by the hit against her butt cheek rang through the terminal as if a flight delay announcement. Unequivocally, those remaining in the terminal heard her pleasure. The strike was so violent that it was felt down to her vagina. The saturation was immediate and evident. She didn’t whimper, no, she didn’t; rather, she took a deep breath and licked her lips. He bit her butt cheeks for the mere joy of having them against his mouth, then spanked her once and again.

She swayed her butt begging for more, begging to receive more than hand slaps. Out of his pocket comes a leather strap “ye” long. Instead of using it for what it was invented, he slid it through the middle of her crotch trapping wet residue, up her butt, up to his nostrils and placed it in her mouth to clench between the teeth.

He pulled back, slid his ego out through the zipper, then traced the outer and inner labia soaking the head nice and sweetly… now and then sliding right down the middle of her vagina almost penetrating it. The thought was to slip it between her legs, not go inside, but have him become covered by the secreting lust to a glistening sigh. As he did…

She moved back and forth ensuring that she had adjusted herself enough to feel his entire shaft slide through the middle of her open persona. The outer labia held onto him as if cupped hands receiving the wafer of God while the inner labia stroked him warmly. They had steadily increased thrust speed until a simultaneous release of one another. Swiftly she was turned to face him. Barely having time to get a good look at what stuck out of his zipper, she was lifted and mounted on him. She slid with no effort at all; slid all the way down, too. Had it not been for the slacks covering him at the very base, her saturation would have spilled farther than the pants. She bounced like a well gripped bull-rider.

During one of the moments when he leveraged his torso backwards to bounce her with ease, she took the clear path to rip apart the buttons from both his shirt and vest in a modest display of savagery. She grabbed the leather strap clenched between her teeth, put a hand against his face and swung it playfully but, with the full intention of hurting him. It landed just where their teeth collided moments ago cutting his lip. She kissed him while he bled from the small wound. The kissing continued even after she placed the leather apparatus back in her teeth. The awkward kisses accompanied by blood drops lead to the sinking of nails into his chest. Ten freshly manicured nails left marks down from his upper chest to mid abdomen. The most severe of them were the index, heart, and ring finger marks; that made her eyes glow. He was overtaken by the sick pleasure received from watching her nails slowly drive down his chest.

The taste of his blood, her saliva, her scent aroma-zing the domed-room cordially lured his instinct to control.

He reached up and over behind her neck grasping hair under the wide-brim hat. He pulled down a fist-full of hair until her mouth found it difficult to grasp the leather strap… as she was about to release it from her clench, he shook his head “no”. She held onto it preventing it from going anywhere. He moved his hand lower on her butt, and using the wall to maneuver, he forced himself inside her anus. She slapped his chest, his face repeatedly but, never released the strap from her teeth. He bounced her up with blows from his thighs, then pulled her fully down against his whim with tugs of her hair.

After becoming painfully acquainted with the penetrations, her hands came down to her butt spreading the cheeks apart, slapping herself red as teasing him about the need for more. He tried to concentrate on it all, the sight of nail marks against his chest, the bloody lip, the sound created by each of her very own slaps, yet the feeling of being squeezed tightly inside of her opaqued even the knowledge that it was she who rested between his arms.

She had reached the moment between pain and pleasure that enables a body to receive more than capable. She wanted to scream but knew that doing so would cause the strap to fall onto the ground. That she didn’t want, neither did he as the purpose was to keep from informing the airport of their rendezvous, and not hearing her voice until their next encounter.

She didn’t noticed he’d climax. He rejected the idea of verbalizing it simply because he had waited this long and stopping now wasn’t option. He was sipping out of her and the sight of sperm traveling down his shaft while he went in and out of her butt was incomparable to any. The man, versed as he was, swung her upwards to his chest where he manage to land the back of her knees onto each of his shoulders. He brought her torso down to where her engorged vulva looked straight into his eyes, and it took no more than a few tongue suggestions to spill her into her very own climax. He sucked gently and slowly, more so to savor her long enough to perpetually remember why they met.

Still, he was aroused! Unwilling to stop, he put her on her knees, took the strap from her clench, asked to open her mouth, then traced her lips with his penis… righteously watching his penis slide into her mouth ever so slowly as she looked up at him, watching as she playfully bit down on it… watching as his residue marked the areas he’d been. She was good, bad, mean, heartwarming, and savvy enough to unbuckle his pants, let them fall on the floor, grab his glutes, and gently force him down her throat. She cared not whether she vomited from the gag reaction, nor if the cameras captured that she was willing to do more than take it in the butt.

She shoved him in a few times… leading the oral assault by maneuvering his glutes. Her nails sank into them enticing a quick thrust forward of his hips. Her face luckily stopped the forward momentum when he slipped completely inside her mouth. He removed her hat to grasp chunks of her hair, her head. There she stayed hoping to make him climax, but it didn’t yield the expected result because he pushed her away, and removed her dress. He laid down face up on the floor; vest and shirt open, slacks down at his ankles. She sat on him, leaned forward grinding against him while clawing his chest as if a feline. Her hair falling over her face, beating about in pleasure. She came atop of him just as she’d texted: with the Angels in the sky witnessing the turmoil down below.

At the end, a long kiss… she kept his vest and hat; he kept her hat and ruffled undies. They never did hear each other’s voice that night; upon finishing their no chance encounter, he paid for her and his return flight to their respective homes. They still contact one another through mail and texts, still living fantasies as if never having met. Still hoping to meet again.

Marian Woods

It is the familiar echo caused by leather-bottom shoes dispersing throughout our sleeping quarters that ignites joy before disappointment sets in each night. We are all aware of the footsteps, as are we, of the outcome. Perhaps with out proof but, by experience we all know what they bring to these walls.

For just shy of eight months, only a single one of us has become intimately familiar with the outcome; that one person conceals the proof to put an end to all speculation. The rest of us remain wondering what about that intruder is special enough to obscure everyone else.

The destination of the footsteps isn’t a secret to anyone, nor are the things we assume happen in that location. Nothing is hidden from that room’s walls, less so, those adjacent to mine. The building is one of those where each sleeping quarter has access doors to adjacent rooms; they, the doors do, carry on and on. One may journey from the very first, to the very last dormitory with out having to step outside at any one time.

Most nights I am alone in my room coupling enticing images to each sound coming from them; always wondering how closely related to the truth I come. I smile in an awkward envy wishing that the past months had not carried out it as they have.

Thursday nights specifically bring about the largest gatherings to my room. The noises that find their way to us are used to guess, most times I believe, as personal wishes of what we each would like to be done to us. We quietly congregate about the door leading to their room, passing around a pad and writing utensil… we take liberties on their affair until the end of the night draws to a silence. Presumptions all, of course, is what we write.

In the know it is not even Sister Atel. She dares not to bring it up in conversation, even when it was she who lost her rightful place upon that intruders arrival. No one dares speak of it… and in fact, of us all she seems the most distressed during Thursday nights. Those were her weeknights, while the rest of us waited for our turn whenever, and wherever they might have come. They did come, and often, but not the lengthy durations as Sister Atel withstood for longer than I can remember.

Since it is in my room that we gather, I get first stab at the pad and notebook; just as I do sitting closest to the door. I don’t write what I think is happening right away, instead, I wait until the ambiance becomes more interesting. My many intrusions throughout the past few months dictate that the events are lengthy, and when it is time to write. There isn’t a need to be hasty. The other sisters bring tea and cookies as if movie night. The evenings where the action is more subdued, we read one another’s entries before passing on the pad; however, those nights where the ruckus is chaotic, we jot down quickly, passing the pad around to whomever is most desperate to participate.

A few times we’ve barely written. Not because we haven’t been enticed to make up a storyline but, because the sounds reaching us are vast, explicit and direct where shock is the least of our reactions. I personally enjoy when discernible chatter is heard, and loudly. Though there isn’t visual proof, it becomes apparent what’s taking place on the other side of the wall. He likes to observe her. He enjoys to watch his heart’s content before the screams and orders begin.

One of those Thursdays, Lord have mercy on Sister Atel, he mentioned her name loud enough that she walked right out of the room. I chased after her to no avail. She locked herself in the room and cried until falling asleep. By the time I returned, two of the sisters occupied my chair with the excuse that the story had just taken on new meaning. Until the wee hours of the morning, we were creative in depicting stories. The plethora of new audibles struck our creative fancy. None of the sisters, but for Sister Atel, slept that night. We were up all night humoring all our presumptions.

The sound of whips against flesh gave me goosebumps. I got the shakes writing what I thought was happening:

“Sister Marian — oddly, she carries the same name as the convent: Sister Marian Woods — refuses to be gagged, she can’t handle his ego down her throat, so he tore her dress from her body, bent her over the bed, leashed her, and whipped her until she agreed to suck all of him like he wanted.”

Someone else wrote:

“Sister Marian doesn’t play, she’s got a dog collar on Father Sebastian and is whipping him about the room while he walks on all fours; his penis hard against his abdomen excited about being dominated.”

The one I liked the most for that particular event was:

“Father Sebastian and Sister Marian are trading whips on each other whenever each one doesn’t enjoy the outcome of each command. He whips her, forces her to perform the act until satisfied, then she takes her turn making up for being lashed.”

When the slashing stopped, her voice came alive. She commanded him to place the collar around his neck, that she was going to pull it hard enough to raise his hands off of the floor, then digitally stimulate him. She had such a sweet voice, almost too sweet to be commanding anything or anyone. Despite that, behind those closed doors she ordered quite a lot.

I can already imagine him, engorged, being tugged by the collar and digitally simulated. I wonder, and often, if he ejaculated while it all happened. The shoving a digit inside of him making him ejaculate all over the floor. I wonder what they wore when this sort of dog-collar-behaviour took place. Were they totally naked? Was he, or even she tied in chains?

Any-who, it had been eight months with these sort of noises, that sort of “misbehavior” coming from that room. Yet, I can’t imagine why she struggled to be anally penetrated. Sometimes, as that Thursday night, her sweet voice cried, “I can not do this, I can not do this.” Naturally, we assumed anal intercourse just because it seemed fitting. This is when our stories went all over the place. During the moments we’ve anointed anal time, all one can hear is her voice yelling obscenities, moaning, begging of him to carry on. The pleasure lasts until her voice becomes shaky and long “ouches” fill the air. They are reminiscent of someone walking on the hot sand. That’s exactly what the “ouches” sounded like, except prolonged. “Oouucchhhh!”

My note read:

“He’s got her tied to the bed with her bottom up on the air, knees against her chest and her face down against the bed. He’s mouth seduces her vulva while his index finger gives her anus a prelude of what’s to come. He’s gotten so good a seducing many-a-vagina at the convent that he easily makes her squirt. Upon her squirting, he stands on the bed, squats down a bit, and rams his ego hard and deep; each slap of his pelvis against her glutes causes the “ouches”. He’s primed her enough not to hurt too much, but she still unable to effortlessly receive him all the way in.”

Another one of the nurses, she’s sort of psychotic, wrote:

“He’s got her hanging face up by the beam running across the ceiling. He stimulates her with many of his toys… both inside her vulva, as well as in her butt. From time to time he shoves his penis inside her mouth while using Tyron — Tyron is one of his toys, a rather large phallic device — in her butt. When he’s tired her to oblivion, he double-penetrates her ass with Tyron’s help. She’s only saying “ouch” because the exhaustion doesn’t afford the energy to fully depict what she’s handling.”

Who knows what goes on in there, or if even Tyron is inside of him while he penetrates her in the rear. I wouldn’t put anything past that man’s libido.

I really do enjoy the parts when she speaks. I guess because I never took control. I’ve always been fearful of what demons are dormant inside of me. So I allowed him to use me as he wished. He enjoyed it too; told me he liked watching himself become engulfed by me most… of all the nuns. That I wrapped him tightly and plenty. Makes me feel good he said that sort of thing, even if they were all lies.

There is this part that normally ends the night — not that Thursday night though — that she seems to have rehearsed to perfection. She says, in the least of commanding voices, this is verbatim, too: “You think you can leave that gooey residue dripping out of me, you come suck it clean, and make me come while you are at it. Do you enjoy hair pulling? Because I do!”

I would have gotten tired of that line after a few times but, it is followed by loud slaps against the skin. I presume back or buttocks, and his, too.

I imagine she pulls his hair and leads him to her dripping anus,has him lick it clean, then he performs cunnilingus until she climaxes.

That night they went beyond that point. They must have engaged in some sort of physical altercation. It sounded like she beat him silly with stone hands, while he slapped her hard and long. Ooh, I have always enjoyed a little shove and slap. I like to be grabbed by the neck tightly enough to prevent some air from flowing, then slapped on the mouth. After that, I love getting it in my mouth.

I imagine that’s what he does to her. After he subdues her, he chokes her, then as she gasps for air his penis goes deep in her throat. He tells her, suck it all in, suck it all in, sister.

One of the less perverse sisters had the following visions:

“Her torso is bare out the window exposing her breasts to the night. He spanks her vagina red trying to teach her to be a good sexual partner. He pulls on her dog collar forcing a bounce of her breasts with each collision of his pelvis against her vulva. Because she’s already sore, even the slap of his sack against her is cause for pain. She tries to fight back, but he quickly grabs both her arms and locks them in place behind her back. She can barely move because the pain keeps her just where he feels good taking her.”

And so are many of the other stories from that night. Secret is… even we don’t keep it hidden that some of us have touched ourselves while listening in. It’s hard not to when one wishes to be the one making the sounds for everyone to hear.

Informal Observance

I was notified about the misfortune on the very last night before the burial. My ex girlfriend’s father had suddenly left loved ones behind. Though he didn’t care much for me, he was a kind and gentle human being. The type of man that those who know him will remember for eternity. I could only imagine the grief inside of those who loved him. I cried upon learning of the news. I still recall the day I met him, he said, “Son, I don’t like you. Not because you are the incarnation of a fool, I’ve heard enough about you to know otherwise, but because the age discrepancy, even if it’s 4 years, can only mean that you are going to show her too much in too short a period of time.” I wanted to reply, “Absurd it is all! I am as ill equipped for a sexual relationship as was she,” but I stayed quiet in admiration of his demeanor. He was a good man, that guy who hated me once and again.

I gathered my thoughts on the walk to the funeral home. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into, nor how to behave while there, but I knew that my heart would ache if I didn’t pay my respects. I had not seen my ex going into three years. I, in fact, during all those years, wondered if she had bloomed into the woman I thought she would become. The passing of her father was now a bittersweet sort of reunion.

Prayer services had already started. From outside I could hear the man leading the prayer, he had a lisp. It made him seem like a young child all too aware of the stages of life for which he now prayed. The room was crowded, but only the elderly prayed. I found an empty chair near the back of the room and prayed along. Being raised Roman Catholic I knew too well the verses to spew in Latin. So there I sat, doing something I hadn’t in years, praying in Latin for the safe journey of a newly departed soul.

Prayer services are normally long; this one was no exception. Halfway through the formality, only a few family members, some elderly friends, and I remained. She, my ex, was among those still there. Minutes after the service ended, just about everyone had left. Only my ex, her sister and I, were present. By then I sat on a cushioned chair in the middle of the back row. I was trying to sit as far back as I possibly could.

I witnessed her sisters futile attempts to take her home. But, my ex wanted to spend every possible second next to her father. She must have been aware of my presence for quite sometime because with out even looking back to where I was, she told her sister that I could walk her home. Her sister looked towards the back to see me nodding my head in agreement. She kissed my ex goodnight, walked towards me, and thank me. I didn’t say anything, I simply hugged her warmly, then released her into the night.

I wasn’t prepared to care for her during these trying times. I wasn’t really prepared for much but to say goodbye to a good man. My intentions were to run out as fast as I could never looking back again, yet, the better me convinced me that fleeing a second time wasn’t much of an option, less so, under the circumstances. Guilt made me agree to stay that long, now fear made me stay. I thought that if I were to leave her now, her father would haunt me for the rest of my life.

I stayed at the back of the room scared of having to interact with my ex and the defunct. Funerals have always made me nervous. Especially those carried out by the Roman Catholic Church. Their traditions and rituals make wonder if there is some type of privileged knowledge which the rest of us aren’t aware. It’s as if they know that the passing on is not an end, but part of the journey; that the prayers are meant as some type of accord required to smooth the next part of life.

Mostly, I am fearful that there will be some form of coupling between the soul and the body where the body will levitate above the coffin before a last goodbye takes place. I cringe even at the thought of looking at him from a distance in fear that I’ll capture any movement. I supposed that my ex sensed my intentions of staying far and away, sensed my inability of sharing her burden of saying goodbye so close to the casket. She stood up, stared at her father for sometime, then turned around and came toward me.

She sat to my right and quickly broke in tears. She wore a long strapless-black-dress with sandals. I was shaken up, nervous, lost for a course of action. So, I did the only thing I had ever done during our relationship that brought her pleasure: I kissed her.

The taste of tears resting upon her lips reminded me of times past when she fought back tears of painful pleasure just to please my egotistical lust. She’s the woman with whom I tried novice mistakes, just as she’s the woman where many experiments turned out less than opt. The kisses made it seem as if we were that young and problem free couple. Had it not been for the tears still dripping down to our lips, I would have sworn we were back at day one.

It was extremely peculiar kissing her while she sobbed. She took time between aggressive tongue twists just to compose the sobs. I watched while she allowed me to lift the black dress all the way up to mid-thigh level.

I grew increasingly daring with each touch of our lips. She had stopped sobbing and my left hand was caught in a struggle between proper behavior and disobedience. I pulled her legs aside to clear a way to her crotch. I pressed my hand against her inner thigh, then ran down to her knee and up to her crotch again. I ceased all pretensions by quickly removing her underwear; fitting occasion as it was black in colour. I put the undergarment on the seat to our left, pulled away from the kissing to look down at her. She had blossomed into more of a woman than I had anticipated… made me rethink my whereabouts since we last met.

I dearly wanted all of her. I wanted to unleash all of my accumulated prowess onto her to show her that that young adult had too, blossomed. She didn’t give me a chance to say much, she stood me up in front of her, still with her legs spread aside and her skirt uncovering all of her persona, and unbuckled my slacks. I don’t wear underwear so I slipped out in full command. She was quick in response jerking me furiously. I feared she was going to snap me right in half yet, I stood tall awaiting the imminent.

She pushed me into her mouth while using one hand to stroke the shaft. It was a sweet pursuit, that of her mouth following the hand up and down the shaft. Looking down at her tightly wrapped hair-bun meticulously moving about made me pant. When I weakened at the knees, I purposely dropped to a knee hastily situating my lips against her lips, and not those on her mouth. I can swear that I felt her pulsating heart against my lips. It told me to caress her, to let her know that even during the deepest of despairs, joy can halt all pain.

I attacked her forgetting where I was. The war I wagged wasn’t as savage as her moans and audible depictions described. She was somewhere between here with me, and out there with her dad. Sometimes she’d say “No, no, what are we doing,” while other times she begged not to stop that her toes were curling in all the good ways. Had she been an orange, residue of pulp would cover from my forehead down to my chin. I didn’t know what to use nor how to use it to please her. All I knew was that I licked, sucked, suckled, bit, traced with my digits all I found in front of me.

Enough it was, the illusions and delusions risen from her taste, risen by her aroma fusing to lust. I had to have her. I sat to her right, she stood from her chair, faced me, placed one foot on the chair to my right, and stood up above me balancing herself by placing her other foot on the chair to my left. I grabbed her skirt, lifted it up to her waisted, twirled the front in a bun and pulled hard with my free hand shoving her vulva against my mouth one last time. Her skin was flawless, the definition of her obliques coming down to her crotch pointed to the dream I was about to have.

She looked at me, cursed very low and softly; told me all of the heartaches that I left behind for her to handle alone, then lowered herself, grabbed me with her left hand and pointed me to the correct location. She went down hard and harshly. “Bulls eyes you fuck,” she said to me. She bounced on me sliding effortlessly. The saturation dripped all about. I held on to the back of the chair with both hands trying to raise my pelvis forward to come meet her just so that I could go in as deep as anatomy allowed. A few times she slipped right out of me and chuckled that she enjoyed the feeling of my head sliding in and out of her.

Just when I thought she was about done, she placed her left foot on the floor, then brought her right across her body ending up looking away from me. She asked me to pull her hair hard enough to force her to look up because she knew that the sin she undertook was going to send her straight to hell. She didn’t want to look at the front of the room, to look at her father resting in peace while she took me in like melting ice on the equator. So, I grabbed her hair and pulled down with strength shooting her head right up to look directly to the ceiling. She ground on me, and I ground against her.

She tried to be as quiet as she could, holding back the pleasure she did, but the nails sinking into my thighs didn’t. She drew blood from both my thighs. Nine bleeding spots marked the price I paid for the transgression, little price to pay between the smell of flowers and the presence of her father.

She got off of me, asked if I had come, but I hadn’t. Far back in my mind the idea that I couldn’t insult her father in such a way, even if I already had, I could not do. I told her I hadn’t, and that’s just how I wanted it. “Walk me home,” she asked.

When I got home, I was still engorged, still thinking, smelling her. I went into the shower, let water run against my body, and masturbated. Three years of wanting to see her as a woman spilled out of me. I think I was informal in action, but I believe I left falling in love again.

Who shall I praise, were my actions that of evil, or was the result that of good?