The last I heard from him before he departed this morning was the sound of the slamming front door, quickly followed by the screen door. As always, I found myself alone, left half covered in sheets, sad, under-appreciated; dare I say, unsatisfied again? Yet, there it was; my life, our life, his way. To him I was no more than a stop on his way to work in the morning, a stop at the metro, a stop at the tea shop. That’s what I was to him, a thing that satisfies his needs.
I had a routine for the lonely days, everyday really. I’d clean and clean until noon, then I’d run out to a dessert shop at the corner of Moon Street, and Sun Street where I watched couples work on their romance. I’d see guys wanting to devour their partners, seducing them through spoon-fulls of ice-cream. That was the highlight of my days: eating ice-cream and wishing I was given some of what those young couples were having. All I asked was for a bit of pleasing, more so than my pallet received every weekday at noon. Instead I felt like a piece of meat being cooked without seasoning.
After a hour or two of watching romance filled with sugar, I headed home to cook for him. I’m really not sure why. He doesn’t deserve it, but, there I am, giving again. Nothing happened that day that would have had me think anything would change, so I waited for the usual welcome he gave me.
I heard first the screen door open, that squeak it gives as it opens slowly, then the lock to the front door followed by the front door. Slam, the front door shuts. I can hear his foot steps as he approaches the kitchen. That unmistakable sound of leather shoes upon a wooden floor. Step, step, step, the sound of the shoes upon the floor become louder, I can sense him coming closer, here we go again.
He comes close to me, with both his hands draws my shoulder length hair together, and pulls my head slightly backwards before he releases his left hand. With it free he proceeds to raise my dress to waist level, a quick push on my lower back, I find myself with my torso over the dining table, face still elevated being held by hair strands trapped on his right hand. He wasted no time lifting my left leg onto the table, panties still on, I soon felt the tear of my panties as he ripped them off from me. I could feel my butt cheeks literally flap by the intensity in which he pulled them from my body.
A man of few words, I can hear his zipper open, his pants drop onto the floor. Umph, here he comes. That darn need of his to slap me with his talent, it makes me jump each time I feel it hit my warmth. I still don’t know why it’s so easy for him to thrust it in, I fight the urge of my body to react to his escapades each and every singly time, yet have failed just as many times. He releases my hair, and I rest my head against the table, feeling my body rock like meat does a top a cutting board when being chopped by a dull knife. I try to grab anything I can, just as I struggle to keep him from knowing his actions are pleasurable. I continue to tell myself that this is not what I want, I want to be seduced as those young couples are seduced by ice-cream filled spoons. Yet, my forehead begins to show sings of distress, it’s commenced to sweat, and my eyes are going from wide open to squinting with each collision of our bodies. I can feel the soaking his causing and try to squeeze as tightly as I can thinking it will draw it all in just to lessen his satisfaction.
He’s got my left leg imprisoned against the table, while his right hand traces the voluptuousness of my figure. Again and again running throughout my lower body as if a sculptor on clay. Damn him for not making love to me just once, just that one time, that is all I ask for. To feel his love, rather than his lust. But there he goes, I can already see it, the result of his actions. A sort of magenta colour radiating from my area of his desires. Left to fend on its own after a struggle it has seemingly lost. My lungs inflating and deflating as if it had carried my body through a marathon. Remnants of the encounter sliding down my thighs to the back of my knees, oh from where does so much come.
God, at times I’m unsure as to why I fight to let him know I enjoy this, because there he will stay, switching between being inside of me, thrusting my body in all directions, and using his lips to soak in my pleasure. I fight, and fight, I struggle, I squeeze, he grabs my right cheek, thrusting his pelvis into me without mercy, we slide the table against the wall. I try to think of love making, the day that it will come where he will see me as more than a libido to subdue. Yet, I fail, sweating covers my body, my voice gives it away that he is reaching the time where it will all end. I can not fight, I try to lower my left leg from the table, he rejects the advance by placing both my legs upon the table, contorting my body like a gymnast. It’s all wet now, I can feel the events reaching the table, my crotch area, it all feels the deluge of lust that’s being proved within me. The table can’t move any further, it’s pinned against the wall, and my body would have bounced up and down, hand it not been for him pinning my waist against the table. I could feel each slide in and out, soaked with not only joy, but the anger that he isn’t making love to me. His pelvis against my rear, fudge in that ice-cream, felt so good I needed to release. I needed to let go, the only way he’d stop, the scream, and pant, to moan, to lay atop the table while I heard his footsteps walking away towards the distance. Welcome home, honey, I thought to myself.