Peaches (Her Fragile Restraint Part ll)

Hydie searches for her phone as it rings amongst her brother's magazines, newspapers and rolling tobacco products. The device shrills on relentlessly before she finally manages to locate and answer it.

“Hi.” A throaty baritone on the other end of the line, unfamiliar. She hesitates.

“Hullo...?”

“It's Patrick.” His voice is rich and smooth, like the man.

It's been two days since their encounter in the dressing rooms.

“How are you?”

“...Can I come over?”

Hydie stares at the wall clock, it's 7.30pm. She notices the stains on the clock's plastic cover, the clutter and mess around her, frowns.

“I live with my brother.”

“Oh.”

“But. I could see you tomorrow?” She hears hope in her voice.

“Ok.”

“It's my day off.”

“I know. Yes. Alright.” The sound of his five o'clock shadow as it catches on the receiver. “Come to my house. We'll have a drink.” His tone lightens. “I expect we'll work something out. I'd like to see you again. Come at 2.”

“Sure.”

“Goodnight.”

A sharp tang of surprise on her tongue as she puts down the handset. She makes herself a cup of tea, reads the paper, choosing to go to bed early. She calls to her brother lounging in the TV room as she pads her way up the hall.

...

Patrick owns a condo in a leafy street. It's a long simple bus ride to his suburb, affording her enough time to brew anxiety beneath her smile. Hydie's hands shake as she rings the doorbell. He answers in a work shirt and grey pants, like last time. Her heart does a flip flop. His sleeves are unbuttoned, he's barefoot.

“Hi.”

“You look gorgeous.”

Hydie giggles. He leans against the door frame and pulls her to him, encircling her waist in it's pretty yellow sundress. A hot, reassuring kiss.

“Thank you.” Hydie breaks away, grinning, much more relaxed.

“Come in.” He swings the door wide and ushers her inside.

In the back room, down a cream hallway, a man stands by the window, tumbler of scotch in one hand, the other touching the flawless glass of an enormous window. Anthony turns as they enter.

“Hi.”

Hydie shoots Patrick a look of surprise, his expression remains neutral.

“I'm Andy.”

“I'm Hyacinth.”

“I know.”

“Would you like a drink?”

Patrick makes his way over to a wall cabinet, busying himself fetching drinks and ice.

“Sure.”

Soon they are seated on the big, beige leather lounge in an otherwise sparsely furnished sun-room, Patrick sits opposite in a matching, single-seater lounge chair and his friend sits to Hydie's left on the lounge. The sun blazes through the wide window, muted by tinted glass. Hydie takes her drink and sips. Ice-cubes make a glorious clinking sound, knocking courage into her ribcage, forcing her to swallow nervously, the only other noise in the room. Anthony clears his throat.

“Well, I ought to get back to work. Nice to see you.”

Her fragile restraint

In a world of her own, Hyacinth carefully dusts around the pretty things each girl has left at their backstage work-station. Some girls keep their gear in Tupperware, others have left it loose. Mascaras, nipple tassels, lube, eyeshadow and deodorant bottles are all piled up lifelessly. She cleans their makeup mirrors and afterwards, it's an extra effort to remove caked make-up stains from the long, black bench top.

The small, narrow room smells of face powder, latex and cheap perfume. Hyacinth is tired now, midway through her shift, having cleaned the performance area and it's low hanging mirror balls and glass-topped stages. (She uses special hypo-allergenic spray for the poles and chairs.) Normally her brother would be helping. Today he is despicable; hungover, lazy, absent. She sighs.

Looking about her, Hyacinth knows the warmly lit little dressing room is something other than a wonderland. Often it's a place of smoke and hot, tired girls no older than herself trying to gather their wits (or further scatter them). She imagines the bustle and noise but it's early morning, no one will be about for another few hours.

Hydie bends over to empty a small bin into a larger plastic sack at her side. It rustles in the quiet, airless room. She props the door open, finding a lavish feather boa, hanging on a hook by the door. It's a fine garment, much longer than any boa she has seen, red, rich, real and scratchy. Hydie wraps it around her neck and winds it around her arms, admiring herself playfully in the mirror. She looks a dream, it hides her skirt and slacks and clusters around her neck in a cloud of feathers.

Hydie takes it off. She looks about the room for other dress ups, eyeing a thin, silk tie with an elastic collar and matching emerald green heels.

Who would see?

A Moment's Weakness

I look up into sorrowful, chocolate-brown pools. My lover the stonemason, who's hands have carved a thousand tombstones and who looks as though he holds night time inside the silence of his eyes. His hands are scarred too, rough and lovely. They pass over my skin, annotating the geography of my body, my curves, crevices and fleshy mistakes. I writhe beneath him, feverish with lust.

His cock thrusts in me, rigid, turgid. Dilated pupils shine from within a hard, closed face. Even whilst he pushes blissfully into my softness in age-old intimacy, I cannot reach him. My complex lover empties his hot breath onto my neck, making me squirm. I am impaled on a length of sweetness, wanting him to burst open. I haven't a hope. He inhales, spreading a contrasting coolness onto my nape. His thudding, impressive rod continues deliciously stretching me. I am meringue, cracking delicately under the weight of his demanding pace. Despite his impossible proximity, my mysterious fuck puppet fails to yield.

“I want you.” I whisper, hoping to slide under his cool resolve.

Moving On...

Derwisch left in the morning, just as the sun came up. It was a peculiar farewell, soft and silent. If Rose has any doubts as to whether their relationship would continue, they end as the door clicks closed. She begins to cry big, salty crocodile tears for a dream that isn't a worth pursing. She cries because she supposes a man like Derwisch will have no trouble finding another woman, to replace her.

What follows is a day spent wandering aimlessly in an unfamiliar city. Eventually, Rose stops at a pub. She orders a gin and tonic and a bowl of cashews. Rose eats cashews delicately, one by one. She pulls Roman's white business card from her pink handbag. What would it mean to contact him? What could she tell him?

Sipping on her second gin, Rose is aware someone watches. There is a man in an old-fashioned booth by the window.  His mouth is strong and full. On the table, an iPhone lies forgotten, adjacent to his beer. A dark tan hides inked artwork that snakes around his bicep. Close-cropped, short dark hair frames his face.

The man smiles, an open, genuine action that splinters the severity of his otherwise handsome face. Rose finds herself returning the gesture. She shrinks from grinning too broadly and turns away to sip her drink. The barman raises an eyebrow. Rose concentrates on pressing and trapping salt crystals at the bottom of her plastic cashew bowl. She licks them from her digit one by one, savouring the contrast. She traces the ink on Roman's stiff business card. Perhaps if she called him it would pass the time?

The stranger from the window brushes her wrist with his fingertips. Rose jumps, her thoughts stolen away.

“Hi.”

Rose forgets about the business card. His brown eyes sweep her face. Rose swallows, aware her throat is suddenly dry.

“Hey, Yourself”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Sure.”

His accent is local. He's built like a tree house, all muscle and tanned flesh. Rose quivers.

“Gin and tonic please.”

He clips his vowels and swallows them with a comic-seductive, New Zealand twang.

“What's your name?”

A big upturned palm extends towards her.

“Levi.”

Rose slots his hand into hers briefly, takes a long sip of her slightly bitter beverage.

“That's kind of cool.”

“You're one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my life.”

Rose coughs.

“Thank you.” She manages, cheeks aflame.

Rose puts her drink down.

“You're not so bad yourself.” Seconds pass. She claims her fresh glass.

“Do you drink here regularly?”

“I have a studio around the corner. You're welcome to come and have a see?”

Sex after the Storm

This is steamy make up sex with no apologies for hotness and haste.

We're still shouting, it makes my heart hurt. And then, BANG the door slams shut. In the corridor, I'm suddenly alone. The walls reverberate with nothingness. And my tears choose to fall. Great racking sobs. For the love that we'd had, that I shattered; for my big mouth, for your sharp retorts and the shreds of our relationship that are left in this sullen silence, made all the more  conspicuous by your absence.

I picture you, striding towards nowhere. Your boots hitting the pavement in a steady rhythm, noticing no one. You plunge through people. The same invisible crowd examine your ardour out of the corner of their eyes, wondering what made you so angry. Anger translates into your mood, your beautiful eyes flash, your lips have thinned and the cigarette in your hand trembles.

'Cool off. Cool off Babe and come back to me'. By now I've descended down the wall into sitting position, until my sorry arse is resting on the polished boards of the hallway. Normally this would be my favourite time of day. Outside, filtering into my miserable hallway, it's dusk. The sky is falling slowly.

Inside, the charged silence nearly succeeds in driving me crazy. I can hear the clock tick in the kitchen, three rooms away. By now, my face is dry and salty. My tears have cleared. My skin feels hard from the sheen of sadness that still coats my face. I want you.

Where are you? Will things ever be the same?

Later, I hear the scrape of your lead footsteps as you approach the stairs leading up to our doorway. It's a foreboding sound. I almost crack a smile as the doorbell rings. In your haste you stormed out and didn't take your keys. We're forced to confront one another. I don't want to shy away. A coward would unhitch the latch and disappear into the bowels of our house.

It's one thing I'm not.

I swing the door open and search the look you're wearing for signs of life and love. I harden my heart and look again for signs of possible rebuttal. Aside from ready anger, directed at me in the flint from your green eyes, you give me nothing. Your face is hard. It scares me.

You flick the last of a cigarette out into the front yard and push past me into the room.

“We need to talk.”. My voice is flat but it cracks anyway. I ache to touch you, to make us forget. There's a yawning distance between us and all of a sudden I don't feel so brave.

“Yeah.” You look at your shoes.

I want you to watch me. I will your selfish, downcast eyes to search my face, as I was searching yours. Does our love amount to so little?

“Kane..? It got out of hand before, you know what I'm like. I wanted you to understand a few things but I didn't mean for us to get so...ugly. I love you.”

The words come softly. I can feel the phrases brewing in me as I talk. If I can keep speaking, I have the bizarre sensation that I'll know what to say. I pick invisible lint off the sleeve of my green jumper. I can tell I have your attention, mostly because of the pause I've chosen. You haven't moved.

“I gotta grow a thicker skin, I guess. I wish you didn't talk about me. About US on your show”

“Yeah.”

I can feel my eyes narrowing as you echo your previous monosyllabic response.

“I won't do that so much any more.”

To my ears the words sound ominous. You stumble on.

“I'm sorry I mentioned your pot belly, you must know I'm being stupid, it's only tiny. I criticized your dress-sense but someone had to say something...you're outrageous.”

I should have been angry, right then. I should have been inconsolable. But one side of your mouth twitches in place of the ability to grin. You reach for me with tree trunk arms that I call home, encircling my waist. I exhale as though I have been holding my breath for ten years, leaning into your embrace. We're so close I can smell your skin. I nuzzle your neck.

“You shouldn't do those things.” I reprimand.

Another pause.

“Babe, you do bad things too. This would never have happened if you hadn't started up at me about eating less butter. You made me feel like shit. I can look after myself, I'm a grown man”

I'm listening. One impertinent finger lifts my chin so we have eye contact.

“In future, don't ever shout at me. I hate shouting.”

“You wouldn't listen/”

And you silence me with a kiss. A searing, heated, nasty-hot, grazing kiss that makes me want to clutch you and devour your head. You stubble burns me. You lash my softness with the intensity of your viper-tongue.

It's the same tool that less than two hours ago was hurting me. You dared to you insult me with your two-bit philosophy and your precious opinions over the airwaves no less, so my humiliation was complete. Now I'm dining on our discontent. There's a desperation in the union of our mouths. You're clutching my shoulders and pressing your warm chest into mine. Our shuffling and the noise of our breath takes up space in the stagnant hallway. You thrust your hips and I step back. We stumble. My back comes to rest pressed against the wall. You unbutton my work shirt with shaking fingers.

I make a noise in the back of my throat and pull your ti-shirt over your head, exposing your chest to my hungry fingers. I kiss you collar-bone and the spot where your chest hair stops. I gasp as you stuff your hand up my shirt and fight the under-wire of my bra to catch my breast. I can hear your shoes clumping heavily onto the floorboards as you kick them off.

I almost bang my head on the wall as your keen lips recapture mine. Without your belt I can easily wedge my hands past the elastic of your boxers, into the warmth of your groin. As I grasp your madly erect cock, we both stop. Panting, looking at each other for the briefest of moments. Then I'm kissing your lips and wrapping my free hand around your neck, pulling you closer.

You meet me there, in the middle, surrounded by a dark haze of indecision and need. 'Oh Kane' my heart calls. I don't want you to hate me.

We kiss as though after this last exertion we'll have nothing left to give each other. Maybe there is nothing left to hope for once this moment passes? Cities have been lost for less. The surrender makes me whimper and you mistake it for lust, pulling me into your embrace, smothering my voice with your tongue. As I love I am lost. As I give, I am disappearing into the apparition that you wish was me. It has to be enough for now.

I'm reeling. Backing away from you. I can't see your eyes and if I could, your pupils would be dilated so much they would obscure the vivid green. You're as vulnerable as I am at this moment but neither of us draw breath to commiserate. I hastily help you out of your jeans and your socks. There's lots of panting and shredding of clothes. We're so clumsy as we rush, it's almost laughable. I'm hungry for your cock.

You're naked. We're hot, wet, sloppy. You're hiking up my tiny skirt and touching my clit through the lace of my knickers. I'm squirming against your fingers. You're sliding a brutal hand around my breasts, grasping, rubbing. You're pushing the materials of my clothes out of your path, there's no thinking. I get a sharp pleasure from the feel of stretched cloth.

I'm at new heights of feverish arousal and I want you to fuck me in the impeding doom of twilight, on the floor of our unlit hallway. I want to feel you moving inside me, when the only sound will be your rasping breath and my mews of ardour.

I get my wish.

With your knees bent and my back flat against the wall, I can feel your cock about to enter me. My knickers are pulled to one side. We both tip and you use your knees to lift and pin me up. Cock meat slides into my-not-quite-ready pussy. I open to you but not without a bite of pain. You like it tight. Your grunt assuages my tiny grudge. I enjoy the fulfilling feeling of you sliding home.

Our eyes don't meet. You're tongue is on my neck, in my ear. You're lost in softness, thrusting. It's hard to manage like this, despite the anger. You move us. Clamouring down the hallway with your impaled load. My hold on tight, my hands clasped around your neck. We continue fucking in the kitchen. You dump me so I'm splayed on the dining table, my hips meeting yours. I can't quite reach your chest although I stretch my fingers to try to touch you. When you thrust it makes my back arch. Your dick nods at my g-spot.

“AAAhh”

I sit up, shuffling my arse towards you. We both watch your meat sliding in and out of me, sleek with juice, thick and pink. I lean back on my hands and you follow. I can feel the heat from the wall of your chest but we're not touching. You continue to pump in a frenzied rhythm, driving us both to the edge. I brush the hair out of your eyes and our lips meet. You're raking your tongue over my teeth, plunging it into my mouth. I'm sucking it, against the backdrop of squishy noises from our sexes meeting.

We're still kissing as I cum all over your blissful pole. I'm moaning and thrashing. I'm a danger to us both in my mind-numbing orgasm. You're tongue retreats and you hold me. After the shuddering subsides I can feel the pulse in your neck, close to my face. You're chest hair tickles my sensitive breasts. But you haven't come. You keep thrusting at me and my body is more pliant now. I lie back, enjoying the rushing feeling of your dick coming and going. I imagine your little arse cheeks clenching as you stroke.

You pull me up, I get stuck to the plastic table-cloth as I move. I almost laugh. You flip me over and bend me over the table. The urge to laugh leaves me swiftly as I take what you have to give. With your big hands on my hips, your pace increases and the depth of your strokes make the back of my eyeballs hurt.

“Oh. Kane!”

There's a guttural noise of pleasure from your exertion. I can feel you growing inside me. I feel the shuddering mini-tempest of your cock as you unload wads of spoof up my insides. I sigh and start to giggle. It's a breathless, massive noise. I don't know what we'll do now.

Kiss me. It doesn't matter, kiss me.