Cosy in the Cool room

The front counter of the bakery is much quieter in the aftermath of the breakfast rush. At the back of the store, men tray up and shuffle pies and sweets ready for lunch, creating their own clamour. Ella can hear the trollies clanking and the big fridge door opening and closing. Jamie, the chef walks past, winks at her. He's an older man with very little hair and a New Zealand accent, lovely but strange. She doesn't respond, continuing to ready the front of the shop, replenishing bags and wiping down counters.

Outside, at the beach front, the sun is shining. Ella sighs, wanting to be out amongst it too. It's the first job she's had since she moved to the holiday town and the hours are mean, leaving her out of the fun, selling mouth-watering pastries when she could be swimming and sun baking.

After a time the noises die down in the back of the shop. Ella finishes up her tasks and makes a final check of the bain-marie, replenishing the small tray of water that prevents pastries from drying up. Jamie calls to her from the kitchen. Ella forces her attention away from the footpath and the blazing sun.

“Eh! Fish says he needs you out back.”

“Oh?”

Ella leaves the girls at the front counter, making her way past the rows and rows of baked goods stacked on trays ready to be wheeled out. The cool room door is open, she peeks in.

“Are you in here?”

In response, Fish pulls her bodily into the fridge.

“Sure.”

His breath is so close she can feel her lovers heat on her cheek, his freckles stand out on his cold face.

“But?”

“The bakers just left, I'm here all by myself.”

Ella closes her eyes. She can feel a grin on his lips as they touch hers. Soft flesh contrasts with the prickle of stubble.

“You want to make out?”

“No.” Ella has ideas, “I want you to fuck me.”

“Here?”

“Sure.” A giggle. “The exercise will keep us warm.”

“Oooh.”

She takes off his hat, bunching it in one hand. He caresses her fingers, his hands are cold. Startling almost - green eyes watch her in disbelief. Ella plonks down his chef's hat with her apron on top, shielding her knees from the cold cement. It's not much protection but it's a start. She deftly reaches into his checkered, elasticized work pants and retrieves his flaccid penis.

“Are you...?”

“Shhh.”

Fish leans over and closes the door, intensifying the room's temperature. He looks a dream, hat-less with unkempt, salty brown hair. He's pant-less with just an unbuttoned shirt over his broad, hairy chest. He stands dumbfounded in the coolness, a twinkle in his normally cool green-blue eyes. Ella takes the cold worm into her hot mouth. It's an instantaneous reaction, a rousing response. As she gums flesh, he grows.

His hairy thighs brush the soft skin of her forearms.

“I've been thinking about you all morning.”

Ella looks up, holding his cock between them, Fish's sea-coloured eyes meeting her gaze.

“Clearly not enough.”

Fish chuckles, the rich sound spreading through his abdominal muscles, causing his cock to bounce in her hand.

“It's cold in here.”

Unspoken promises of warmth fill the room, Ella slides her tongue around his shaft, coating it expertly in saliva, popping his length into her mouth and passing it further down her throat. She does all this quickly, before her effective, tantalising treatment has time to cool.

“Mhhff,” she says, happily.

“OoOh God! that's good.”

His broad hands holds her shoulders, amazement making him unsteady. He watches the top of her auburn curls. She bobs, making cock meat disappear into her mouth and re-emerge. She stops, holds the now-throbbing penis in one eager hand. Gently, she kisses his cock, before clambering up from her knees.

“I'm cold too,” Ella puts in softly, stripping off her thin work shirt and the sports bra beneath. Her breasts stand to attention, nipples pebbled and pink.

“Suck me?” She lifts her arms above her head and offers him her fruits.

Fish splays one hand against the small of her back, he licks up her belly, an eager tongue passing over the underside of one breast. He pops the budded nipple into his mouth and she sharply takes in a breath. Fish briskly teases her taut flesh, as if it's a Skittle or a Fisherman's Friend, whisking Ella's crazy-hard nipple too and fro with the end of his tongue. Her pussy start to grow moist. The coil of desire unwinds in her belly.

He plunges an eager hand down her pants, past the light cotton knickers until he reaches the bud of her sex. Her soft pussy drenches his fingers in eager approval, Fish plays with her clit, sliding a finger along her core, carefully coating his finger with her eager juice and then up, over her clitoris. As he repeats the motion it makes her feel boneless, desperate.

Ella licks her hand, applies the moisture to his cock and strokes. She kisses his neck, burying her cold nose in his nape between the stubble on his chin and the fine hair on his chest.

“fuck me” she says, so softly it's hard to hear.

He turns her around, her hands brace the cold wall of their self imposed prison and the elastic of her work pants gives way under the rapid ministrations of his numb-cold hands. He stretches her pants down to her ankles, together with her cotton knickers, effectively clearing his path. Fish balances the weight of his dick on her rump, sliding down until he is cradled between the rear of her thighs. His cold hand touches her breast, rubbing, holding. She can feel the thickness of lust in the silence between them.

Ella wiggles her pretty rear and he guides his meat into her warm, tight centre, opening her softness until she is parted, splayed. He strokes and shoves himself deeper. Ella closes her eyes, lost in the bliss of it, leaning into the wall.

“That's so good.”

“I want to fuck you until you can't speak.”

He withdraws and pushes back in; hard.

“I c....”

Ella whimpers in delight.

His big, baker hands hold either side of her firm arse, he pushes his cock back into her and enjoys the elastic, silken feel. He sets a rhythm and breaks it. Her desperate, keening noises encourage him to continue pleasurably punishing her.

After a time he stops.

“I want to see you”

She turns, planting a kiss on his lush, open lips. In almost one movement, he grabs his thick jacket and tucks it behind her; pushes her back to the wall and nestles his cock neatly at the entrance to her hot, damp, pussy. Using superior strength, he lifts and enters her. By way of thanks, Ella wraps her long legs around his waist and squirms.

He slides further in. Their eyes meet, he gives her quick, short thrusts. Ella comes on his cock, locked in his embrace, impaled by his expression. It's all he can do to execute four more strokes, riding the magnificent, quivering aftershocks within her until he explodes.

“...so good.”

Fish sets her down gently, they both scramble to grab their gear. He helps her to dress.

Within half a minute of their separation, the pair wrench the cool room door open once more, welcoming the warmth of a normal day. Ella and Fish look slightly dishevelled and pink cheeked as they emerge.

Fish tucks his still-hard cock into the band of his pants and leaves her, weaving his way further into the bowels of the bakery. Ella heads back to the shop front, grinning from ear to ear.

Coming home...

A bus. An ordinary bus on an ordinary day. Its not peak hour any more, I've worked late and the time has passed since the heavy tussle that comes with the afternoon. Now things have slowed down with more places to sit on each vehicle. The book I am trying to read isn't good. I look up and about. Such is the world that we live in, few people are doing the same. Even those without a phone to play with or a friend to talk to, stare ahead squarely at nothing, as if real life is a distraction.

A man sits behind me, four seats further back. He catches my eye. Grins. His sea blue eyes are luminous, his stubble unpracticed, and his impromptu happiness breaks an otherwise handsome face into an expression of lopsided mischief. Who wouldn't be hooked? My heart pounds. I look away. The driver breaks unexpectedly and elderly passengers make annoying noises of disapproval as they bend forward, riding the motion, their old bodies like carriages at a rail yard suddenly brought to a halt.

I look out the window to catch a glimpse of my own reflection in the day's fading light and open my face up into a smile. I read somewhere if you are happy enough to smile when no one is watching, you must really mean it. Someone is watching me today. Blue eyes from the back seat makes me self conscious.

A colleague told me I looked like a nurse earlier, my work shirt is blue and white check. It accentuates my breasts and I don't mind that it brings to mind a uniform. I've left the morgue and I like to pretend I have been at an office, working somewhere that smells less like disinfectant and has a view, preferably of water and trees.

Blue eyes focused in my direction cause the hairs on the back of my neck to tingle. A few delicious minutes pass by. I shift in my seat, watch members of the geriatric community pick their way carefully down the aisle and out into the strange, suspended, autumnal sunset on the street, their large, practical handbags held with purpose under fleshy, under-used arms.

I flinch. The man at the back of the bus shows me a dimple and I imagine he might share my sense of humour. I pause to scratch an itch on my leg. My stockings dip under the weight of my nails and I'm careful to alleviate the itch with a featherlight touch. These are my last pair.

Blue eyes gets up from the back of the bus. My stomach lurches. If he leaves it will just be me and the sky, the high pitched noise of the bus breaks at each stop and row after row of shops and houses. He doesn't get off. The action of his hand curling around the arm rest near my shoulder has a sensual flavour, as though he's caressing skin, not the thin aluminium rail.

“Hullo.”

“Hi.”

He sits behind me. I swivel to look. I want to start a conversation but my throat is dry.

“Your eyes are questioning.”

“This is my poker face.”

He laughs. It's magic. I bite my lip.

“I'm Paula.”

“Tim”

“Hi Tim. Want to come home with me?”

I haven't thought about the words, they come out of my mouth before I've willingly formed them and it leaves me with a strange sensation in my middle. Say yes. I don't want to fail.

“I might...?”

Dimples.

“Paula are you always this forward?”

“No.”

I glance out the window and realise my stop is coming up. I ring the bell. Up the front of the bus feet shuffle as the elderly prepare themselves for the stop. It puts my nerves on edge. We grind to a halt. I get up without looking back. I can sense the heat his body gives off as he follows me. The bus pulls away in a blast of hot air and brake noise. Highway sounds hide my confusion. Tim gestures for me to lead the way. I start walking.

After only four paces, maybe five, he tugs on my arm and I lurch to a halt. I hadn't realised I was practically running. His palm is warm and calloused as it slips into mine. We don't say anything. I start off once more, slower this time, towing him away from the heavy noise of the street.

We take a turn, heading further away from the steady traffic and into cool, overhanging peppermint gums lining the road.

“Wait!” he says “Are you real?”

“I don't know.” It comes out in a whisper.

I want him to kiss me. Silence feels like foreplay. I'm angry at the mundane, suburban setting. In the world of my imagination my handsome stranger would tug me into an alleyway. We would embrace with passionate, frantic urgency.

I look up from my own thoughts into unsettling azure blue. I can't bear to keep staring. We're holding hands, facing each other like lovers. He uncurls his fingers, releasing me. I feel the cool afternoon air where his palm has been connected to mine. He raises his hands to my face, encircles my cheeks in an intimate gesture. I catch my breath.

“Do you want me?”

He leans forward and kisses my nose. I brush the softness of my cheek through his waiting hand, eyes closed. I don't answer the question, I don't feel I need to. I just wait.

“Do you come here often?”

“Every day.”

Humbled.

Obtuse.

He strokes his thumb across my lower lip. I know my torso trembles. I can feel my body reacting to his touch and I can hear it too, in my quiet, jagged breaths.

The not knowing is over. I stretch up on tippy-toes and connect my lips to his. Hot and full, a reward for all the pissing about. I assess their weight, time and again before drawing the courage to press for an open-mouthed gesture. He complies. The afternoon threatens rain. Tim tastes of salt and aniseed, promise and apricots. He pulls away. I don't know what he sees.

“Can we go somewhere?”

I smile, open my eyes wide and grin like the world is winning. My familiar street fades and I start to look at the surrounds as though I have never seen them before. He doesn't take my hand as we move off. We don't speak.

In the hall at the apartment block I fumble for my keys. For a moment I'm nervous. He slides a warm hand across my kidney as I rummage in my bag. I forget what it is to be nervous. It's a game, a foregone conclusion.

I open the door to my rooms and we go into the silence together. I take a drink of water and look across at him as I down the lukewarm liquid. I imagine his cock in his pants and how it might taste. I close my eyes, letting the water run over my tongue in the darkness. When I reopen them he stands with his hands in his pockets, eyes on the ground. His brown hair obscures the expression on his face. He plays with his feet, leaning on the arches, balancing and then bringing them flat to the floor.

Tim looks up. Clears his throat.

“Come here.”

Before I've closed the distance between us entirely I've started work on the buttons of his shirt. It's a light plaid, not dissimilar to mine and I want it gone. It feels like I'm unwrapping a present. He brushes my hair back behind my ear, assisting me and at the same time adding a tingling sensation to my face, my neck and the zero-ing heat in my middle.

A gentle finger under my chin draws my eye line away from small, clear buttons. This time it's Tim who leans in, offering his lips for an embrace. The moment feels quiet, fragile, a palpable amount of trust in the air. In my minds eye our passion explodes like sex in a foreign film, all heaving breaths and rank, rabid movement as the participants devour one another in love play. Tim takes his time. He presses kisses on my mouth as though savouring the taste.

With my eyes closed I will him to hurry up. I don't want gentle, I don't want affection. My body sings to be fucked. I lean in, opening my mouth, our teeth click. My eyes are closed as I fumble for shirt buttons, clearing the material from his chest, bending my head, biting his nipple. He squirms, swats me away. His eyes are a deeper blue, steeped in lust. I lick my lips and flick his belt buckle.

Tim takes a run at my shirt, foregoing buttons, a few of them pop as he slides material over my breasts, over my head, discarding the garment carelessly on the floor. I've a light pink lace bra and my nipples stand to attention trapped beneath it. Tim bends his head and adds moisture to the lace, embracing first one aureole, then the other in a sloppy, covetous kiss.

“Oo Oh.”

I can't help it. I squeeze my thighs together. He rubs the front of my skirt, cupping what he can find of my pussy in my tight, navy work skirt.

“Paula?”

“Mmm?”

“Tell me what you want?”

I open my eyes. He drags a thumb across the wet material on my nipple, expertly distracting my thoughts.

“I want you to take all your clothes off. I want to watch you do it. By the time you get to naked I want your stiff cock to spring free, begging to be buried in me. I want you to stand in front of me and hold onto it. So I can see you throbbing to fuck a woman. Then I want you to go find my bedroom. I'll get undressed. I'll follow you and I want you to start by eating my pussy. What I want most is to have your head buried between my legs... You know, you've got beautiful eyes”

“And you've a dirty mouth.” His voice is uncommonly deep, desirous.

I take a breath, close my eyes to steady myself.

“Will you do it?”

“No.”

Tim unclasps my bra and removes the lace garment. My breasts feel heavy, needy. He cups them in both hands and slides his palms up my torso. I snap the catch on his pants. My shaking thumb and forefinger find the zipper, the cotton of his jocks and the cock beneath. His adam's apple bobs in amazement. I take the flesh and grasp his meat in my hand. It grows and grows. Tim kicks off his shoes.

He leads me to the couch, just a few steps away and seats me facing him. We kiss. It's an encounter loaded with promise and heavy breathing. I revel in it. Our messy tongues find warm, moist flesh. Tim rips my tights. He rolls them down, off my thighs and shimmies up my skirt. My knickers are damp and he tugs my hips towards him, I slump in the seat. He drags my knickers to one side and tastes my pussy, wetting the material and my flesh with his tongue. It's delicious. I squirm, reaching to bury my hands into his hair.

“Ah!”

My knickers slide off in his deft hands and I spread my thighs wide. Tim licks and toys with my clit. I tremble, I ache. I ply at his shoulders, willing him to break contact with my wet skin. I want his cock to slide inside me. I can feel an orgasm blooming.

He inserts digits. I lose control. On the verge of orgasm I pull on his arms. Come to me. Don't let me die in your arms. Lust and blackness engulf my vision. I feel him pull back, finally, moments before my surrender. He sits astride the coffee table, creating distance between us. His proud, protruding member is hard and thick. I lick my lips, crawl on my knees towards him but fail to take the meat in my mouth. Instead we exchange sticky kisses, he tastes of sweat and me. It's exhilarating. I waste no time beginning to slide my pussy down his pole.

His blue eyes are hidden behind dilated irises. Tim's breath is short and his chest heaves. I feel so proud. We both look down at the connection of our sexes, my pussy juice coating his shaft. Before I'm sunk full of cock, he braces his heels and moves us, until I'm buried in the couch, my back to the cushions, cock meat all the way in.

“Unnngh!”

I bite my lip bury my nose in his neck. I don't want him to stroke. I feel sated, played, he's all the way inside me and I'm full up, dominated, aroused. With his big hands, Tim tilts my hips. His thumbs press upon my hip bones and his cock begins to glide in and out. Blue-black eyes feast on my expression. I stare back up at him, relishing the unfamiliar feeling of being taken, ridden, enjoyed.

I use my hands to steady us and make an effort to push back. The couch is too forgiving and the sensation dwindles. Wordlessly we switch to the floor, dragging a cushion for my pelvis and another for my head as we shift. My toes touch his ears as he drives into my softness. I'm alive. I tingle with knowledge and the precipice beckons. I don't know when I'll fall.

Tim leans back, he takes a moment to watch his cock as it hides and reveals itself. Then he licks a thumb and thrusts it towards my clit. I grind on his hand and explode into shards of delirium. Tim stops the action of his fingers and shifts his weight. He pistons into me, shaking with the effort of it. I hold onto his back, his butt; spent and waiting for him to cum.

He doesn't. Instead he withdraws, I keep my legs spread and he beckons my hands, willing me to jerk him off as I lie underneath him. Blue eyes wander over my prone body. I feel him go extra-specially hard in my hands. He cups my breast. I bite my lip and concentrate on the action of pumping his purple cock. He shudders and a ribbon of semen explodes onto my belly. His cock pulses, still in my hand. Spoof runs down my digits.

He drops his weight onto his hands and leans down to kiss me on the lips. He's panting more than I and we are both slightly sticky with sweat. I let go of his penis. I wipe my hand along the cooling cum on my belly and taste it, just for effect. I get dimples as payoff. Tim flops down onto the floor at my side and for a moment we both stare at my familiar ceiling.

Shyly I slide a palm over his hip. I lean on one elbow, looking at my freshly-found lover. After a moment he opens his eyes.

“Wow.”

Silence.

“I've never picked up a woman on public transport before.”

“I wanted to fuck you on the bus.”

“You have a terrible poker face.”

Tim kisses my nose.

Tour of the Unexpected (Part 1)

A bus. An ordinary bus on and ordinary day. Its not peak hour anymore, I've worked late and the time has passed since the heavy afternoon tussle. Now things are slower, there is more places to sit on each vehicle. My book isn't good. I look up, I look around. Such is the world that we live in. Few people are doing the same. Even those without a phone to play with, a friend to talk to, stare ahead, squarely at nothing as if real life is a distraction.

A man sits behind me, four seats further back . He catches my eye. Grins. His blue eyes are luminous, his stubble is unpracticed, and his grin breaks an otherwise handsome face into an expression of lopsided mischief. Who wouldn't be hooked? My heart pounds. I look away. The driver breaks unexpectedly and elderly passengers make annoying, audible disapproval noises simultaneously as they bend forward, riding the motion, old bodies creaking like carriages at a rail yard, heavily and suddenly brought to a halt.

I look out the window, catch a glimpse of my own reflection in the day's fading light. I look past it and open my face up into a smile. I read somewhere if you are happy enough to smile when no one is watching, you must really mean it. Someone is watching today. Blue eyes from the back seat makes me self conscious.  

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.

A taste of Summer

 

The sky falling slowly in the late afternoon, in the distant a train bell sounds at a crossing warning pedestrians, closer to home a bird calls. It's nearly dusk. Day is almost ended. Rebecca can hear tell-tale, heavy footfalls coming up the path. He walks in an oil skin jacket. Today it is too hot, thought it sits across his broad shoulders as though it was born there; nailed to him. The leather is dark and worn. His blue faded shirt is tucked in at the waist, into jeans, too dark with dirt and a history of being favoured and worn.

Patrick opens the gate for the first time in a long time, savoring the sound as it swings and creaks, cast iron embellishment moving uneasily. It's nothing that a bit of WD 40 couldn't fix but nobody's done it and perhaps it sounds better that way. At the door, he takes off his droving hat, rakes a hard, calloused hand through his hair and his unruly hair disobeys. It clearly bears signs of being under a hat too long despite Pat's best intentions. It falls over his eyes. He doesn't notice.

Walking towards him along the lino, Rebecca can be heard coming towards him. As always, daylight on his side means she'll be able to see him long before he can see her. He grins onto the fly wire front door, blind, hoping she can make out his face. Rebecca watches, her heart twisting as a smile transforms his face. The door is a friend, her lover. It's all she can do not to run.

He scoops her up and the feel of his muscled shoulders under her palms is exquisite. Life is rockmelon, cinders and canvas. Rebecca's lips aren't overly full but her pretty smile lights up her face. It makes her green eyes twinkle and it makes Pat think of his time as a kid, fishing, looking into a sea of the same colour. He shifts his heavy arms and embraces her.

Though tall for a woman, Becky is eaten up by the size and the enthusiasm of her lover's embrace. He strokes big palms over the rough cotton of her shirt; likes the sound and so does it again. Becky can't breathe. It might be impossible to want to be any closer. She folds her arms around his neck and drinks in the smell of him.

Pat smells like blue skies, dirt and summer. Burying her nose in his neck she feels the old leather against her ear, the cotton of his shirt against her cheek, rom the corner of her eye she notes the coarse, fine hairs that struggle free from his top button. She smiles, kissing him lightly. Her face tickles neck.

“Bec?”

Pat sets her aside. The tiny woman looks up, flashing fire at him, an offended cat.

“I got you a present”

“I don't want that kind of present.”

Her face feels cool now, her hands light and lonely. She steps back into his embrace and he cups her bottom through the various materials of her skirts.

“When did you get so damn trendy?”

“It's a new dress, is all. Do you like it?”

“I dunno, let me take it off and get a better look at it.”

Finally, Pat's mouth descends on hers in a kiss. 

want to hear more of this story? let me know...

Bursting at the biblioteca

At the library, we're sitting so close together I can feel his breath on my neck. I stare at a page of letters, grouped and typed in small neat rows. Already whole paragraphs of Times New Roman have become gibberish. His hand slides further up my thigh. My pussy anticipates his touch, a dull ache begins on my insides as desire starts to form. 

Our row of desks are nine flights above street level, facing the window. At night the view of blackness from these floor-to-ceiling glass panels reflects seriously studying students back onto themselves. Right now though, the sun is shining, corrugated campus roofs littered with air conditioning units look like over sized suitcases of 1960's space junk. The bricked path yawns away below us. 

Beside me, Jack licks his lips without looking up. One hand holds a pencil but he's not working on his notes anymore than I am. His fingers continue to trace a path up the smooth flesh of my thigh, working their way unhurriedly towards my skirt's hemline. It's summer, my legs are bare and I kicked off my Havanas half an hour ago. I can feel my own hands beginning to shake. A warm palm presses down on my skin. I glance across at him and he's staring at me. Behind us, the shuffle of shoes indicates we are not alone. Someone is making their way in and out of the shelving, searching. I turn my head.

A dark skinned man stops close by, he wears wire rimmed glasses and an expression of concentration. He searches on a top shelf, retrieves a book, leaves. Jack curls his fingers in between my legs. I'm lush, waiting. He pushes a finger into my slit and languidly strokes all the way upward, missing the nub of my clit. I ache, unfulfilled. He pushes two fingers into my sopping folds, past my lips, into my vagina. Once again he curls his digits, only this time they are inside me, searching. It works, I jerk forward, impaled on his probing hand. He rubs and thrusts.

It's delicious.

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?”

Hotness and tattoos

when real life gets in the way...

Brief photographic interlude, back soon x

Part Two: Rose's Makeshift Lover

Rose is relieved to be flying business class, leaning back in her seat with her eyes shut she hears the rustle of fellow travellers taking their seats around her. She tries to focus on the reason for her trip and the man she is to meet for the first time tomorrow. Derwisch is a dream, an idea concocted a few months ago, founded on conversations in cyberspace, first over the clamour of forum conversations and later by personal message.

Until recently he has been almost a complete mystery; then his offer. Based on Derwisch’s proposition, Rose assumes he is older than she, perhaps in his 50's. He wants a companion with whom he can travel, a privilege for which he is willing to pay.

It seems far too good to be true, he talks of Egypt, India, Canada and Mongolia, all the places she ever dreamt of as a child. They were offered now, by this man she barely knows, with strings of course. Rose intends to spend the next few days with Derwisch, testing the relationship's potential. If it all goes well, he has said he will arrange everything.

She curses herself quietly. Circumstances have transpired to make her unsure. Perhaps she will forget the sexy foreigner from the airport lounge. Luckily, she has no way of contacting him. Rose opens her eyes, perturbed. By her side, a woman arranges personal effects: a book, tissues, glasses and water. The cabin crew begins to close above-head lockers; in-flight TVs flicker and twitch. One hostess bends over Rose's chair, she smells of marigolds and fairy floss.

“I have been asked to give you this.”

It's a business card; she pats Rose's arm before she rises and moves off down the aisle. Rose glances at the crisp, white card.

Roman Aguilar

Business Intelligence Manager

Accenture AUS

M +61400 253 363

E. business.R.A.@accenture.com

Rose clasps and unclasps her hands in her lap to stem her elation. In-flight safety demonstrations commence. Derwisch, she tells herself. Rose sighs loudly. The woman at her side offers her a tissue. Rose shakes her head politely, remembering to breathe out slowly through her nose.

The flight lands in Auckland and Rose disembarks. She catches a cab to her hotel. Her room is tastefully appointed in muted blues and creams. It's also large. No beige, she thinks happily and kicks off her shoes. Rose runs a bath, wandering through the adjoining rooms. She steps out onto a balcony, amused to discover that Auckland isn't a pretty city.

A knock sounds at the door. She opens it hesitantly.

“It's ten past twelve.”

“It is Ma'am.” The teenage in hotel uniform bows his head, avoiding her eyes.

“A Graham Derwisch asks to see you?”

“Downstairs?”

“Yes Ma'am, he said he would wait. If it suits.”

“Oh.” Rose is flustered, tired.

“Tell him no. I want to stick to our arrangement.”

The teen looks quizzically at Rose.

“And why didn't you just place a call?”

“The gentleman asked me to come.”

Rose closes the door, she tries to re-establish her sense of calm. She wonders for the umpteenth time if it was a smart decision to come to Auckland. Finally, Rose sinks into her warm bath. She ducks her dark head under the water.

Half an hour later, feeling refreshed and relaxed, Rose orders a fruit and cheese platter and a bottle of crisp, white wine from room service. So much better she thinks, than the aeroplane or her empty flat across the sea.

A noise at the window catches her attention. A scrabbling, followed by a dull thud. Rose thinks to put on a sweater, hating the idea of being caught out in the dead of night, her pale breasts swinging freely beneath her cotton pajama top. 'I'm a prude' she thinks and then laughs, remembering sex and Roman at the airport, with relish.

“Shit” She whispers, alone.

The hair on the back of Rose's neck rises. Sounds of scuffle drift in from the balcony. Earlier, Rose set the door ajar, letting the fresh night air flow to her rooms. Right now it makes she feel foolish and shaky. Perhaps there is something to be said for locks and caution?

Rose takes a breath and turns on the terrace light. The decking illuminates and she can make out the cause of the noise. A man, his shirt torn and his shoes missing, gets up from where he has fallen. He limps and is missing a shoe. He holds up his hands in surrender.

“I'm Graham.” The man says softly, looking her in the eyes. “Graham Derwisch.”

Relief fuels Rose's reaction and she laughs, clasping her hand over her mouth to stifle her rude response. She hiccups. Her stranger rakes a practised hand over his chin and the start of a 5'o'clock shadow.

Rose's Delectable Diversion

Rose carries the unshakable conviction that her weekend is going to be a success. She skips Friday afternoon knock-off drinks with the office crowd in favour of starting her journey at 5pm. She heads out of the building, on a mission.

Everyone has moments of clarity: remembering for example, how trees are bigger than people (and make much more satisfying noises than people ever will); how clouds are always above us when it's light (it only pays to look up); that the best cure for malaise is a brisk walk, to clear the cobwebs.

This was not one of those moments.

This was a dried-biscuit-and-fireworks feeling in the pit of Rose's stomach. She flashes a grin at the doorman on her way out, surprising even Ralph with its wattage. He waves as she passes and goes back to his magazine. Sometimes it feels to Ralph like he lives and died by Rose's stunning smiles.

Rose catches a cab to the airport. She has an hour and a quarter before her flight. Briefly, she entertains the idea of a last minuting shopping spree to splurge on a sexy outfit. As quickly as she thinks of it, Rose dismisses the idea. It doesn't seem very smart to pretend to be someone she isn't. Rose purses her full lips and absently runs a hand through her hair. Her brown tresses fall past her shoulders, catching the sun through her fingers, turning her highlights to streaks of gold. Her eyes are hidden behind her sunglasses. The cab driver thinks Rose is staring with some fascination at the scenery, in actuality she's miles away, wondering what awaits her in Auckland.

Rose decided weeks ago that the first night was not the right time to meet up with him. After half a dozen hours in transit, late at night, she knows she will be feeling neither fresh, nor amazing. Rose wants their first meeting to be dazzling. A lover's first impression should never be dispassionate and she wants him to melt for her, this man she has only ever encountered by correspondence.

Rose sighs. As lasting impressions go, the first is always the most deadly. She has planned things so their meeting is tomorrow, at 3pm. It means she has the whole night ahead of her, one more long night to let her imagination run rampant. Behind her glasses, Rose closes her eyes.

At the airport Rose checks in and heads for the business lounge. She takes a salmon canapé and orders champagne. In the act of retrieving her novel from the depths of her pink handbag at her feet, Rose notices shoes parked on the carpet in front of her seat, shoes that connect to expensive trousers, encasing sturdy legs. She looks further up into azure blue eyes framed by dark brown hair. The overall effect is unsettling. She wonders if he has the slightest inkling as to how good- looking he is.

He grins, stepping back. Her stranger looks away, raking his hand through his hair in a time-honoured habit. No, thinks Rose, this man has no idea he is devastatingly handsome.

“Something I can help you with?”

“My English is not good.”

Rose bites back a sigh. His accent rolls and crests on the brittle English words. Italian? Spanish? His bedroom eyes explore her face. She can't resist the urge to thrust out her hand, by way of a greeting. Her new acquaintance takes it in his warm, much larger hand and persuades her to her feet. Once there, he towers over her, right before he leans down to kiss both of her cheeks, gently, by way of a greeting. Rose releases the sigh this time.

Happiness

In the abandoned building, amid the rubble, Abraham disrobes. His pale skin glows in the sun, his dark chest hairs protrude, accentuated by the shocking milkiness of his torso. He holds his hands high, grinning. Maggie unpacks their meagre picnic scrounged from a recent dumpster dive. She arranges the slices of stale fruit toast using a plastic bag as a plate. As Abraham proudly displays his junk she throws back her pretty head and laughs. The tinkling sound brightens the room.
 

“I stand before you as an unburdened man.”

“I can see that.”

“Now, I mean now I feel unburdened. You see...” He falters thoughtfully, admiring her. Her grin is at least ten years younger than she is. “What I wanted to do with my life is long passed. I have no wish to aim and not necessarily succeed. Doesn't the seething masses of mediocrity make this collective attempt on a daily basis?”

“I think it depends entirely on your perspective, you know. It's all about what you might have known. One man's hell could be another's measure of success. Like having a job, any job...”

“Philosophy be damned. I have resigned myself to the fact that I have all I need. I have you.”

“Oh thanks.”

“Perhaps I could have been more romantic?”
 

The expression on her face is a mixture of horror and amusement. Her grubby face is marked by years of barely scraping by. 

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I know we have nothing.”

Maggie pops a stale morsel into her mouth and softens it with her tongue. He goes on. 

“Less than nothing, Mon Amour. But I think we should marry, post haste and be done with this gritty world. I love you my dear, I'm not ashamed of it. We are both losers and yet we can make a go of it, don't you think?”

Maggie grins again, her teeth showing. Her eyes sparkle and she opens her mouth to speak. Her last remark, be it a happy response or a protest, remains unspoken. A shot rings out. It pierces the air. Abraham looked aghast as she crumples, slowly, wrongly and falls on an unfortunate angle, subjugated by gravity the way only a lifeless body can be. There is no cry of pain. Her pretty eyes dim and she fades, appallingly quickly. Her lips purse, as though holding back a thought. 
 

From the shadows a very beautiful woman in a black jacket and tight, black jeans steps forward. Her black hair falls past her shoulders. She lowers the pistol. 
 

“Abraham, Honey, you can't expect your past to stay silent. Not even you can suddenly chose to go straight.”

He is shaking.

“That girl.” He stammers. “She was a bloody good woman.”

“Oh I don't doubt it.”

“Better than you'll ever be!” He is distraught.

Anita mouths the phrase with him as he speaks. It infuriates him.

“We would have remained nameless! Flown under the radar! I wouldn't have spoken of you or the others to anyone. Couldn't you have let her go?”

“No of course not. Don't be silly, Abe. Your silence wouldn't have lasted forever, not if you loved her. Now help me drag her into the dumpster.”

“No. I hope you hang for this!”

“Keep your voice down. Besides, corporal punishment is no longer legal, Abraham. Now lift and drag her with me.”

“Shove it up your evil arse.”

“Well I would now, wouldn't I? But you won't let me play anymore.”

“Anita, you are an insufferable woman.”

“Abraham I have spent years perfecting the art.”

“My mistake, I thought you were hiding under a rock, attempting to grow feelings.”

“Your wit is about as exciting as your choice in new lovers. I know what they say, never get jealous when you see your ex with someone new, we were taught, after all, as children, to give our used toys to the less fortunate.”

“You must excuse me. I didn't realise that rock you were hiding under taught you only how to be more of an evil bitch.”

“Rocks aren't teachers. Life taught me.”

“Why did you kill her?”

“Your new toy?”

“Yeah. I think she's sweet, honest. You couldn't begin to understand.”

“Was, my dear.”

“Fuck You.”