Histrionics

I want to delete my twitter account.

Two days ago I went through the steps of deleting everything but the tweets and content of the past year, but my finger hovered too long over the accept button and the moment was lost. Something made me think of all the history of the past four years, slivers of myself I probably can’t be bothered to seek out but remain there still, indelible for now. I lost my nerve.

Two weeks ago I suspended the account and this lasted seven days, or just over. You get a month to decide if you want to stay deleted, but can sign in again at any time, and everything will be back to normal. And I lasted a week.

When I came back I found I still didn’t want to communicate with people. I thought with time the feeling would shift again. Usually a few hours to recalibrate and you cringe at your overreaction.

Still waiting for the cringe.

Still waiting for it to feel normal again.

It should feel normal by now. Why doesn’t it feel normal?

I still wrote. I still write. The word vomit has to go somewhere.

When you go, do you signal it, or slip away into the night?

It feels polite to say that you are leaving but you’re happy, you’re fine, in case there are people who might worry or wonder after you. It also feels like showing off, fishing for admirers to fall on you and beg you to stay.

You don’t want to be asked to stay.

You don’t want to be asked to reconsider. You want to let go of the ties, rather than sever them. Watch the friendships float away peacefully like so many helium-filled balloons.

Maybe this persona has run its course.

Maybe

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When Worlds Collide

“Do you want to split a cheese plate?”
She cocked her eyebrow, wiping the remnants of bernaise sauce from her lips.
“Do you have a black hole in place of a stomach? I’m stuffed.”
“More wine then.” He topped up her glass and she shook her head.
“I already agreed to your terms, to your working methods, to everything. I’m in love with everything you do. You really don’t have to get me smashed to seal the deal.”

His eyes darted from the crumpled napkin on the table, to her fingers, idly fiddling with the top button on her dress. The flesh beneath her knuckles rose and yielded with every twist, until the button came loose and she stretched, exposing more of her succulent breasts and their peachy lace encasement.

When people talk about long games, they probably picture this tableau, the result of six months hard graft, on both sides. Six months of flirting that went from professional to questionable and back again. Ever since he’d caught wind of her looking for new representation, he’d wanted her for his portfolio, and would stop at nothing. And well, she was compliant. Eager. But reserved.

That he had been lost in a crush on her since the second month was almost secondary. And Colette encouraged it. Colette watched him take FaceTime calls with her and shivered at the tonal shift in his voice whenever Marianne spoke. The two women had never met, though they had spoken on the brief occasions Tom’s wife had picked up the work phone. Colette’s fluent familiarity with English slang under the rich veil of her German accent was unnerving and arousing.

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A Festive Frolic Part II

In 2016 I started writing a Christmas cuckold story (Read part I here) Part II has been a while in the making, but finally, it has appeared, and on time too.

O Come! All Ye (Un)Faithful…

The blue room was delightfully warm after the chilly hallway. Cynthia’s nightgown was laid across the bedspread, engulfing Edgar’s pyjamas, and Matthew noted how it was not dissimilar to the clinging, slippery gown she wore now.

“How silly I was, complaining of the cold. Now I find I am frightfully hot. Perhaps if I took a little air….” She stepped to the window, her backside shuddering back and forth, and Matthew watched her breath cloud the pane before her mouth, blooming and breaking with exhalation.

After a minute or two she sighed.

“No, I am still quite overheated. Matthew, would you be a dear and unbutton my gown? Perhaps if a little more of my skin felt the cool chill of the Christmas air, I may be able to think more clearly.”

Here it was, his cue. His permission to lay his hands on the most beautiful woman he had ever cast his eye over.
Matthew fumbled uselessly with the buttons for a few moments, making no progress, and Cynthia flinched each time his knuckles brushed the smooth skin of her back.

“Matthew.” She said in a low voice, tinged with impatience. He swallowed.

“Yes?”
“Nothing is amiss here. Take my hand.”
He laid his fingers over hers on the sill, and breathed deeply, nostrils flaring at the apricot scent of her.

They stood in silence for a short while, the steady clock and their breathing only punctuated by the pop of coals in the fire. He moved closer to her and kissed her bare shoulder, catching the reflection of her smile in the frosted windowpane.

“Still burning, I see.” he muttered. Cynthia ducked her head in agreement, expecting him to make her raise her arms so he could take the dress from her, but instead he placed his hands on her hips, a trifle firmer than she’d anticipated, and began to gather the dress upwards. He hid his surprise that she was naked beneath it well, choosing to luxuriate in her curves and beauty; but he held her more tightly, so she was acutely aware of the stiff urgency of his cock.

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The Model (Kraftwerk)

I hated him.

Sucked his cock.

Hated him.

Slapped him in playful fury and laughed at the wide red mark on his preternaturally reddened face. Kissed him with angry passion backed up against the flimsy chipboard walls of my flat and wanted to bruise him. Every week, I fucked him with bile in my stomach and poison on my lips.

“You can make plaster casts of cocks. A vibrator made of your best feature. Something to remember you by.”

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