He’s on her, thrusting and panting. She wants to make sounds and say dirty things like she has seen the girls in the x-rated videos do because she thinks he likes that. She wants to tell him to fuck her like she’s the last woman in earth. She wants to tell him to tug her hair and call her his slave. She wants to tell him to use her like his sex toy, rough and hard. She wants to tell him to ravish her like an animal while they do the doggy, the snail and the butterfly. She wants to tell him not to stop till her knuckles are white from clutching the sheets. She wants to tell him not to stop till her words are a jumble of vowels. Ooh, baby. That’s all she manages to blurt out and even that feels dirty.

Maybe she shouldn’t have signed up for this. Maybe it was a bad idea to try to solve a complex equation hurriedly. Maybe this would have been easier for her if the radio in the background wasn’t playing the soundtrack to her life.
And time goes by so slowly
And time can do so much
Are you still mine?

Truth is she’d rather jump straight to the afterglow and skip the in between. Truth is the guilt. Truth is the fading colors of every object in the house. Truth is being sorry for what happened. Truth is it is easier to forgive than forget. Truth is it is impossible to redo what is undone. Truth is worse than love.
Worry about the weather. Worry about being on time. Worry about your attire. Worry about how you look in your pictures. Worry about first impressions. Worry about unread messages. Those are the simple worries. She wants to spin time back to when those were her simple worries.


About fictionfuture

An experiment in minimalist fiction View all posts by fictionfuture

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