Ian,
Bonnie's voice gets soft and desperate, vanishing to the back of her throat in the dim light of the room with the tv on a blank station.
"The thing is people know I'm a slut and no one would believe you're fucking me."
I put my hand over my forehead and stare at the ceiling.
"What do you care?" I ask her, and she nuzzles into my shoulder.
"I love your fucking shoulders," she admits to me, and I put my cigarette in her mouth to let her drag.
"I think about how like...other guys you fuck probably think they know shit about you."
There's a flurry of sound from outside our haven. She picks at the lint on my black t-shirt.
"What do you mean?"
"I like thinking about you with them. Sometimes I want to watch you and everything they don't really do for you."
"They do a lot," she says, her voice some kind of warning to me, like watch where you put your dick, Vincent, or, watch where I do.
"No, I know," I say. Sick of talking, I lean over her and get between her thighs, which grip my waist.
"What are you doing?" she asks me, her face smiling.
"Being sick of talking," I admit to her, and he snorts sarcastically.
"Please, when are YOU ever sick of talking?"
"Talking about THAT, then," I say, defensive, and kiss her mouth which kisses mine back in soft licks of her tongue. She moans and moves under me while I find places to touch her; squeeze her skin and mold her into some kind of existence.
"I want to suck your cock," she whines, and I roll onto my back and take my jeans off, while she snakes down my body and looks back up at me with her wide little girl eyes.
"Your cock is really pretty," she tells me, and I swallow hard back every thought from pouring out while she slips her lips over the head and pets the underside with her small tongue.
She goes slow almost like she's thinking about every sound I make when I make it, and I pull back her hair from her face and stroke her cheeks while her shoulders and neck move against my hips.
Forget it, is what my body thinks.
Forget it, forget this room, and this pile of tapes, and this milk crate, and this grit under my palms. Forget cold cement, forget woolen blankets, forget emergency candles, forget acoustical tile. Forget passing trucks, forget dirt in her hair, forget the fucking impermanency of every moment.
Forget her, forget her hair, forget how it feels on your stomach brushing softly while I fuck her mouth, forget all the posters she ever had on her bedroom walls. Forget every cock she ever sucked and how her parents didn't love her.
"I... I uh. Fuck. I'm pretty close," I tell her, and she moans low and happy at something like maybe her own expertise at getting me to cum this fast when almost fucking nothing else can.
My hands dart around her hair in a way she can't see and won't ever. Frantic, unsure where to put them without hurting her, I ball them into the blanket, into the length of her hair far from her scalp, into the hard edges of my teeth.
Forget it. Forget it, Vincent. Forget the broken light bulbs, the stain of ink on my hands, the smell of burnt metal in the room. Forget dusk and dawn and the times between, forget God, forget your name. Forget everything, but... how it feels... to escape... down her... throat.
I cum hard, holding my whole body still and pressing her mouth against me gently. I almost tell her to forget it, but I bite my tongue hard enough to bleed.
"Hold. Hold still. Like that," I remind her, and she does, unmoving, her eyes closed, like she's praying.
Love,
Annik.
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