Flash Fiction | Erotica
Torn
Swaddling Sex
There are a lot of writing prompts out there. This piece just came to me one afternoon and Wicked Wednesday #357 (March 2019) had ‘Tantrum’ as a prompt. So, I posted it.
“Listen, you cannot go on like this.” Peter is serious. I can hear it in his voice. It’s not that I like being like this. I hate myself for it. Every time it happens. But I’ve always been a bit out of control. As a matter of fact, it’s what drew him to me.
“Just breathe okay?” Peter’s yogi attempt to calm me down. I laugh. He shudders. It’s my high-pitched shriek. The one that often escapes me when I’m like this. ‘Sperm of the devil’ my mum used to say to me. Her failed impression of a Yogi. She’d know though. She fucked Beelzebub’s brains out.
Peter’s arms are embracing me now. Firmly. It’s not a gesture of his love for me, he’s swaddling. And he’s right. Love will not save me from this state. Love will tear us apart. So he swaddles me with his strong muscular arms and waits for a result. I resist of course. I shake my head and scream words in no particular order and with no sensible syntax. But he’s better at whist than me. I’m just this mess of raging emotions. I’ve got no tricks up my sleeve. I’m an open book.
“Fuck me.” I say it before I can even think it. But Yogi Peter remains silent and I cannot escape his firm grip. He’s a statue of Zen. Even his breathing is steady and doesn’t betray any adrenaline rushing through his veins. I’m high though. Tripping even. So I bite. “Fuck you.” Ah, so the statue does move. Or does he mean…? Shit. He didn’t get it. He thought it was self-hatred. So I expose my intention. “I meant ‘fuck me’ as in, put your cock inside me and make me forget how I feel right now.” I have managed to make the Yogi look at me as my Peter would. And should. “That’s new,” he says. “You know me,” I say. “Queen of self-re-invention.” I’ve made him smile. It’s what drew me to him. That fucking smile. Made me all girly-girly that night. And I hated him for it. “Don’t you dare use that smile on me again,” I said. And the fucker just did it again. Smile. I was done for. It was the end of that part of me. The end of Ziggy who ended up living with Peter and being called Muriel again. But now Muriel needs a good fuck to feel the ziggyness of her life again.
“Love will tear us apart, remember?” Peter says. He’s an expert of our experience. And it happens to be our song. That night he asked me if I thought Ian Curtis died out of self-hatred or just because he was a dumb addicted fuck. I looked at him in awe and thought that this was the best ‘no future’-come-on-line I’d ever heard. I kissed him hard, bit his lip and whispered my answer hoarsely in his ear: “ICB.” It was my version of a lover’s test. If he got the reference to the New Order-song I would fuck him and even stay the night. And I did because he smiled that evil smile again and said, “Pushing up the daisies.”
I open his fly and try to reach for his cock. But he doesn’t let me. He picks me up and drags me to the couch. He throws me down on it and I yelp as I hit the cushions. He shakes his head in disbelieve. But he knows. He should know.
It occurs to me that already the raging adrenaline has changed its course. No longer am I gripped by desperation. Lust has taken over and it pulsates happily through me. I pull my trousers down and once off, I kick them through the living room. Peter grabs my panties and I welcome the tearing sound of the delicate fabric. He pauses a moment to take in the view. I know what he sees: Ziggy’s here. He pulls me up by the legs and angles his ready cock towards the desired entrance. I’m still as flexible as I used to be. No limbs protest. The swaddling helped. I’m zen too now. I’m in the moment. We both know we need to be here. For now. Sure, it’s only for now. There’s no future. We knew that when we were still young. But I love to be torn apart by him. Again and again.
