The girl wakes slowly, unfiltered morning light streaming in through the open sash window, fine white Egyptian cotton against her slender, naked body. Kicks the covers away to let the morning sun warm her soft pale skin, the borrowed heat of the summer spreading across her slender stomach, the trimmed little V of her sex.
Stretches. Feline. Scratches under her small, pale young breasts, flirts lazily with consciousness. Sits up slowly, head throbbing lightly, the after image of the night before still processing somewhere behind her eyes.
She is alone in the spacious, airy, plainly finished room. Bare walls, white washed. Clothes rail, bookshelf, huge cast iron bed. Not hers. Nobody in the hall at the edge of her line of sight. She watches the dust motes dance around the dappled light, turned blood red by the thick stained glass of a heavy Victorian front door.
The door that somewhere before thinking she knows is locked.
She hears the sound of a shower running down the hall.
Walking into the kitchen, she notices that the woman has woken earlier and has cleaned up. The coffee maker is on, phutting phutting as the last few drops drip into the pot and fill the kitchen with their aroma. A dishwasher, hidden somewhere behind a panel, hums with quietly expensive domestic precision. And a shiny silver dog bowl sits washed up and drying on the drainer. The silver dog bowl from which, leashed, collared and on all fours on the walnut floor of the kitchen, she had lapped at vintage Krug the night before, remembers that deep, husky Essex register: ”Dirty girl. Say thank you. And look at me”.
12 hours earlier? A lifetime ago? One simple, careless moment ago? She had rung the bell the other side of that door, entered the hallway, immediately, wordlessly stripped naked and fallen to her knees. Looked up into the redhead’s eyes, the colour of blue flame as the old, soft, battered collar was clipped to her neck. Felt the hot breath on her ear as the redhead whispered, husky, breathless, quiet so she had to listen, “And now we play, babe. Actual reality”. Thick Jack Daniels vowels lingering as she flicked her tongue gently across the back of the girl’s ear.
And now, standing in the kitchen, the girl is suddenly aware of her own nakedness, of her inner thighs tacky with her own dried juices, the night returning in scraps and fragments of recollected shame and desire. The image of herself, face in the pillows, ass high in the air, squirming onto the redhead’s long, twisting fingers as she gushes, the woman choosing that exact moment to throw a £20 note onto the pillow just in front of her and lean in to whisper “Cum for me, dirty girl” as her thumb edges across the girl’s perineum. The girl catches her reflection in the granite splashback. Her face a mess of run mascara and smudged lipstick, sticky and musky from a few hours before.
Isn’t all beauty the more precious for its degradation?
Looking at herself, she recalls the violent explosion of the woman’s orgasm, spilling from her mouth, gushing onto her face, stinging into her eyes as the redhead with legs wide, back arched, bucking and spasms and hot wetness. Pictures herself pinned to the bed, straddled by the lightly muscled, athletic body of her – her what? Lover, teacher, one night stand? What did the woman say before exhaustion and intoxication took them both, “Don’t even think about leaving, babe”? Tormentor, then? Captor? Heart beats a little faster then, muscles tighten, the taste of the woman’s sex is still in her mouth and on her lips, the scent still on her fingers.
The girl hears the woman coming down the hall, the fresh smell of soap and almond shampoo in sharp contrast to the stale musk of last nights sex on her slender young body.
The redhead enters the kitchen, fresh white knickers and towel rubbing through her hair, and smiles.
“Copyright Liza Iceghost 2012. The author asserts their rights etc etc blah blah so dont fwm”
