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I hear the sound of a slamming door and look up to what is, by now, becoming a familiar sight: him, sputtering with half-masked fury, storming out the door and down the steps to the car. He gets in and fires up the ignition, tires screeching as he peels out in a rage. You two sure seem to fight a lot. I stand up from my post the bench across the street from your house and pad quietly through the gate, up the stairs to your door. The screen was left open. I wonder if he remembered to snap the lock on the door when he stormed out. Only one way to find out. I gingerly grasp the doorknob and give it a gentle turn it opens. I hear the strains of angry music coming from your bedroom as I enter the house and silently shut the door behind me, carefully snapping the deadbolt after. I'm not so careless as he is. You'll. I take a ragged breath and listen: the music blaring louder as you turn up the volume knob, the faint squeak of old bedsprings as you sit yourself down to mutter along with the vocalist. I take another breath, this time less ragged. The sour smell of bourbon and tobacco smoke assaults my nostrils. So. It was a drunken row. I'm not surprised. One more deep breath this one smooth as silk and, clenching my fists, I stride purposefully through the darkness toward the light streaming out of your bedroom door. It's ajar. I kick it open and you perched on the edge of your bed, dressed in nothing but a pair of black panties, dark hair falling over your back. Your head snaps around, and your face goes from bitter anger to surprise to fear in the span of a second. You roll across the bed, reaching desperately for the drawer of the dresser on the other side of the bed, missing the in your terrified stupor and I'm on top of you, straddling your hips and ass with my legs as I twist your arm behind your back with one and hand shove your face into the blankets with the other, muffling your screams of protest and pain. I tell you to be quiet. That it doesn't have to hurt. That I'll let you breathe if you can be a good girl. You don't listen, at first. Your body is tense and and your legs make a pathetic attempt to kick and flail about. I pull harder on your arm, wrenching your shoulder. Another muffled wail and you stop resisting. cowboy seeking his cowgirla hedge a turn a bench a fountain … a thought that pulls my attention away from the awareness of my surroundings. a realization: i’m lost and alone in a strange place. i sigh. the quiet pierces the night, and i am quickly keen to the reality that there are no longer sounds of a party me. just the crackle of newborn stars, and a faint flutter of cricket wings attempting one last lonely note. i slow my gait, perk my ears and listen as the leaves crunch under my footstep. then i stop. i listen. the quiet grows louder, my heartbeat thumps harder, the wind skips across the thin fabric of my dress and my nipples straighten and shrivel, involuntarily. Your “hello” thunders through the night air and my breath is sucked from my quivering chest. I spin to meet you face to face, but it is such a foggy night, that all I can make of you is a shadowy, dark and forbidding figure. I’m at a loss for words, (a rarity for me,) and You laugh at having caught me off guard. “it’s rude not to reply to a greeting.” You chastise me. I stammer, “I, uh, I’m sorry …” I peer into the night, trying to pretend as though I don’t know it is You. “um, do I know you?” I know I do. I’m no good at fibbing. You step out of the shadows and stand as close as you can without touching me. “Do you know me – ha! Cheeky, little slut.” You’re amused at my response. You press your warm lips against my cheek, and coo into my ear-hole as you grip my hair tightly in your strong hand. “You’d better fucking know who I am, darling whore.” Then you wrench my head back, and pull the top of my dress to the side, exposing my supple tit, just there for Your taking. I gasp in shock and make no move to protest. I your forcefulness, I your command over my body … just a grunt, a sigh, a tug and I involuntarily react. You shove two thick fingers into my fiery cunt, piercing through the thin fabric of my fishnet stockings – not caring that You’ve ruined them. Your tongue dances around my ear lobe, teasing me into submission. I melt in your arms, i’m yours. dating agencies
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