AislingWeaver, Erotica

#WankWednesday :: #Tide

I thought my offering for today was a poem, but another idea wandered ’round to tickle my muse.  So here is another offering for Ruby Kiddell’s(@eroticnotebook) #wankwednesday challenge.




He paused at the door, looked back at his lover’s spread, spent, used body.  How many times had he traveled the creaking stairs to this corner apartment?  He’d long ago lost count.

No, that’s not quite right.  He stopped counting when he stopped trying to divine her allure.

“What?”  He heard the coldness creeping back into his voice and twitched the cuffs of his shirt.  He’d stop by the pub on the way home, as always.  Linger and let the smell of grease and beer and smoke leech the scent of sex from his skin and clothes.

“One more.  Please.  Just…one more, to tide me over.”

His cock twitched, a faint, far off wish given a pulse behind his flat-waisted dress slacks.

“No.”  The fact that they’d spoken more words in this brief exchange warred with his confusion at her plea.  He took what he wanted, she accepted what he gave, then he returned to his cavernous, deserted flat.  A flash of daydream sparked across his vision.  His teeth ground together hard enough to spear pain into his jaw and chase off the vision of her carefully battered body displayed against his minimalist decor.  He didn’t want to think about what a perfect juxtaposition that would be.

She drew a ragged breath and curled onto her side in his peripheral vision.  That tiny sound slithered through his carefully constructed facade like snakes in a rock pile.

“Why?”  You fool, why’d you ask that? The dark angry monster that ruled his cock railed at him.  Still he turned and met her bloodshot gaze.  He could have framed her pillowcase; smeared mascara turned into a Rorschach test.  He saw butterflies and birds and a smear of blood on a wall in a dark dark night.  He batted that memory away.  His eyes tracked a path over her, touching bruises and red marks, each blooming with recollection behind his eyes, dark anemones of pleasure and pain.

“It felt too much like goodbye,” she whispered. Her eyes pulled at him, tugged at their unspoken bond, begged him to acknowledge it.  Her.  Them.  Four years.  Six months. Weekly visits to excise her demons and his.

His stomach lurched.

He had tried to say goodbye.

Had made certain she came over and over, by her hand and his, his tongue and his cock, until she hung limp in his grip.

“It was,” he whispered.  He stepped out the door.

He’d be back.  He never could get enough, could never completely sate the hungry monster that fed on her tears.  They could only tide him over for so long.




6 thoughts on “#WankWednesday :: #Tide

  1. Funny how you win by losing sometimes, isn’t it? Puts goosebumps all over me, thinking about that. I love pieces that put ideas like that in my head… Thank you.

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