Bed springs squeaking rhythmically, metal supports groaning with the shifting weight, headboard pounding against the wall in a violent tattoo, and her cries echoing through the room, as lustful, carnal slapping of flesh on flesh offers the back-beat to their sensual song. He stands in the doorway, eyes gazing inward staring at the empty bed, neatly made, sunlight of a fading afternoon spilling in from a west facing window. Light diluted by lace curtains, throwing patterns of vague shadow flowers upon the floor, already starting to stretch and distort with the sun's descent. The house is empty except for him, but he can still hear it, he can hear HIM fucking HER. And despite the fragrance of lilacs and roses and other unnamed "pretty" things wafting in the room, he can smell the stink of THEIR sex. Or at least imagines that he can.
The bed mocks him from its position centered in the room, her sheets and coverlet, a soft pastel purple and blue, the feigned innocence of the color scheme not hiding the stains of her betrayal. Not to his eyes; the bed where they'd made love together, where they'd spent nights cuddled close against the chill, seeking comfort in the presence of another body, waking in the mornings and sharing soft whispers that tickle along the skin and delay the onset of the day. No longer a haven of their intimate secrets shared, but a laughing joke, a pretense all along to offer "safety" and drag it away abruptly with the stains of another man's cum upon the bedspread. Rounded square mattress a stranger's bed; NOT somewhere he use to sleep with her, but now THEIR bed, the one she's shared with HIM, letting HIM take her to those glorious heights and physical heavens that he thought only he could send her to. . . She'd made him believe.
Glancing once more around her bedroom he turns and leaves, the echoing sounds of erotica following him as he walks down the hallway. The couch in the living room looms, a monstrosity of light brown corduroy, not the friendly furniture offering comfort but a cushioned menace filled with malicious intent. The television across from it, it's face gray and dead, throws shadows upon the room in it's reflective surface, everything sort of dim and distorted, objects and things half-seen moving from when they were glanced in the present room.
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Staring at these things, he remembers. . . Sitting, snuggled close, faces illuminated by flickering light, the rest of the room cast in darkness around them. Only this world that existed before their eyes, the true world, their present, their fantasy. Sometimes laughter spilling forth, sometimes bones shaking in fright, her face averted and buried in his shoulder to find solace in his presence, sometimes tears raining when the fiction dies with it's beautiful tragedy. The simplicity of that life shared, each moment a separate lifetime encapsulated perfectly when the credits roll at beginning and end.
Moments so flimsy to base one's affections on, a shared understanding through another person's stories told from the point of view of somebody else. Of course she "got it". Of course she saw the meanings and hidden things clearly. All of it, every moment, was just about her ability to appreciate the arts like he did. Nothing more. Nothing less. And he was a fool to think otherwise, that somehow her laughter and nodding her head at all the right parts meant she knew him, when the performances themselves. .
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. had very little to do with him at all, except that.
. . he liked them too.
Turning away, moving wraith-like through the house as the sounds that had originated above plague him from room to room, loud as if those events, that smell, existed down here too. Visions of THEM in the kitchen, HIM fucking her against the counter tops, pulling her curly brown hair, silken locks netted in HIS hands and arching her back so elegantly, her voice bubbling forth from her graceful throat, singing in ecstasy for HIM. Her back against the shining wood of the dinner table in the dining room, her legs spread wide and flexing with every pounding thrust HE slammed into her, making those special, soft, plaintive, pretty noises she makes when she's being hit in the right spot inside, like begging without the words, HIS cock nuzzling that button of delight inside her.
Chased through the entire ground floor, haunted by these visions of THEM together, finally he comes to the entryway, the front door offering solace and all he can think is "I need to get out of here!" Hand pausing, hovering over the doorknob as the golden orb twitches, limb retreating back to his side as the sounds of inner mechanics popping and clicking loudly resound against the walls in the hallway. Door pushed open as he steps back to allow admittance, standing upright as he faces the intruder and despite it being exactly who he expected to see, he is still shocked.
Waltzing past the threshold, her dark orange winter's jacket hugging her form snugly, curves emphasized by the cut of the fabric, even through the layers of cloth. Cheeks slightly reddened from being out in the chill, nose pink and hair loose and wavy, wind tossed and strands falling over shoulders loosely. She blinks as she enters, instantly seeing him, pulling the door out just enough for her to step inside and closing it promptly behind herself. After the initial surprise, there is a smile, warm and bright, her eyes lighting up when she sees him. Stepping forward, she starts to unzip her coat as she speaks, coming forward to embrace him, the chill on her jacket carried from outside, filling his bones as her arms hold him close.
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"Hey there," she says cheerfully. "I didn't expect to see you here. " And she steps back, her smile faltering as she realizes he made no move to hold her and still hasn't spoken a word.
There is something about the lilt of her voice, sort of breathless from the cold outside, that mixes perfectly with the gasping moans he hears in his head and an irrational thought blooms within his mind as her real voice mixes with the phantom erotic song: She's fucking HIM right now! The visions playing out in front of his eyes meld with her standing before him now: cheeks reddened with the chill from outside suddenly became reddened from an internal heat building; nose pink from cold, signaled the nearing of orgasm; hair disheveled and curls coming undone, no longer wind swept but knocked loose by passion; breathless and panting in desire. . .
"Matt?"
The sounds of erotic moans echoing in his head and her voice questioning him are both silenced abruptly by flesh meeting flesh, the harsh slap seeming to reverberate through him as it echoes in the entryway hall. And she staggers backwards from the force of the blow, holding her face, a shocked and shaky gasp leaving her lips as she does.
"Wha--?" confusion fills her beautiful, emerald green eyes as she looks at him, already shining wetly, her brows wrinkling her forehead with concern and bewilderment. But then he is there, slamming her into the door, body pressed against her holding her in place, as his hand grasps her face, fingers and thumb digging into cheeks. Her arms come up and she pushes at him, body squirming beneath the solid wall of his form, feet kicking and voice whimpering out panicked sobs.
"Please!" voice shrieking out, fear drenching the word and filling his body with a chill. "Let me go! What is going on??? Let me go!!!" And those sounds of lust slowly creep into the caverns of his skull again, as she screams. With a thunderous growl, he pulls back, pulling her with him by her face, pivoting, holding her body, so their positions are reversed before letting go. Her body sways as she tries to catch her balance, breath coming in gasps and giving him a wide eyed worrisome look that only has time to register the next blow before it meets it's target.
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His fist, like a wrecking ball, swings out, knuckles meeting a high cheek bone with enough force to make her spin on her feet like a dancer, feet tangling in themselves before gravity swallows her.
His knuckles burn with the feeling of that impact, adrenaline rushing in his veins as he watches her collapse to the ground, barely catching herself on weak arms. She's dazed and it's like she moves through water, turning to look back up at him, half supported on an arm in her prone position. Her jacket, burnt orange nylon hanging off one shoulder and gaping open in the front, exposing her revealing blouse underneath. Waves of curly brown hair, disheveled and tossed hangs over one side of her face, obscuring one eye and a bright red ribbon of liquid streams from her nose. He knew he should be alarmed about the blood, but all it did was excite him, causing his cock to jerk with life in his trousers.
Why? Mouth hanging open, bottom lip trembling, she tries to find her voice to ask the question, but nothing comes out before he's swooping down upon her. A hand delves into her hair, fingers snaking deep, curls tangling to trap them, netting them to her scalp, even as they flex and grab ahold. With the force of his momentum, he shoves her face down into the ground, the black and white mosaic tile pattern lurching beneath her body, rising up to meet her face in an abrupt and crushing kiss. Over top of her, his other hand fumbles at his trousers, as her shoulders shudder with whimpering sobs. With a flick of his wrist and a sharp tug he's released from the confines of his fabric prison, his hardened flesh springing forth, hot and throbbing in the chill air.
The hand not restraining her drifts down to her thighs where her skirt, a soft, gentle floral pattern with slightly frilled hem, bunches above her knees from her awkward fall. Fingers, twitching and greedy, snake up under the cloth and immediately she begins to struggle in his hold, kicking her legs vainly beneath his weight pressing down on her, her voice drifting out with plaintive pleas.
"Pleas. .
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. no-no. . . !" supplication broken in two by a gasping sob as his hand in her hair jerks roughly, pressing her more firmly into the floor, stilling her vigorous movements.
Her arms move weakly upon the ground, fingernails clawing at tile as his hand, harshly pawing, wrenches her skirt above her ass, fingers probing to move panties aside for him. Shoving himself inside her tight pussy, he groans aloud, filling her snugly, her folds splitting at his invasion and her body quivering with revulsion. And he thrusts wildly, panting through the haze of madness that clouds his mind, like a beast fucking her, blind to anything but the desire to rut. Groin meets her buttocks in a violent, meaty beat as he pounds away and hitches his hips to thrust deeper into her body. Her back arches then and she cries out, finding some strength in the new pain to lift herself with arms underneath herself. If she could just lift up enough, she might be able to crawl forward and knock him off. . . but for the hand that fists in her brunette locks.
And the struggles only invigorate his efforts, her cries of pain folding over in his mind to mix with the phantom orgasms that float through his brain, only audible to him.
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And again the irrationality kicks in and the anger surges with it. Fist clenching in curls, his arm tenses as he pulls her head back arching her back beautifully. . . before smashing her face down into the floor tiles. Her cries cut off abruptly and a wheeze bubbles up from her throat, slightly wet and gurgling as blood gushes down her face from a shattered nose. And her struggles slow, her hands clenching frantically, body shaking and eyes wide in their sockets. He pulls her face up from the ground again, her throat convulsing as she swallows spasmodically, a fountain of blood streaming down her esophagus, before her face is once more forced to the ground with violent force. And again. And again. Until there is nothing left in her struggles, eyes rolling up in her head as her face hits the floor one more time with a resounding crack.
Thrusting until his blood boils and rushes through his veins, he finally reaches the end, body jerking stiffly as he buries his cock deep inside her limp body letting loose his seed. Spurt after spurt of creamy cum fills her pussy, as his body quivers with the waves of pleasure, sweeping him away and soothing his wrath. Loosening his hold on her hair, he stands, staring down at her, as the halo of scarlet deepens and grows around her head, filling the black and white tiles with an ocean of red death. Eyes, blank and dull, shining on the outside but not inside, stare out through strands of strung out curls, like a prisoner looking out from a cage.
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And her body, posed haphazardly, twisted at odd angles, buttocks slightly upraised and pussy leaking his fluids, still bared from the raised curtain of her garments, makes a strangely erotic and morbid picture.
Panting and catching his breath, he stands silently, empty, in more ways than one, satisfied in an odd way, having fed himself upon her body and pain, fed his soul from the spilling of her blood and taking of her life. But it's not much of a reward, left now with the knowledge of what he'd done, based on only the thoughts in his head, the imaginings of his twisted mind, having no proof of her infidelity but now having lost her forever. . .
And he can still hear them fucking.
The End.
