Monthly Archives: June 2011

after party

The door flies open with a sharp bang and he fumbles trying to throw his keys in their bowl on the table. He keeps losing control of his hands. One is glued somewhere between the small of her back and the peak of her bottom’s curve; the other runs from hair to neck to around her waist, never settling or satisfied but begging more more more. Her legs are latched tight around his waist — the muscles of her thighs like steel in their grip — and her arms and hands add unnecessary stability on his neck and in his hair.

Her mouth has not left his in twenty minutes.

He stumbles down the hallway, swaying like a drunk from lust and her added weight, until he finds the door to his room. The knob slips out of his sweaty hands and he pushes her against the door for better purchase. Her noise is terrific as white teeth sink into his bottom lip. He feels a flare at the end of his spine and grinds into her. A distant thought floats through the back of his mind, wondering if the splinters of his old door are hurting her. She doesn’t seem to mind. His tongue seeks the depths of her mouth as other parts of him cannot, but long to. His hand slides further down and wanders up her dress. She pulls away and finds his gaze with wide eyes.

‘Bed. Now.’ He can’t help but chuckle as he finds the knob once more.

They tumble into the room; mouths still locked together, her small hands fumbling with his buttons as he searches for the zipper of her dress. She yanks off his vest, flinging it toward his desk without much consideration as he bends to take off his shoes. She plops onto the bed to do the same, tugging her hair from its bun and grinning at his prone figure. His returned smile is predatory as he disposes his socks and climbs up the bed, pushing her onto her back and burying his face beneath her dress.

‘Oh my god! Jesus, Scott…’ His triumphant laugh sends shivers up her spine and she falls back in pleasure. ‘God, Scott, you’re too good at that.’ He nuzzles the crook of her leg and she tugs up her dress to knot her fingers in his hair.

Her hips roll wantonly with his attentions, rising to meet his tongue with its every move. Her hand pulls his face closer, closer, demanding more from him, deeper pleasure, a vibrant connection.

‘God, Addie!’ He can almost feel her smile, even down here. Her hand smoothes his hair, touches his ear as he regains his composure, then grips him harder than ever. He laps up her moaning, delighting in its increase when he ducks his head slightly or presses just a bit more with his tongue. Her body is taut, tense like a spring, awake and alive to his every action and on the brink. He’s drowning in her smell: soft perfume and summer air, salt and sweat; lavishing in her taste and the warm wetness of her skin. If she asked him to, he would be happy to never move from this point. He is content with the odd posture and the remaining clothes. But he is no stranger to her ways: there will be more soon. So much more.

‘Scott…’ Her voice — pleading — pulls him back from his fantasies, her fingers tug again on his hair. ‘Scott…?’ He runs his tongue along her labia, feels her shudder again and can’t help but grin. ‘Scott, I…’

‘What, Addie?’ Her smell, her taste. ‘Tell me, please.’

She pulls him up suddenly, searching his face, eyes lingering on his mouth. She kisses him, tastes herself on his tongue and moans. Then she pulls back, rubbing her cheek on his, her voice too hot, too low in his ear.

‘I want you inside of me.’

He battles the tangle of buttons and sleeves, struggling as she fights with his fly and belt. He rips off his undershirt, his boxers, kissing her roughly until he tears her dress over her head, returning as he unclasps her bra. Her skin against his, her warmth, soft hands upon his bare back. Hot wet against his straining cock. His words incomprehensible as he buries his face in her neck and his desire between her thighs. She gasps and her muscles grasp tight tight around him. ‘Scott- Scott!’ The consonants too rough on her parched lips. He rubs his lips along her collar, his stubble on her cheek.

‘You can call me Scotty. If you want.’

‘Scotty…’ Like a prayer. Like the sweetest song. ‘Scotty…’ And she envelops him.

His mind begins to wander, but never far from this bed and this moment. He thinks of the tight clamp of her legs around his waist mirroring lower muscles. He thinks of her dancing at the party, her spins and twists unrehearsed, wild, free. Mostly goofy. He thinks of being here, in this bed, alone tomorrow, his visitor long gone home. He knows that her scent, however, will linger long after he has washed his sheets, how that scent will bring about questions from any other visitors he might have. Part of him wonders if she plans for that to happen. Part of him knows that she definitely does.

Their murmurs are never soft nor indistinct. They compliment freely. They wonder at one another’s abilities, laugh at the response. There is an ease to this dance, but an urgent hunger: a knotting of sheets, a pleading, an overwhelming desire crying for more, again, stronger, there–

‘There!’ She keens at his cry and clenches harder, desperate for his body, his warmth.

‘There, Scotty?’ He tilts his hips just so and she shouts. His lips are on her neck.

There…’

‘Scotty–’ She hitches up her legs. Her mouth finds his ear. ‘Scotty,’ she whispers, ‘I want you to come inside of me.’

He swears. His stomach burns pleasantly and he can feel his body following her command. ‘Yes, Addie!’ Her legs tighten impossibly; her heel digs into the small of his back. ‘God, Addie, yes!’

Thick wet bursting inside of her, his body tensing, voice gasping — it’s all too much. She shouts and presses her face to the crook of his neck, blunt fingernails scratching and scrabbling his back. Her muscles dance around him, clenching wildly, pulling the last of his climax from him by force.

‘God, Addie…’ She kisses his temple, smoothes his back. ‘Fuck me.’ She gives him a warm, throaty laugh. His lips meet hers.

She will miss her flight the next morning. And neither of them will seem to care.

June 2011

© Charlie Pevensie

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Filed under literotica, short stories

first night with

He has the softest hair I have ever felt in my entire life: like down and puppy fur and clouds and I swear this sounded sensible in my head and so damn literary right up until the point where he kissed me and then I lost the plot a bit. …A lot. I can feel my fingers tearing at his roots but they’re strong and they hold and I’m so glad because it really is wonderful hair. The stereo is blaring acoustic guitar and concert strings, something light and ethereal, something we can sort of dance to: hips swaying as our hands roam. He’s suddenly so tall and I have to stand on my toes to reach him. I’ve never felt something this passionate: mouths pressed so hard together our teeth crash and it might hurt if I cared but I don’t right now, I just don’t. The ardour hasn’t died once since this started, since he pulled me towards him with mischief in his eyes, and we’re christening every nook of his flat with this wonderful, wild fury. But I’m not in love with him, I think. Is this wrong of me? Is this cruel? But his eyes are this wonderful colour I’ve never seen before and he wants something to happen and I do too! That can’t be wrong, can it? And it feels so nice to have that want, have someone look into you and undress you with their eyes. I’m laying on the floor spread-eagled for him and I damn well know it. Writers.

I’m not a whore! Don’t think that: I’m not! It’s not that I go and find blokes in bars to fuck and leave; I’ve thought about this! I’ve thought about him. And maybe that’s what’s sealing the deal or maybe it’s his eyes, but this isn’t a habit for me. It’s not. It’s just not. He just feels so good, so solid and real, and I’m feeling real for once, too. He keeps pulling me back to smile at me, looking devious and joyful, and that smile is infectious and wonderful and I’m being reckless, I know I am, but I haven’t felt this free in a very, very long time. I’ve missed recklessness. I’ve missed the rush.

His fingernails scrape hard along my exposed arms, setting the hairs on the back of my neck on end. Something crawls up from low in my belly and rumbles past my lips. He captures it with his tongue and laughs. It’s lovely and soft, just like his hair–and then my fingers are locked into that again and life becomes a blur, a haze of significant caresses and crushing mouths. ‘You have beautiful eyes,’ I say, and he does. Beautiful eyes, smile, arms, lips. He’s a beautiful man and I’m flattered when he returns the sentiment, even if I don’t think it’s true. But he’s looking so far into them, I’m sure he can see my soul and maybe that’s what he’s saying is beautiful, I don’t know. I’m not sure I believe that either. But then we’re curled up on his couch and he’s over me and I think I could believe anything right now if he told me it was true. ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ I say and he looks at me with fear. I think he thinks I’m kidding and I’m not sure if I am, he just feels so solid: so warm and real. And I feel real, too!

For once.

He feels so good and I want to feel more, live out this dream if that’s what it is, and wake up tomorrow, sated and spent and wondering if this ever happened at all, if it’s just a dream. Or something more. I hope it’s not a dream. I hope he understands. But then he’s pulling me up his ladder, into his loft, and his mouth is on mine, hands tugging at my clothes. I love the sounds he’s making. He smells like summer rain. Is this wrong, I wonder, is this wrong of me? ‘You have beautiful eyes,’ I tell him: beautiful eyes and beautiful hands. His mouth is on my lips and I’m dizzy from the heat, hands roaming, nails scraping; it’s all very surreal but it’s not. This is something my mother warned me about: dark men who could draw me home with them to have their wicked way. She never mentioned how wonderful it could be, how sometimes a stranger is really a friend. How one can look in someone’s eyes and know, suddenly, the rest of one’s life.

The music swells and so does he: I can feel his heartbeat on my collar and it’s making me shiver inside. Our mouths are growing frantic and sloppy and I’m starting to forget everything: who I am and where we are and all that really matters is that I’m here and so is he. I can feel myself questioning this still and wondering and then he’s inside me and I’m fine it’s fine it’s more than fine it’s summer rain and old movies and Christmas day back when Christmas meant something, back before Da was called evil and Mum lost her mind. He smiles like sunrise and pushes back my hair. I love him, I think–why am I thinking that? I don’t! Do I? But I could. I know I could if I wanted to, if I was ready if it was right. And that scares me a bit. That scares me a lot.

I’ve never felt beautiful in my skin. I’ve never felt beautiful like this: sweating and wheezing, it’s all strange noises and stranger smells, wondering if I look as ridiculous as I feel or if this really is what I’m made for. What God intended for me to be. The way my heart is telling me I’m supposed to be. I’ve never felt beautiful before. But folded up on his bed, looking up into his eyes–so clear and calm and certain–it’s the closest I think I’ll ever get.

This sounded sensible once. Right up to the part where you kissed me. Then I lost the plot a little. I lost the plot a lot.

June 2007

© Charlie Pevensie

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{can’t stop thinking about last night}

just a little fluff that came to me at work today. no idea why. –c.p.

can’t stop thinking about last night:
your voice
dark
strained
husky
on the end of the line
whispered promises
moans
sighs
heartfelt
unhurried
Perfection
just now
just this moment
just with you
and tomorrow doesn’t matter
and before is nothing much
here together
miles apart
feel your hot breath
against my cheek
your hand
on my neck
your body
warm
solid
abovearoundinside me
clenching
stomach
frantic
goosebumps
fills my mind
captures me

June 2011

© Charlie Pevensie

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Filed under literotica, poetry

in praise of normalacy

I want to know what it is that makes a person exceptional.  There has to be something, some sort of formula or an equation I can’t master, which makes someone worth fighting for.  I see people —  Okay.  I see women.  Women who are ‘attained’.  They sit on their pedestal, up there with the roses and diamond rings I keep hearing I should want, and I find myself wondering: why her instead of me?  If I wore my hair down and listened to Elvis Presley instead of Elvis Costello, would that do the trick?  If I traded my roughed-up trainers for a pair of high-high heels, put down the Sylvia Plath and picked up the Cosmopolitan; if I took the effort to cover up my masticated cuticles, my ever-dwindling acne, the cock-eyed bend from busting my nose so often it finally quick growing straight, would that put me in a position where I was wanted?  Would that cross me over to the other side, the side of the Woman Who Must Be Won?  Would I, too, be sporting a ring people secretly think is ugly and planning a wedding that will indebt me for life?

This isn’t about her.  Really.  I know it’s not serious, at least not yet.  It’s just a few dates and a couple of laughs.  Still, she makes perfect sense to me.  She’s light years beyond me.  We belong to different galaxies in universes that never would’ve met if we didn’t happen to share a star.  (That’s you.)  She’s incredible.  Honestly, she is.  And I’m just…average.  I’m okay.  I know that; I’m fine.  I could’ve gotten it a lot worse.  Look at my brother.  But I’m not…‘Wow’.  I don’t stop traffic.  I’m not an Audrey Hepburn.  She is an Audrey Hepburn.  I’m more of a…Bette Davis?  Though Bette Davis is much more attractive than I could ever dream of being.  Come on, she’s stunning.  Now that I think of it, I actually think she might be hotter than Audrey.  I mean, damn, girl!  Bette Davis!

Okay, that metaphor isn’t working at all.

She–  She’s a Cannes Festival Winner.  Five stars.  Internationally recognised.  BAFTA, even.  And…  I’m, like, Pantagraph Reader’s Choice.  Okay, on a really good day, maybe Good Housekeeping, but I don’t go much above that; let’s be realistic here.  I’m pretty much stranded in the theoretical Heartland of America along with a whole lot of casserole and Jell-O salad and County Fairs.  It’s not bad.  There’s a lot worse places you could be.  Kosovo?  ‘98?  That’s a good example.  The Grand Café is a Pantagraph Reader’s Choice pick; it’s quite respectable.  Not my favourite, but more than edible.  Really good beef and broccoli, actually.  Their Egg Fu Young gives me indigestion, though.

I don’t blame you.  I’m not mad.  At all.  I wish I was, but I’m not.  I like her.  Jesus, I don’t think it’s possible to not like her, she’s so damn likable.  Lucky for her.  And she likes you.  She clearly likes you.  Like likes.  I’d be doing the same thing if I were in your position.  Maybe that’s what bothers me.  It doesn’t even bother me that much.

But I do kind of wish I could branch out from The Pantagraph.  I mean, hearing Dan Craft say that your masterpiece is worth five stars and ‘two enthusiastic thumbs up’ isn’t exactly what you aspire to during the gruelling hours of your cinematic training.  I’d much rather go to Cannes.  I’ll be their Festival Winner.  Please, lay it on me, Cannes!  Fuck, man, I’d take a compliment from the AV Club, Variety, even the  Chicago Reader.  Something – anything – above the Pantagraph Reader’s Choice.  And why the fuck shouldn’t I have that?  What makes her so much better than me, anyway?  I mean, I know I’ve got it.  I know how to please.  I can make people laugh and I can touch their heartstrings.  I’m a goddamn family classic.  And I know you got pretty excited during the swimming pool scene in my second half at least once during the long torment of your high school years.  Oh yeah.  You know which one I’m talking about.  There’s a reason why you stopped watching me with your mother.

I know your secret.  You shoved me on a shelf in your basement, but there’s not a lot of dust on me; my shit gets watched.  It’s Saturday afternoon, it’s raining, you didn’t really want to mow the lawn in the first place.  So you come down to the basement.  You pick me out from all the rest of those battered VHS tapes.  You cradle me just a little as you take me to your den and stick me in your VCR.  And you love every second you spend with me.  We have a ball for those sweet, brief hours, just the two of us, a bag of popcorn, maybe that ratty blanket you made in Home Ec a thousand years ago.  And afterwards, just as we’re parting ways yet again and you return to the life you show the rest of the world, you smile at me.  ‘We should do this more often,’ you say.  ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘I’d like that.’  Oh.  I know your deal.  You won’t show me off to your hipster friends; you won’t set aside valuable time just to study the subtleties of my composition and the splendour of my script; you will never discuss my beautiful complexities at artistic cocktail parties when your shoes are killing you and you would murder for a drink without an olive in it.  But I bet you money that when my name comes up at a bar or on the subway after work, you will quote every quip of witty dialogue like it was Holy Scripture.  And you laugh hysterically with all of your friends.

I may not be exceptional.  But for you, I am significant.

See, that’s the advantage of being trapped out here in Pantagraph land, drowning in the average wasteland that is Midwestern banality.  You won’t ever admit it to anyone else, but we both know it’s true: nothing feels better than going to your old favourite place, where you were safe and you were happy even when you were hurting and the whole world sat on your shoulders.  And now when things get lonely and your life gets rough, you lay awake and think about those things: the things I mean to you.

So when you tire of studying the otherworldly exception that is your albeit stunning Festival Winner, do what makes you happiest and come down those creaking basement steps.  Push back the cobwebs and throw off your corn-crafting party shoes.  Wash off the make-up and quit worrying about your hair.  I’ll be waiting, sitting right here, always on this painfully ordinary shelf, you know the one: next to the cases of PBR you pretend you don’t drink, the beat up sneakers you swear you’ve never worn, your dusty, sweet-smelling books that will never, ever replace the crap you buy in the CVS every morning.  The memories will flood you.  The joy will feed your soul.  And you’ll go back to being all the boring, average, everyday things that make you the radiant, brilliant, marvellous enigma that will never stop fascinating me.

August/September 2009

© Charlie Pevensie

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