life

In Flagrante Delicto

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Image “120 Deep” © Andrew Lewis, 2016

 

She came home early and caught him being fellated upon a sun-lounger beside their pool, his sun-kissed torso part hidden by a mass of blonde hair bobbing up and down as if guided by a metronome.

He pulled on his shorts as he listened to the screaming from inside the house that accompanied the ejection of his young lover. He sat on the edge of the pool, feet dangling in the water, and lit a cigarette. This time he might be in trouble.

He had partaken of extra-marital activity in the past- she had known of some, guessed at others, and was clueless about most. This was different, in that he had never been caught ‘in flagrante delicto’ as it were. Hell, she was no angel and had hinted at her own lovers; but why anyone would willingly stick their cock in that ice-bitch’s hole was anyone’s guess, he thought – your dick would freeze and drop off.

Fuck it, he thought, what’s the problem? Everyone does it these days, and if you’re not an adulterer then you are a swinger, or cuckold, or a cuckqueen, or a hot wife, or bicurious. Maybe you are wondering how it feels to have your ass filled with cock, while a t-girl’s nipples graze your shoulder blades. Whatever – it doesn’t matter how you get your rocks off, and if you do worry what society thinks of your kinks, then a guess says your sex life is fucking boring.

Their relationship was a joke, two high-sexed individuals who hadn’t been able to make each other hard or wet for years. He had seen the end of their relationship coming from a distance, and now it was up close and personal.

What he didn’t see coming was the blow to the back of his head. He sank to the bottom of the pool, hair splayed by the push-pull of the countercurrent, right-eye black balling and leaking pink into blue. She sat on the edge of the pool, feet dangling in the water, and lit a cigarette.

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fiction

the butterfly collector

It was a butterfly that drew Aisha’s gaze to the bus stop across the street, where her husband was leaning against a post with his back to her, facing a woman who was standing too close.

Aisha was invisible, on the other side of the road, inside a boutique shop, pondering a scarf.

She first saw the butterfly on a mannequin that wore a flowered dress. Later it was perched on a windowsill, staring outside. Aisha crept towards it, sat on her haunches, and watched its wings quiver in the air-conditioning. Then she found herself looking out the window too.

Aisha forgot all about the butterfly, and as she leaned in closer, her forehead slammed against the glass.

The sales person jerked her head in Aisha’s direction and Aisha waved her hand to say I’m sorry, I’m all right, please don’t fuss. The sales person turned away reluctantly, suspicious now that the woman in the head scarf would cause more trouble. She caught the eye of a fellow worker and shook her head.

Aisha continued staring out the window and watched her husband run a hand through his thick, black hair then lay it on the woman’s shoulder. He pulled her close and Aisha thought she saw him kiss the top of the woman’s bare head. Aisha felt a rage that was terrifying in its volume.

She reached inside her bag for her mobile phone, watched her husband pull his out of his back pocket, glance at the screen to see who was calling, raise a finger to the woman, then turn away to take the call. He was facing Aisha when he placed the mobile against his ear. He said hello, but Aisha could not respond.

He said hello, hello, Aisha, are you there? Then he hung up. She could see he was unnerved because he looked up and down the street and ran his hands through his hair again. Aisha’s own crept up her face and formed a cave over her mouth. ‘What were you thinking, bastard?’ she whispered. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and let the air out slowly. When she was empty, she straightened her shoulders and walked to the cashier with the scarf in hand. She pulled out a credit card and laid it on the counter in front of the clerk. Aisha turned her head sideways and looked out the window.

The clerk, who had been watching Aisha, scrutinised her face as she rang up her purchase. When she was about to wrap the scarf in paper, Aisha placed a hand on the fabric and said, ‘No, I’ll be wearing this.’ The clerk nodded and handed her the scarf with the credit card and receipt.

Aisha thanked her in a low voice and exited the shop. Outside, Aisha looped the scarf around her neck and thought of nothing.

 

This story was inspired by Josephine R. Unglaub’s My Butterfly, My Axe.

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life

Randy’s Disease

PART 1 of Many (all identical)

Randy had an incurable disease. He called it “Randy’s  Disease” as he felt alone with the problem, but he was sure he was not the only person suffering. Maybe nobody else had ever spoken out about the untreatable, social-embarrassing symptoms.

He recognised these symptoms when they flared. It was like clockwork when the feelings came on to him, starting with a cold sweat. Two years exact from the start of any relationship Randy had ever held, this happened to him:

He would start looking at other women. Looking would progress to chasing. Chasing would end in fucking. Fucking would give way to dating. Yes, dating – because deep down, Randy was a committed romantic.

When Randy began a fresh dalliance, the knowledge of this inevitable, two-year cyclical disease made him feel nauseous. It would leave a bitter taste in his mouth, whenever he lowered his face between his new beau’s parted thighs for the first time.

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