“You’re a cunt you know that?
The ice jiggled against the glass that he held in his hand. The whiskey was the cheap sort so the ice was a necessity. “I said you are a cunt”.
She sat by the dresser removing her makeup with a simple face cleanser.
“You’re just a dumb female with a pigeon brain,” he slurred finding it difficult to stand on his drunken feet. She continues to ignore him applying more face cleanser as he makes his way closer to the dresser.
“Look at me dumb cunt” he says. “Fucking look at me”
She doesn’t face him but talks through the reflecting glass mirror.
“ Go scream at the whore in the bar” she says.
Now she turns towards him whilst tugging at the buckle on her high heel boots. “Go and fight with your whore”
“What whore”? What the fuck are you talking about”?
“The skinny slut in the bar who you couldn’t take your eyes off” the anger is now rising, her brilliant eyes are changing. There is fire inside.
“And so” he mutters.
“Have you fucked her”? She asks gently as though she was asking if he wanted to have dinner, the calm before the storm.
“Now that’s ridiculous,” he says head facing the bedroom floor. Up she stands from the chair by the dresser with one boot in hand and hobbles a closer to him. A funny sight as though she had been stricken by poliomyelitis.
“You fucked her you bastard”! The boot in her hand is thrown across the room and crashes into his mouth instantly breaking his bottom lip. Hopping with such speed towards him her hands shaped like that of a cat prepared to tear at his eyes. He grabs hold of her wrist directing away the danger.
“Bastard”! She yells.
He grabs hold of a handful of her wonderful hair, shakes her head forcefully before tossing her to the floor. She lands on he arse, staring, breathing with gusto. He sits on the bed opposite and wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. She parts her legs slowly revealing the curls behind the lace of her knickers. She laughs. Her pants are wet, juices or piss. Both probably. Her hair wild and damp and beads of sweat rest on her forehead.
They stay in the position for some time. He on the bed examining his busted lip, she on the carpeted floor legs apart.
She moves her knickers to one side and inserts her middle finger deep inside.
“I love you baby,” she purrs.
She removes the finger and raises it to her mouth. A tiny sticky bubble is delicately poised, the honey from deep inside her well. She smiles at him. The bubble burst. She laughs, a cackle of a laugh, witch-like.
“I love you baby,” says she.
They make out. He lies on his back with her on top knickers in hand. She controls riding ardently in search of that orgasm that will give her the triumph she is desperately seeking. He fights back, fucking as vigorous as she. He feels his juices rising to the tip of his prick like mercury climbing in a thermometer.
“ Don’t you fucking come yet?” she snarls. He tries to speak but words fails him, with the orgasm stuck somewhere between his throat and balls he whispers her name. She tells him to be quiet whilst forcing her clammy knickers into his mouth. He struggles to breathe as they continue to fuck. His head sways from side to side as he pushes deeper inside her towards the door of her womb. He fucks her. She fucks him. Cock fights against cunt. Cunt battles against cock. He hears the sound of his beating heat louder and louder in the centre of his ears. Death seems to be beside him. He cannot breathe. She continues to gallop whilst forcing the knickers further into his mouth to the entrance of his throat. He feels a stirring sensation in his balls, a sharp pain in the centre of his back. He comes in long powerful spurts, again and again. She cries out, a deep mournful cry before falling on his weak frame removing the knickers from his mouth. He takes a huge gasp of air before passing out.
She sleeps curled up beside him, peacefully, like a cat that her has had her feed. He leaves the bed slowly careful not to wake the sleeping beauty. He looks across the room for his boxers then gives up, vision too blurred. The poster on the wall of Jean Harlow stares at him. He stares back. Considerably out of focus. Jean Harlow. Nice face, kinda, but sad eyes. Nice face. Sad eyes. Yeah.
His head is pounding and stomach roars. He needs a drink fast. The early morning light leaks through the slightly open blinds spilling a glorious glow on the sleeping beauty. She still has her knickers in her hand and her dress rolled up to her waist where her moist sex is revealed and a trail of dry sperm glued to an inner thigh. He takes a pillow that has fallen to the floor and places it between her legs. She drearily moves her body and murmurs something, perhaps his name, then encloses her legs around the soft pillow. She falls back to sleep. Mouth slightly open. Tiny little sounds of breathing, so different from the wild beast before. But she is loveliness itself. Her beauty radiates like a precious stone.
A blue stone.
He sits alone and naked in the kitchen with the clean morning light rapidly rising. He pulls on the bottle of beer to satisfy the roaming monster in his stomach. The cool of the beer caresses his insides. ‘Thank you’ it says. The chirping sounds of the birds making play in the garden brings him to smile as he finishes the last pull of the bottle. He returns to the refrigerator searching for more answers. There is a bottle of white, half empty. He pops the cork releasing the wine from its imprisonment and necks a good quarter. He sits back by the kitchen table and takes another gulp from the cool white. He feels his swollen lip and then remembers the night, the fighting the fucking. He smiled then laughed out aloud shattering the tranquillity of the gentle morning. He suddenly realizes his loneliness and it scares him so he takes another hit of the wine. He places the chill of the bottle between his thighs, closer to his sleeping penis. It feels good. A trickle of sperm emerges from the tiny eye. He inspects his penis. Something to do. The head is a rosy coloured red. Purple. No red. Kinda red. A dusky kind of purple.
There is a tap on the window. He spins around to look, penis still in hand. A little bird sits out side on the windowsill. It shuffles its wings a little, turning its beak towards the window and tapping. What did it want?
It was a red breast.
His penis falls back between his thighs as he finishes the last of the wine. He places the empty bottle on the table and the little bird flies away.