Mutual Oblivion She should feel worse about herself. She didn’t even know his name, but so
Mutual Oblivion She should feel worse about herself. She didn’t even know his name, but somehow that hadn’t stopped her from lying prostate over his lap, wiggling her arse like her life depended on it. Morning had broken, but it hadn’t broken her. She felt fine. A little sore, perhaps, and a little worse for wear. Sleep had come in fits and spurts, hours here and there, occasional gropes and kisses interspersed throughout the night like chord changes. And then she’d woken up, and it had been light out. The garden was hazy, everything filtered through the light layer of morning dew, the colours not quite there yet. She glanced over her shoulder, and ran her eyes over his sleeping form. Softer than she remembered, but then sleep does that to a man. The shadow of stubble on his face, and a slight peppering of hair over his shoulders. That made her smile, but she didn’t know why. It was the way his hand dangled off the side of the bed, as if trying to cool off, that made her smile break into a lazy grin, though. He’d gone to town on her, the alcohol numbing both of them hard enough that neither of them stopped at a sensible point. Leaning back, she could see evidence written all over her backside, a mobile crimescene. She’d bruise, and she’d bruise well, a splatter of welts and purple flesh that would take a good few days to heal. The drew tight when she’d walked from the bed to the window, and they’d only get tighter; the thing was she was only looking forward to it, some anonymous hand leaving nondescript bruises on unknown flesh. It was all so deliciously mysterious, and utterly forgettable, that she couldn’t help but feel it lodging in her mind. She should feel worse about this. She should be wracked with guilt, constantly wincing at the mistakes of the night before, but none of this felt like a mistake. It was enjoyment, ships colliding in the night to make pretty explosions and prettier wrecks. But they weren’t going to go down together; she’d limp back to her shore, and he’d stay here with his, and they’d never speak again. It would be almost poetic if it wasn’t so sordid. But then she’d always liked a bit of sordid. -- source link
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