The storm is breaking or so it seems :: SOTD


We’re too young to reason,
too grown up to dream.”

Around the corner from the heartbeat thumps of feet on a dance floor and bass from the over sized speakers she followed him, her cold hand in his, shaking slightly from the excitement, and the chemicals chasing around in her bloodstream. She was not “that kind of girl”, whatever that meant, trapped for so long within the confines of secrets, a shy exterior, and that feeling of never quite fitting in. She wore the mask of a good girl for so long that even she believed it. That night, though, she was not interested in being good.

She told the story differently to anyone she bothered telling it to. Sometimes she re-wrote it to protect the innocent, and other times she changed the lines to keep that look of pity from their eyes. For some reason with him she let the truth spill out of her, every ugly moment, every nightmare lived through, every secret. He took it all in, pulling her closer to his warm body, enveloping her in lust and something that felt very close to understanding. He did not look at her with sadness, he did not say anything much at all, and for that she was grateful.

He ripped her stockings in the moment, fingers breaking through the thin restraint of material. She had always felt the burden of insecurity about her body, ever hiding herself under the cover of clothing and disguise. She was not one to feel comfortable in her own skin, nor shed her trappings easily, until now. It was just the cover of night above them, and she could still hear the din and echoes of the street sounds, but for a split second of time the world belonged to only the two of them. That feeling, it gifted her freedom, and a sort of reckless abandon.

His hands were everywhere at once it seemed, fingers and lips exploring, heat erupting from every pore. They could not get close enough, bodies entwined, her back pinned against the cold brick exterior. When the rain came down it was almost a relief, taking their rising temperatures down a notch, slick skin and shivers causing them to make chase to the closest refuge, her beat up car. She dropped the keys twice, fumbling to get  inside, bruising her knee and shoulder as they pulled and pushed their way past the passenger seat.  He whispered, voice ragged with need, “turn on the music.”

She gave him everything she had that night, and he took it hungrily, then gave back in exchange all that he could share. There was healing in the trade off, hope and wonder, a redemption in the backseat. It was almost holy, what they did that night, in the most unholy of ways and she soon became addicted to something completely new to her, a new drug, one might say, she began to become a slave to love.

Slave to Love :: Bryan Ferry

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