Oct. 01, 2003 - 1:00 p.m.
A Touch Woke Me

I was convinced by Lex to write a short story based on my dream. So I did. Please don't steal it, it's my dream, and I wrote it and it's mine. You know, the copywrite thing. It's also very rough first draft kinda stuff, hasn't really been edited or anything, save a few changes here and there, and I'll probably make tons more and I'm sure I've fucked up the tenses here and there. Anyway, here it is. Enjoy:


A touch woke me.

His finger was tracing my shoulder softly. His body was moulded against mine in an s curve and I could feel his hard-on pressing against my backside. It was still dark.

“Yes sir?” I said weakly. I could feel his breath on my neck, heavy, hard.

“Face down. Now.” I rolled onto my stomach, pinning my arms beneath me. He rolled with me and knocked my legs apart with his knees. I was wet, but it was automatic. It was his smell. My body went on without my mind, where I could feel the fear rising. Not again, not now, I’m so sore from the last time.

Matthew ran his hand down my bare back, lingering tenderly on the bruises that had bloomed the day before under his loving touch. He leant down and kissed each one.

“You are so beautiful.” The sting from the slap that accompanied the sweet words was especially cold in the warm room.

“Thank you, sir.” My behind tingled, but not so deliciously as it had once felt. I said nothing. I could hear him stroking himself behind me, warming up. Spreading lube on my ass and on himself. Tears squeezed out as I squeezed the darkness behind my eyelids and he squeezed his cock into my ass. He reached below and fingered my clit, but I felt nothing. I cried out falsely after a sufficient and convincing amount of time had passed, and he followed suit in sincerity, shooting deep inside my body for the millionth time.

He collapsed on top of me, all his weight crushing me into the mattress, suffocating me nearly while he grew flaccid and after what seemed too long, extricated himself. He allowed me to roll back onto my side and he folded me into his arms tightly, rocking me gently. His lips were soft on my neck and shoulder and he twined his legs about my body as best he could, as much as I would allow. It was 4am. He slept. I didn’t.


The client was short, bald, slightly portly. He wore the usual accountant accoutrements, tie, bad shoes. He was cute maybe, in his childhood, before puberty destroyed him and made him an outcast. He looked nervous in my chair.

“Will you be discreet?” He looked at his fingers, folded white knuckles in his lap. “My wife will never find out?” I walked around to in front of him, sat in his lap and took his chin in my hand.

“We’re very professional. And very discreet.” I winked.

He smiled at me sweetly; a little nervous laugh escaped his tiny boy mouth. Then his hand stole up my thigh. “Can I do it in your ass?”


Matthew was lounging by the pool at the hotel we called home. It wasn’t a nice hotel. It was full of expansive women who could wear nothing but Hawaiian print muumuus and men who looked at me lasciviously, hoping their wives would go shopping or play bingo or something long enough for them to masturbate over me, and maybe get a drink. I was wearing a terry cloth robe. I had a glass of milk.

Matthew reached up and touched my ankle.

“Babe, I’ve told our clients we’re taking a holiday. For a month.” My breath caught in my throat for a moment. “I want to have some time to ourselves. Just you and me. I never get you to myself anymore.” His ice-blue eyes twinkled and he smiled at me admiringly. He always smiled at me admiringly. His fingers found a bruise on my ankle and pressed affectionately. I smiled back.

“Sounds nice. Who doesn’t want a holiday?” Alone. With the one person that consumes my everyday, my everything, who I love so much and so hard that it hurts me, physically, in every square inch of my body, who makes my heart tighten and throb with fear and lust and loathing and adoration. Who wouldn’t want to fill their days from waking till sleeping and in between both with the one person that could make or break them, who could give such gentle caresses and agonizing blows in the same touch? He was the one. He was the one who inspired so much love in me that I could barely contain it, yet I lived in fear of the next touch every moment of every day. He never asked me anymore. He never guessed. He thought I was as much in thrall as he was. Like I used to be. All I wanted to do was take him in my arms and stroke his hair and have him tell me how much he loved me and I would tell him too. All I wanted was for him to lay me back and fuck me softly, lovingly, quietly. Like mom and dad sex. Like virgin sex. But he didn’t know. He never asked. And I never told him.

He stood up, stretching his long, almost skinny body to the sky, his large, beautiful even when soft cock straining slightly at his swim shorts. He held his hand out to me.

“C’mon, let’s go inside. I’ll make you some lunch.” I took his hand and let him lead me inside. He never did make me lunch.


The air came rushing back into my lungs. I pulled my knees to my chest to squeeze it back out again, it was air I didn’t want. It was air full of sweat and of his smell. I loved his smell, it made me rage. It made me want to absorb him into me. But breathing in his smell meant that I was his slave forever, because his smell was what made me wet. It bound me to him as though he had saved my life. It intoxicated me. It was opium. It was heroin. It was ether.

It had been three hours since he led me in from the pool. It felt like days. My pussy hurt, my ass hurt, my nipples ached, one still bled. The bite marks on my hips and thighs throbbed; there would be new bruises to bloom tomorrow, a whole orchard. My entire body felt battered, but my lips. He had kissed me after, long and lingering. Sweetly. Gently. Softly. He breathed in my scent while our mouths were pressed together. It made me wonder if maybe he was as bound to me as I was to him. Maybe we had saved each other’s lives. Before he rose from the floor where we lay, he traced his hand across my forehead and cupped my cheek.

“I could never live without you.” And kissed me again. Same as before. I wanted it to never ever end. I wanted him like that forever, never moving, never changing from that moment on. I wanted him to tell me he loved me. To tell me how much. But then it was over, and the air that rushed in to occupy the space that he vacated was cold, stale and musty.


I heard the shower run. Three weeks ago he led me in from outside. Three weeks ago was the last time the sun had seen me. I saw it though, straining at the window shades, trying its best to get in through the slats, the doorframe, the space between the window ledge and the curtains. I had shared the air with him for three weeks, and all I could smell and see was Matthew. Dark, deep, broken, endless Matthew. But now I was alone.

Something cold and panicked and slow came over me. I stood up in slow motion, barely noticing the pain it caused me. I pulled on a pair of jeans. I slid a sweatshirt over my head. My eyes didn’t blink in the darkness. There, on the table was the remainder of our cash. We hadn’t worked for three weeks, and we were reaching the end. A twenty, a fifty and a one hundred dollar bill.

Time sped up. I sped up. I grabbed the bills and shoved them in my pocket. A small duffel bag became my victim as I rammed clothes and books and whatever else I could see lying around into its small hole. I knocked over a stack of paper and barely cared that he might hear. I felt no pain. I felt nothing except freedom on the other side of that door. That other side that I hadn’t seen for three weeks. I had forgotten what colour the sky was.

The sunlight ravaged my eyes as I burst into the air. The air unsweetened with Matthew’s perfume. I saw my path. The parking lot. The sun’s warmth pushed me forwards. It was happy to see me, I could tell. I broke into a run and I didn’t care who saw me. I didn’t care which old men were wiping the drool from their lips watching my breasts bounce, which muumuu-clad women were noticing that their husbands no longer noticed them. Except for the one muumuu clad woman in the elevator. The elevator I needed to get on.

It was the one way down from the rear of the hotel to the street. And she had it. I screeched to a halt at the door of the elevator as it closed and the box slid away from me. I dropped my bag.

It would come back. It wouldn’t be long. I started to panic. I imagined him coming out of the shower, singing, like he always does, his ice-blue eyes flashing, scanning the room for me. I imagined him noticing something was wrong. The stack of papers knocked over. The door left open. I saw the look on his face, his smile faltering, the panic rising in his chest. He would notice the money missing then. He would notice my things missing. He would realize what had just happened.

I was gone.

I saw him call my name. I saw him look around frantically. I saw him run to the door and call my name again. I saw him run back in the room, understand the truth. I saw him seize up and drop to his knees. I saw his face. I saw the tears well up in his eyes, I saw him cry out, shout, yell, holler, sob, moan, wail, rage, shake, heave, choke. I saw him say my name again. He put his hands to his face and sobbed. I felt his heart break, his stomach lurch.

The elevator dinged and opened in front of me. It was empty. The light inside flickered. I saw his eyes flicker. The door slid closed, still empty. I picked up my bag. I saw him pick up my shirt. I saw him smell it. I smelled the air and it didn’t smell of him. He curled into a ball on the floor around my shirt and sobbed again. I felt his misery and how he would lay there on the floor. For days, weeks, forever. I felt him die inside. I felt myself die inside.

So I went back.

-Arianna McGregor 2003 (c)

old bitching - random - new bitching

Reads Like:
Pride and Prejudice - What a change
Sounds Like:
Feels Like:
My back hurts. Is it time to go home?

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