Hermitaxia

HERMITAXIA

Rhianna waited in line, and noticed a guy, around her age, sitting on a sofa across the bar from her.

            Out of all the white men in all the world she found one that brought something out in her - a maternal desire.  Something in his shape.  Something in his broad shoulders and wide neck.  Something in what he was wearing.  His legs were crossed and wore skinny jeans.  The ankles at the end of them were thin and delicate.  He had fine calves and good, strong thighs.  Something that she couldn’t overcome was his face which had this uber-masculine, uber-conservativeness that if he laughed, she would cry. 

            She left the queue, bisecting the crowd of drunks in a trance.  She had no control, just instinct.  As she neared he stood up, squeezing through the gap between the table and sofa, and took his leave.  She was without dismay and control and walked along behind him.  Her heels clicked on the pavement while her beautiful brown eyes ate up his Dad-bod. 

***

He got off the bus at the second to last stop.  She waited a beat and followed.  He strode across the street in its wayward uphill arch.  It curved off to the left.  She tip-toed after him in the bleak of the early morning.  He walked into a house called Wood Crescent, Number 12 Wood Crescent, on the corner. 

            She rang the doorbell.  He didn’t open.  She rang again and again and on the fourth ring, he answered.   The door opened a few inches, it was him alright.  She leaned forward and pushed in, closing the door and locking it behind her.  The doorway was scattered with laced Huaraches.  It was dirty.  He stood looking at her. 

            ‘You alone?’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘Can we go into the living room?’ she asked.

            ‘Yes.’  He led the way, plumped down first, she joined, and he turned to her, stroking her long hair with affection, somewhat nervous, but affectionate.  ‘I knew you were following.  I was secretly hoping you’d come.  Can I get you a drink?’

            ‘No, fuck the foreplay.’

            She leant into him, grabbing him by the hair, and kissed him.  He pushed away from her, uncertain.  She went in again and there was no resistance now.  He closed his eyes, their tongues circling in a twizzler.  She watched him with hers.  She tore off her expensive purple dress and made him kiss her breasts.  She could see herself in his fluttering grey-blue eyes. 

            Sitting on his lap, she examined her lip rouge.

            It was fucked; 

            the blood-red that was once perfect,

            that took HER 10 minutes to get

            PERFECT

            was ruined, and he

            the brute that he was,

            seemed to think it was okay.

Rhianna reached down into her handbag and extracted the stick.  She went to touch herself up with it and stopped rather suddenly.

            ‘Open your mouth,’ she said.

            ‘Why?’

            ‘Just do it,’ she took held his chin upright, maintaining posture, and the guy opened his mouth.  ‘Good,’ was her response.  ‘Now, do this with your lips and stay there.’

            He did what he was told.  Now her slave.  He pressed his lips together in a kiss and extended his mouth from the coldness of his teeth.  Taking the mouth forcefully in her hand, she smeared it with colour.  Rubbing it all over his mouth, stretching the lines in Us up past his cheeks.  Five minutes later the Chelsea grin was quite perfect.  She pulled back and slapped him hard, 6 times around the face. 

            His mouth opened in shock and she put her thumb inside.  He began working.  He was very good at it.  He worked it a good 4 minutes.  She had him.  He sucked the blood out of her thumb with tears in his eyes.

            ‘I’ve got my strength back,’ she said.  ‘This is vengeance for what happened before.’

            He served her a quizzical look, the eyes of a lamb in his sockets now.  She wished she had a 459” cock.