Imagine (wlw, mature)

Storm

Her hand is rougher than his ever was, heavier, more certain.

My husband loves sex, he always wanted control, but never of me. He liked the idea of love, not the mess of it. Not the noise. Not what I wanted. He wanted to make himself happy.

But she.... she is about me. For me. Only me. I can feel it.

At least, that's what I tell myself as I sit here, hidden behind trees and darkness across the street.

It's too perfect. Black facade, wide glass front, a porch framed with wild trees that look too alive at night. Irises climb up the windows like they're trying to reach her. The grass is overgrown, green, and untamed just like her.

She's there again.

Black dress.

Talking to him.

He touches her shoulder, leans closer, lifts her chin up, his mouth on hers.

Too long. Too sure.

I look away. Then back again.

I shouldn't. But I can't not.

Both are into it.

Her hand slides between them, down into his pants.

His behind her back, pulls her closer.

His lips on her neck no- I CANT LOOK AT THIS.

Sometimes I think she can feel me, even when I'm not there.

Like a pulse beneath her skin that answers mine.

I imagine her saying my name when she's alone. I imagine she hates me for it.

That's fine. Hate is still a kind of attention.

I see her often.

The dresses.

The lipstick.

Her hair dark, soft waves down to her back. Always brushed, never out of place. She knows when she's being watched. She likes it.

I know the pattern of her steps. The way her lights turn on first the kitchen, then the hall.

I know what nights she drinks wine, and what nights she can't sleep. What nights she feels it the most.

Every day she wears something new, something that demands to be seen. Always the center of the room, the reason it spins.

Today, that same black dress.

Dark lipstick.

Eyes lined heavy eyes like an ocean before a storm. Storm of her making, storm in peoples hearts. She can make someone fall in love with her with one look.

Obsessed.

So perfect.

So deliberate.

So aware.

Like she dint suck that slut of her husband off 30min before coming here

I bet he dint get her off

She is different today, hunting for something, for someone.

She looks at me again, and I swear she knows. Her eyes lock on mine, hold too long. The air between us hums.

Every time she looks my way, I feel something crawl up my throat.

Jealousy. Hunger. Or maybe it's just the truth.

That I was never really watching her. I just wanted her to see me.

We only ever look.

That's the rule.

But looking feels like touching when it's her.

And for a second just one I forget everything. The ring on my finger. I forgot his voice. The life that was supposed to be mine.

All I can think about is her.

Her stillness. Her certainty. The quiet way she destroys me just by being there.

It was her I wanted.

Always her.

I want all of her.

It's always like this. Take our clothes off. Touch ourselves and look.

She told me not to touch her, only to look her in the eyes. The storm.

I forgot everything but how it felt to finally be handled.

Without love, just pure lust and want for me.

Her looking down at me saying all those things biting her lips.

My legs are trembling- she doesn't even need to touch me.

I'm looking right back at her straight to her piercing blue eyes mouth slightly open breathing deeply in and out almost hyperventilating- god i love how good she makes me feel.

I can't control myself. I need to touch her.

Something.

I hug her waist, wrap my hands around her, pressing my body against her, looking down now.

She janks my head back up by my hair to look back up at her.

"What a bad girl you are, I told you to look at me dint I" she says in a whisper. Her eyes dark and full now "What will i do with you now"

It was her that I wanted.
It was the way she didn't ask , the way her hand fit around my throat like it was meant to be there.
I told myself it was only once.
But once was enough to break something that was never fixed.

"You wanted to be manhandled? You want to finally feel good? Let me show you how it feels."

I used to think I was the quiet one.

The observer. The harmless one.

But now I see how wrong that was.

You don't stare at someone this long without becoming dangerous.