Dangerous Temptations: Erotic one shots [18+]

DARK GARDEN

Dark Garden

I’m back at his doorstep. This place I’ve sworn I’ll never return to. Many times.

I feel dirty, ugly, as I ring the bell, and uglier still when he answers the door wearing nothing but a pair of baggy trousers. His feet are bare, his hair disheveled, he hasn’t shaved in a while. He’s not handsome, or well built, or even particularly well hung. Worst of all, he has a laugh that makes me cringe. I do my very best to never make him laugh.

“Hey, you,” he says, and gives me a grin I know doesn’t represent anything terribly witty or wry.

A slow nausea brews in the pit of my stomach. The better part of me tells me to smile, apologize and walk back down the street as fast as I can. I should go, but I never do.

“Hi.”

He pulls the door open wider. “You look like you need a good, hard fuck.” The tone is casual, like anyone else might say: ‘you look like you got caught in the rain,’ or ‘you look cold.’

Knowing I won’t answer, that I can’t admit to it, he does what he always does; he shrugs, reaches across the threshold, grabs my wrist and pulls me into the damp, dingy hallway that smells of cat’s piss.

He kicks the door closed and turns, pushing the air out of my lungs as my back hits the shabbily plastered wall, and he’s on me like something hungry. Hands tug my coat open. One paws at my breast through my shirt and the other makes a wedge-shaped indent in my skirt. That’s all it takes to ensure I’m not going anywhere, or changing my mind now.

“Been a long time. You had me worried there for a while,” he growls, pressing his forehead to mine. “But I knew you’d be back. Cos you need it, don’t you? Greedy little pain slut.”

It always starts like this: so fast, so direct. There’s no chatting about the weather or offers of tea or a drink. The ferocity of it floods my cunt. I worry about it soaking through the wool of my skirt and leaving a stain, but I press myself into him anyway.

He’s instantly hard, grinding his erection against my hip. Sometimes he doesn’t wait for an answer, but this time he does. He wants something in lieu of the service he’s about to provide.

“Say it. Come on, you fucking little slut. Tell me how much you want it.”

All I can manage is a croak, but I touch the side of his face, and move my head, sliding my cheek against his. The whiskers scrape against my skin as I nod.

He’s not settling for that. He pulls away, and the slap that hits my face and makes me gasp resolves into a mean, painful hold on my jaw. “Say it, bitch.”

“Yes.”

The slap wasn’t hard, but it stings and I already know that I’ll have faint bruises where my skin stretches over my jawbone. I’ve left this man’s house with a lot of marks. Not scars, just proofs of a well-tended garden.

“Better,” he says, releasing his hold on my chin, only to catch me around the neck and shove me, bodily, through the open door off the hallway.

It’s a bedsit with nowhere to sit. There’s only a bed – which I’ve never seen made – and a table and a TV. I have no idea what he does for a job or how he lives. I’ve never cared and I don’t care now. Shrugging off my coat, I drop it on the floor on top of my bag, and turn to unbutton my blouse.

Today he doesn’t want to wait. The grip at my neck is gone and he pushes me hard, the flat of his palm planted between my shoulder blades, face down into the bedclothes.

They smell of him and sex: his, perhaps, or another woman’s – maybe both. I wonder how long she’s been gone, and feel for the presence of lingering warmth without really thinking about it. Before I can roll over, he’s wrenching up the back of my skirt.