falling apart in the rain (futurepostcards) wrote in creativerity,
falling apart in the rain
futurepostcards
creativerity

Vanity

It says to post something for your first time here, so I'm in need of the experienced hands to terrorize me.

Behind an LJ because of length and sexual circumstances.


Vanity [working title]
She stands before the mirror staring at the reflection and rotates several times, always watching the same regions, always taking the time to see if anything is out of place, always pretending she isn't vain. She lifts an arm as she rotates to make sure she doesn't miss a thing. Then she pulls her dark-wood locks up off her shoulders to see if there is anything wrong with that region. She's looking for one superficial thing, but she pretends not to. Then she stares into those eyes that hold you with their vague mystery, but she's checking to see if they're crystal ice enough to be considered "captivating." She runs her hands up her sides one time, then glances over her shoulder to where I lay and asks.

"Am I getting anorexic?"

"You can't get anorexic, you become anorexic, and no, you aren't because I saw you eating earlier."

"No, I mean anorexic thin. Sometimes I feel like my body is deteriorating from underneath me and I don't notice it."

"You're not deteriorating and I'll prove it to you, come 'ere."

And she steps up onto the bed and walks over to where I've propped myself up against the head board. She shakes her baby blue cotton panties with pink trim and matching camisole in my face.

"How you going to prove it to me?"

I don't answer her; I just slide my hands up the sides of her legs. It's a controlling grasp but it mocks gentleness, makes her feel empowered. And I let them travel further, with a mind of their own, up her body until they reach her stomach, and I lean forward to kiss it. With a swift motion down, her underwear is at her ankles and her beautiful pubic hair, perfectly trimmed into a one inch landing strip just above her exposed clit. She sighs and places a hand on my head, curling her fingers into my hair. She's letting me know that she's in control. I let my tongue flicker and tease; she moans. I'm hitting her spots without starting on her clit.

She's always this way after she looks into the mirror at herself. Its a symbol that lets me know she's ready to be pleasured at least three times in one evening, and I'm not one to displease her. Kayla tightens her grip on my hair, pulling my face in closer, and I can't help but smell the musk, and I thirst for it. My tongue is wet and
I can no longer tease. I have to have it, and I do.

"That's it baby, eat me like I was your mother," she coos.

Freud would have a field day with us.

Kayla was a Psychology major when I met her at IHOP. She was pouring over books and books of notes trying to make sense of the differences between Jung and Freud. She sat by herself surrounded by a coffee pot, a half-empty cup, an ashtray filled with a pile of butts, an empty pack of Marlboro 100's save one, and a cheapo lighter from Diamond Shamrock. I was sitting across the room with my friends after bar hopping the night away. They were taking turns telling drunken stories of things that didn't happen to each other while there. I was still sober since I was driving, so their tales got a little boring. Then I noticed this girl at the booth on the other side of the room running her hands through her hair, clawing at it occasionally, and pulling her plastic frames off to pinch the bridge of her nose. I had to join her. There was nothing she could say that would sound half as dimwitted as the people I was already with. So I pulled up a chair and lit a cigarette with her lighter. She just looked up at me for a few seconds and buried her nose right back into her books.

Jump to present day and she works in the offices of a psychiatrist downtown [I forget his name], while going through Baylor Medical. I work as a reporter for the Dallas Morning News now that I've graduated from Southern Methodist with a degree in Literature and a minor in Political Science. This year I was fortunate enough to be given the opportunity to write the political column for the election year. To be honest, I'm disappointed in this year's presidential options and more interested in the circumstances. For instance, will California vote Republican after electing a Republican Governor and then attending Reagan's funeral? That's more interesting than the news that Kerry received absolutely no bounce in his ratings after the Democratic Convention which is utterly disappointing. There's a conservative movement sweeping the nation and few people are touching on it. There's a neo-conservative movement within that and no one cares. That's interesting, not poll numbers.

But that's not where we are right now.

We're in my apartment. Well, our apartment; we share it and I pay for it. There's nothing in the bedroom aside from the bed, the freestanding mirror, and our laptops. We have no curtains, no nightstands, no bookshelves, no lamps. Our books take up space in the fridge and microwave, as well as act as tables in the living room, which has a television [sitting on books], a couch [made level by books], and one lamp [raised up by books]. The walls haven't been painted and are so thin that we can hear the Mexican woman upstairs with one of her boyfriends squeaking the bed. Rusty springs don't make for happy neighbors. And I'm just below her, making Kayla squirm under the pressures of my tongue, holding her up by cupping her ass. She's screaming loud enough that the man upstairs is commenting to Kayla and not his girlfriend. I want to tell him she's my bitch, not yours. But Kayla hates interruptions.

I strain to hear the other woman's moans, so I can mimic them with Kayla's and give the man upstairs more to get excited about. I think she loves us up there because she is never without the latest trends. The first week we were in the apartment we noticed that our upstairs neighbor had sex at the exact same time every day. It took a month for me to realize she was turning tricks; even passing the unfamiliar men every day didn't click. When I told Kayla, she just looked at me like I was stupid, then pulled an about face exclaiming, Oh yeah, you're right, that does make sense. That's how she affords her Versace and Vera Wang.

She's attractive as well. Picture Salma Hayek, but smaller, thinner, and two cup sizes short of the real deal, with a narrower face and a missing pinky on the left hand. I bet she charges double to use that one.

There've been times where I wanted to bring her down to join Kayla and I on her few days she's not getting any action. I know we're not the most attractive couple, but we know how to fuck. I haven't even begun to fuck her and she's already screaming more than the prostitute upstairs. But then again, Kayla is a screamer and she loves to talk as well. I'm convinced that a couple full moons ago, our landlord heard some of the things Kayla screamed, from three floors down, because I've passed him several times since and I always ask how his day is, out of courtesy, and he always mumbles something to the effect of I don't want to hear about you and your mom and that girl of yours. He's a sweet guy.

There's an awkward shuffling upstairs as if he was trying to spin around from one side of the Salma look-alike to the other. Ugh...ug....uuggggghhhhhnnnnnnnnn. He must have whipped out his dick and spun over to the slut's face so he can ejaculate all over her face leaving white lines that could be mistaken for cocaine trails, because he's a dried out old mother fucker. As soon as I hear his undeniable groans, I press in on Kayla and she screams and they both climax together. He'll be returning. Kayla squirms and writhes, bucking like a horny bronco. Then she smacks me across the face.

"Sorry hun, but now it's time to show the prick upstairs he's missing out."

She pulls me off the wall and removes her panties entirely before lowering herself. I feel like my whole body has been enveloped in this liquid warmth, like I was slid into a heat pack. I can smell her sweaty musk, and it reverses a premature ejaculation, thankfully. The sourness fills my nostrils, and I can grind for hours now.

I sit up and flip Kayla onto her stomach and knees, no hands. I wrap my hand in her hair and pull it tight before mashing her head into the mattress. I hear her gasp and then scream as I thrust in and pierce her like the needle on a tattoo gun; quick. Between each thrust, she screams. Today's boyfriend shuffles and asks, is that below us? upstairs. Kayla doesn't stop.

"If you don't rape me I'll slit your throat.
Pretend I'm your mother, your sister, your fucking younger brother.
Give me your death, your miscarriages.
Treat me like I'm your bitch in heat. Make me have puppies."

"Shit, that's fucked up."
He says.

"You didn't mind it a minute ago, when you were getting off."
The prostitute says.

"What are you talking about?"

"I stopped moaning two minutes into the ordeal. That was all her you were hearing. I like them, makes my work easier."

"You cheap slut!"

"Get your hands off my money and get the fuck out!"

He stomps out the bedroom and slams the door. Kayla twists her head to the side to look at my naked body, a devious smile spreading across her face like she had been slit from ear to ear. My body temperature rises to a boil, I can't focus my eyes, and it feels like my head is in a vice. I erupt to the sound of a knocking at the door. From the depths of nowhere I hear a hun, are you going to get that?

"Uh, yeah, just a sec."

I stumble off the mattress and fumble towards the door. I don't even bother to put on clothes. It doesn't cross my mind. Our apartment is so cheap it doesn't even have a peephole to tell who's in the hall. I figure they thought the walls were thin enough, you could just look through them. Pulling off the latch and undoing the lock, I open the door and I see our neighborhood slut.

"The name's Serenity honey. Can I come in?"
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