Teresanewsome
Virgin
- Joined
- Feb 21, 2002
- Posts
- 1
I have been told that this story isn't erotic enough to be erotica. Opinions and/or feedback would be grately apprecciated.
Digging Up
Teresa Newsome (copyright 2002)
Word Count 2525
We can never decide where to eat. Neither of us will make the actual decision. You suggest a couple of places and then get agitated when I roll my eyes. I suggest a couple of places and you don't say a word. You just drive to the first place I mention because you’re sick of this game already. Your shrink would say it's those control issues of yours. They get worse during your manic states. Or maybe you're just an asshole. You certainly drive like one.
And I tell you again and again that you drive like a madman. That you're going to kill us both some day, but today I’m not just nagging. Today I think I really do hate all of this - hate you. Hate you just as much as I love you. Today you are a ball of manic depressive phlegm stuck deep in the back of my throat. Today you need to see your shrink. Today I need to leave you.
During dinner you act like a child. You pout and play with your food and don't even eat it. Then you bitch about the price of a decent plate of spaghetti and remind me that I can't even remotely cook. You tell me that you liked my hair better when it was long. You ask me to
stop leaving my clothes on the bathroom floor.
I tell you to fuck off. I try to laugh. Try to play it off like I’m teasing you, but you're in a mood again tonight. Every night. You yell at me in the middle of the restaurant. I thank you for ruining another evening.
I think about how you were six months ago. Before you left your eighth therapist in three years. When you didn't sleep all day. And when you weren't the monster crawling out of your nightmares on those rare occasions that your eyes were open – like tonight. Back then you cared
about your job. You cared about your friends. You cared about me and my thighs
and my tongue. You cared about us.
Our waitress is a prom queen or something and you eye her for longer than I can stand. I flip my shoe off and slide my leg up your thigh, hoping to feel a firm cock so I can get mad and leave. You aren't hard. I leave my foot there, and seductively suck on a bread stick, pushing my
tits together to expose a deep, rich cleavage. I’m practically illegal before I give up. You look, but you still aren't hard. At least you look.
I think about how the old you would take me into the men's bathroom, even though it's not true. In my mind the old you would bring a napkin and a butter knife and devise a way to jam the door. The old you would lift my skirt and lean me forward onto a urinal and grind your cock
against me slowly. Then you'd kiss me and tell me you love me and bury yourself in my cunt, my breasts, my mouth, my heart. The old you would tell me you liked my hair better short. The old you would.
I think these things to pacify myself. I think about how glad I am that you got your last promotion. I think about how lucky I am to have you around when I'm lonely. I think it could be a lot worse. It certainly could.
I order my fourth glass of wine.
I begin playing over what will happen on the way home: You turn the key, but don't start the car. Instead you turn it over just enough to start the radio and begin searching for a station. You find one, a slow, grinding jazz melody, and you begin to sing along. You rest your hand on my thigh while you use your other hand as a fake microphone. Your hand is warm, a familiar but distant stranger and I can't help but sigh. You grab my hands and move them back and forth like
we’re swing dancing from the waist up. We haven’t had this much fun in a long time.
You push me out and pull me in, then kiss me hard, still moving our hands to the music. You let go of me and pull up my shirt and then hum and lick and suck like my breasts are the key instruments in your radio jazz symphony. All around us lights flash as cars pull in and out. You move the seat back and pull me on top of you. There's not an incredible amount of room to move, but you make up for the lack of body movement with hand movement. Your palms graze my nipples, then slide up my shoulders to my ears. You swirl your finger so feather-like around the outsides of my lobes, and then draw me into you, your breath heavy, slightly moaning and for a moment, my ear canal becomes that spot between my legs.
Your tongue fills my ear, and I can smell a trace of tomato sauce on your breath. I’m close to coming, even though you’ve stopped moving my body. I begin rocking myself because I’m so close, but you stop me. You withhold your dick from me, making me beg with my breath and thighs and fingernails.
You hoist me up. I’m convinced that you’re going to sit me down in the passenger seat and make me wait till we get home, but instead you move me to the back seat, climb over the gear shift, arch your back and take me over with your tongue. You lap like a thirsty dog, steadying yourself on my thighs. Your cock is dangling from your fly, and I want to grab it but I can't reach because you’re holding me down.
One of my fake fingernails break off against your leather seat as I brace myself for
orgasm, and then it comes, streaming through my body like champagne erupting into the bottom of a glass.
But here's what will really happen: We'll talk very little on the way home. I'll thank you for dinner and you'll say you wished it hadn't sucked. We'll stop for gas. You'll play music I hate, then turn it up. I'll look out the window.
When we get to our apartment, you'll go play a video game. I'll run the dishwasher and read a book until I fall asleep. Which is exactly what happens minus my few moments of bravery.
"You were in a mood again tonight," I say. I brace myself.
"What's that supposed to mean?" "We had a total of five minutes of conversation and most of it was about how your spaghetti sucked and how that's my fault for not being able to cook."
"It's not my fault you take everything I say the wrong way."
"It doesn't matter. The point is, you were not very pleasant this evening. Or last evening. Or the evening before that.”
"So what are you saying? I'm a dick and you hate me?"
Bit your tongue, I tell myself. Bite it.
"No. But I know that's not how you really are and I know that I don't like it and I know I won't take much more of it." Yeah. Yeah. Keep going, I tell myself. I know this is as close as I have come to leaving you in four years whether you realize it or not. Closer than I was the time you left your 6th shrink. Closer than the time you got mad at your dad and punched through my car window. Closer than the time you slept through our anniversary dinner. Whether I
believe it or not.
And then, just like that, I turn around and leave you. I move to a big city and live a sitcom life and only look back during late nights at bars when my new lovers ask me about the man who was stupid enough to let me go.
Except you start yelling when I turn around and the only place I really go is upstairs. I get out old boxes of receipts and tally up exactly how much we've spent on psychiatrists you won't go to for more than a month. It's about two years’ rent on an apartment that could have been all my
own but I thought I could never afford. It's two new cars. It's fabulous appliances. Getaways. Not a box of wasted life.
Your sixth doctor told me that I am perpetuating your cycle. That you need
limits. That if you don't stay in therapy for good, I need to leave you for real. You need to realize that your actions have consequences. I need to stop supporting your demise and creating my own. I believe her now.
I have just become one of those women in all of those Women's Channel movies except you don't hit me. You never raped me. You didn't kidnap our children even though we don't have any. You didn't sleep with my best friend. You don't drink.
Damn.
You are moody and unpleasant.
What and evil, evil man you are.
I forget about your sixth shrink and spend the rest of the week feeling like an ungrateful bitch who can't appreciate you. Feeling guilty for asking you to change yourself on a daily basis to make me happy. Feeling like maybe if I’m unhappy, it's my problem, like maybe I invented some of your problems as excuses for my own. I realize that I can't cook. I realize that my hair does look better long. I realize that I could try a little too. Then you have a bad day at work and fly off the handle at me for no good reason. You make me cry. I hate to cry. You tell me you don't fucking care about anything. I hate to cry. You knock over the kitchen table and leave, squealing your tires. I hate to cry some more. Then
"Perpetuator of the Cycle" makes much more sense to me than "Ungrateful Bitch" so I decide that's my new label. Labels make things easier to deal with.
And I resolve to study your disease, learn all about it. I think about starting a support group for women with manic depressive husbands/lovers. I think about learning to love you for who you are.
Then your mom calls. She tells me that your dad checked himself out of rehab again, that no one's seen him in three days, that he's probably dead somewhere, cracked out on the side of the road. She says she's almost glad. She says she should have left him 30 yeas ago and had some chance at a life.
She should have left him 30 years ago? I panic. I run upstairs yelling "Not me! No no No! Not me! Not in this lifetime" and I pack my things as fast as my arms will move.
Then I think about how much you'll need me when you find out about your dad. I put my suitcase under the bed where you can't see it. It'll hurt enough for you to relive your childhood. I want to leave you and be there for you at the same time. I think about holding you and loving you and then leaving you in the middle of the night so you don't have to see me go. Maybe that's best for us.
This thought echos and echos: She should have left him thirty years ago.
I debate going. I debate staying. I debate finding your dad, taking him to your mom and beating the shit out of them for reproducing. I go online and price bus tickets. I almost have the courage. Almost.
I go to bed.
You come home an hour later and I pretend to be asleep. You move my book out of the way, take my glasses off and crawl in next to me. You're emotional, so I wonder if you talked to your mom or if you’re going to pull the same “I’m sorry” bullshit that you always do. I roll onto my back to ask you where you've been.
You reach your hands under my shirt and your palms float across my nipples so lightly that I wonder if it's you or a breeze from the open window. You don't answer any of my questions. Instead you speak to me in an entirely new language made up of warm, languid tongue. I smell that smell that no one in the world has but you and you wrap it all around me and pull me
into you. You look at me with the face that I swore I wanted to wake up to for the rest of my life and I’m about to cry because I've needed this for so long and it feels loving and it feels genuine and it feels apologetic.
You hug me and whisper that you're sorry and that you love me so much and I can feel your tears on my cheek.
Your fingertips begin a slow dance on my head, twirling my hair then moving across my lips like a sign language kiss of your own invention. You undress us both like you owe me the favor then kiss my belly on your way to the empty home of the babies we always dreamed about having. Your mouth is so warm and your tongue moves quickly. You lap like you’re digging yourself out of prison, steadying yourself on my thighs and I respond with magnetic frenzy, pulling you toward my body as if it could swallow you whole. It feels desperate. It
feels like you love me, like you know I want to leave you, like you need me to stay. It feels like you'll try to get better, like we'll be happy again. It feels like a miracle. It feels like you love me.
I wake up in the middle of the night trying to remember if this is true or not. You're still dressed. I'm still dressed. You still have your boots on. I think happy thoughts. At least you never beat me. At least you aren't cracked out on the side of the road. At least I’m not alone.
I ask myself questions as if they have answers. Is it even remotely worth it? To let you drag yourself down? To let you drag me down with you? Is love enough justification for all of this shit? Am I a stupid bitch for loving you so much? Am I destined to become your mother?
I look over at you grinding your teeth, drooling on your pillow, boots unlaced but still firmly attached and I take them off for you. I tuck you in. I kiss you on the cheek and lay back
down.
Tomorrow we will call your shrink. Tomorrow we’ll both go. We’ll go together or go we’ll go our separate ways. We’ll start digging up. We really will. Before we start running out of
tomorrows
Digging Up
Teresa Newsome (copyright 2002)
Word Count 2525
We can never decide where to eat. Neither of us will make the actual decision. You suggest a couple of places and then get agitated when I roll my eyes. I suggest a couple of places and you don't say a word. You just drive to the first place I mention because you’re sick of this game already. Your shrink would say it's those control issues of yours. They get worse during your manic states. Or maybe you're just an asshole. You certainly drive like one.
And I tell you again and again that you drive like a madman. That you're going to kill us both some day, but today I’m not just nagging. Today I think I really do hate all of this - hate you. Hate you just as much as I love you. Today you are a ball of manic depressive phlegm stuck deep in the back of my throat. Today you need to see your shrink. Today I need to leave you.
During dinner you act like a child. You pout and play with your food and don't even eat it. Then you bitch about the price of a decent plate of spaghetti and remind me that I can't even remotely cook. You tell me that you liked my hair better when it was long. You ask me to
stop leaving my clothes on the bathroom floor.
I tell you to fuck off. I try to laugh. Try to play it off like I’m teasing you, but you're in a mood again tonight. Every night. You yell at me in the middle of the restaurant. I thank you for ruining another evening.
I think about how you were six months ago. Before you left your eighth therapist in three years. When you didn't sleep all day. And when you weren't the monster crawling out of your nightmares on those rare occasions that your eyes were open – like tonight. Back then you cared
about your job. You cared about your friends. You cared about me and my thighs
and my tongue. You cared about us.
Our waitress is a prom queen or something and you eye her for longer than I can stand. I flip my shoe off and slide my leg up your thigh, hoping to feel a firm cock so I can get mad and leave. You aren't hard. I leave my foot there, and seductively suck on a bread stick, pushing my
tits together to expose a deep, rich cleavage. I’m practically illegal before I give up. You look, but you still aren't hard. At least you look.
I think about how the old you would take me into the men's bathroom, even though it's not true. In my mind the old you would bring a napkin and a butter knife and devise a way to jam the door. The old you would lift my skirt and lean me forward onto a urinal and grind your cock
against me slowly. Then you'd kiss me and tell me you love me and bury yourself in my cunt, my breasts, my mouth, my heart. The old you would tell me you liked my hair better short. The old you would.
I think these things to pacify myself. I think about how glad I am that you got your last promotion. I think about how lucky I am to have you around when I'm lonely. I think it could be a lot worse. It certainly could.
I order my fourth glass of wine.
I begin playing over what will happen on the way home: You turn the key, but don't start the car. Instead you turn it over just enough to start the radio and begin searching for a station. You find one, a slow, grinding jazz melody, and you begin to sing along. You rest your hand on my thigh while you use your other hand as a fake microphone. Your hand is warm, a familiar but distant stranger and I can't help but sigh. You grab my hands and move them back and forth like
we’re swing dancing from the waist up. We haven’t had this much fun in a long time.
You push me out and pull me in, then kiss me hard, still moving our hands to the music. You let go of me and pull up my shirt and then hum and lick and suck like my breasts are the key instruments in your radio jazz symphony. All around us lights flash as cars pull in and out. You move the seat back and pull me on top of you. There's not an incredible amount of room to move, but you make up for the lack of body movement with hand movement. Your palms graze my nipples, then slide up my shoulders to my ears. You swirl your finger so feather-like around the outsides of my lobes, and then draw me into you, your breath heavy, slightly moaning and for a moment, my ear canal becomes that spot between my legs.
Your tongue fills my ear, and I can smell a trace of tomato sauce on your breath. I’m close to coming, even though you’ve stopped moving my body. I begin rocking myself because I’m so close, but you stop me. You withhold your dick from me, making me beg with my breath and thighs and fingernails.
You hoist me up. I’m convinced that you’re going to sit me down in the passenger seat and make me wait till we get home, but instead you move me to the back seat, climb over the gear shift, arch your back and take me over with your tongue. You lap like a thirsty dog, steadying yourself on my thighs. Your cock is dangling from your fly, and I want to grab it but I can't reach because you’re holding me down.
One of my fake fingernails break off against your leather seat as I brace myself for
orgasm, and then it comes, streaming through my body like champagne erupting into the bottom of a glass.
But here's what will really happen: We'll talk very little on the way home. I'll thank you for dinner and you'll say you wished it hadn't sucked. We'll stop for gas. You'll play music I hate, then turn it up. I'll look out the window.
When we get to our apartment, you'll go play a video game. I'll run the dishwasher and read a book until I fall asleep. Which is exactly what happens minus my few moments of bravery.
"You were in a mood again tonight," I say. I brace myself.
"What's that supposed to mean?" "We had a total of five minutes of conversation and most of it was about how your spaghetti sucked and how that's my fault for not being able to cook."
"It's not my fault you take everything I say the wrong way."
"It doesn't matter. The point is, you were not very pleasant this evening. Or last evening. Or the evening before that.”
"So what are you saying? I'm a dick and you hate me?"
Bit your tongue, I tell myself. Bite it.
"No. But I know that's not how you really are and I know that I don't like it and I know I won't take much more of it." Yeah. Yeah. Keep going, I tell myself. I know this is as close as I have come to leaving you in four years whether you realize it or not. Closer than I was the time you left your 6th shrink. Closer than the time you got mad at your dad and punched through my car window. Closer than the time you slept through our anniversary dinner. Whether I
believe it or not.
And then, just like that, I turn around and leave you. I move to a big city and live a sitcom life and only look back during late nights at bars when my new lovers ask me about the man who was stupid enough to let me go.
Except you start yelling when I turn around and the only place I really go is upstairs. I get out old boxes of receipts and tally up exactly how much we've spent on psychiatrists you won't go to for more than a month. It's about two years’ rent on an apartment that could have been all my
own but I thought I could never afford. It's two new cars. It's fabulous appliances. Getaways. Not a box of wasted life.
Your sixth doctor told me that I am perpetuating your cycle. That you need
limits. That if you don't stay in therapy for good, I need to leave you for real. You need to realize that your actions have consequences. I need to stop supporting your demise and creating my own. I believe her now.
I have just become one of those women in all of those Women's Channel movies except you don't hit me. You never raped me. You didn't kidnap our children even though we don't have any. You didn't sleep with my best friend. You don't drink.
Damn.
You are moody and unpleasant.
What and evil, evil man you are.
I forget about your sixth shrink and spend the rest of the week feeling like an ungrateful bitch who can't appreciate you. Feeling guilty for asking you to change yourself on a daily basis to make me happy. Feeling like maybe if I’m unhappy, it's my problem, like maybe I invented some of your problems as excuses for my own. I realize that I can't cook. I realize that my hair does look better long. I realize that I could try a little too. Then you have a bad day at work and fly off the handle at me for no good reason. You make me cry. I hate to cry. You tell me you don't fucking care about anything. I hate to cry. You knock over the kitchen table and leave, squealing your tires. I hate to cry some more. Then
"Perpetuator of the Cycle" makes much more sense to me than "Ungrateful Bitch" so I decide that's my new label. Labels make things easier to deal with.
And I resolve to study your disease, learn all about it. I think about starting a support group for women with manic depressive husbands/lovers. I think about learning to love you for who you are.
Then your mom calls. She tells me that your dad checked himself out of rehab again, that no one's seen him in three days, that he's probably dead somewhere, cracked out on the side of the road. She says she's almost glad. She says she should have left him 30 yeas ago and had some chance at a life.
She should have left him 30 years ago? I panic. I run upstairs yelling "Not me! No no No! Not me! Not in this lifetime" and I pack my things as fast as my arms will move.
Then I think about how much you'll need me when you find out about your dad. I put my suitcase under the bed where you can't see it. It'll hurt enough for you to relive your childhood. I want to leave you and be there for you at the same time. I think about holding you and loving you and then leaving you in the middle of the night so you don't have to see me go. Maybe that's best for us.
This thought echos and echos: She should have left him thirty years ago.
I debate going. I debate staying. I debate finding your dad, taking him to your mom and beating the shit out of them for reproducing. I go online and price bus tickets. I almost have the courage. Almost.
I go to bed.
You come home an hour later and I pretend to be asleep. You move my book out of the way, take my glasses off and crawl in next to me. You're emotional, so I wonder if you talked to your mom or if you’re going to pull the same “I’m sorry” bullshit that you always do. I roll onto my back to ask you where you've been.
You reach your hands under my shirt and your palms float across my nipples so lightly that I wonder if it's you or a breeze from the open window. You don't answer any of my questions. Instead you speak to me in an entirely new language made up of warm, languid tongue. I smell that smell that no one in the world has but you and you wrap it all around me and pull me
into you. You look at me with the face that I swore I wanted to wake up to for the rest of my life and I’m about to cry because I've needed this for so long and it feels loving and it feels genuine and it feels apologetic.
You hug me and whisper that you're sorry and that you love me so much and I can feel your tears on my cheek.
Your fingertips begin a slow dance on my head, twirling my hair then moving across my lips like a sign language kiss of your own invention. You undress us both like you owe me the favor then kiss my belly on your way to the empty home of the babies we always dreamed about having. Your mouth is so warm and your tongue moves quickly. You lap like you’re digging yourself out of prison, steadying yourself on my thighs and I respond with magnetic frenzy, pulling you toward my body as if it could swallow you whole. It feels desperate. It
feels like you love me, like you know I want to leave you, like you need me to stay. It feels like you'll try to get better, like we'll be happy again. It feels like a miracle. It feels like you love me.
I wake up in the middle of the night trying to remember if this is true or not. You're still dressed. I'm still dressed. You still have your boots on. I think happy thoughts. At least you never beat me. At least you aren't cracked out on the side of the road. At least I’m not alone.
I ask myself questions as if they have answers. Is it even remotely worth it? To let you drag yourself down? To let you drag me down with you? Is love enough justification for all of this shit? Am I a stupid bitch for loving you so much? Am I destined to become your mother?
I look over at you grinding your teeth, drooling on your pillow, boots unlaced but still firmly attached and I take them off for you. I tuck you in. I kiss you on the cheek and lay back
down.
Tomorrow we will call your shrink. Tomorrow we’ll both go. We’ll go together or go we’ll go our separate ways. We’ll start digging up. We really will. Before we start running out of
tomorrows
