He pushed deeper inside of his wife. Her gasp pushed her warm breath onto his full lips, her brow furrowed in borrowed ecstasy. He wound his arms around her, sharing the air between their mouths and the sweat on their skin. “Tell me you love me,” he said as he watched her. She squirmed on top of him, trapped like a field mouse and its slithering predator. He filled her again and again with no remorse for her moans. “Tell me. Say it.”
“I love you.”
He rolled over deftly, still tucked away but she was different, her scent spreading through the room: honeysuckle and orchids. She pushed her knees back so he could peer down and watch her love bloom for him. He pressed his lips onto her knees as he dipped inside of her. He could feel every muscle inside of her twitch around him and he felt himself unravel with every thrust. He wanted to hate her; he wanted to stop and drag her into the deepest hole the federal government could provide. Yet, he wanted nothing but to bury himself deep inside of her, to release the thick sorrow and melancholy that kept him captive. He was trapped in quicksand; a harrowing love for his dead wife and the forbidden lust he possessed for the thief.
I graduated from Windsor University two years ago with my Bachelors in Interpersonal Communication with a minor in Marketing. Somehow, Malcolm Henderson Jr. High School thought I was more than qualified to serve as their guidance counselor, a cushier job than I expected fresh from college. I didn’t realize the reason behind my hiring was the fact that the school was nearly broke and they could only afford a “guidance counselor” who didn’t think to go into negotiation concerning salary. So when we received the mass memo that the school would not be reopening for the 2015-2016 school year, my jaw hit the floor.Read More »