She and I have both gotten kind of drunk, and we spend most of the walk back to my place stumbling against each other. We do our best to navigate the sidewalk out of the corner of our eyes while we kiss. Her blue-green summer dress feels smooth against my hands. In the heat it makes me think of water.
We stumble through the front door, and I have to stretch out my arm to set the lock while she pushes me deeper inside. I very nearly fall on my ass as we make our way down the hall, and a couple of times she steps on my feet. She’s already undoing the buttons on my shirt, and when we fall onto the mattress I pull my arms from my sleeves and yank down the straps of her dress.
We roll over, and I peel the dress off her, kissing my way down as I go. Her pale thighs clench and shake as I make my way down her legs. The dress slips past her red flats with a whisper. I reach overhead and slide her panties down until they join the dress.
Her fingers are working their way through my hair. She runs one leg back and forth against the crotch of my pants. I tease between her legs with the tip of my nose. She gives a small moan through her heavy breathing.
The gaff is such a small, thin thing. The strings that hold it in place are so fine they’re almost invisible in the dark. The patch at the front is a slim rectangle of black satin. The garment holds tight to her, so tight it’s practically a tattoo.
When I pull it down everything stays in place. She’s turned on but she’s had practice keeping everything under control in case of arousal. Now she reaches down and works a lavender nail inside, slowly rocking her wrist until her finger is in to the middle knuckle. She hooks it and pulls it back out, and her cock and scrotum unfold from her. It’s almost like it’s blooming. I think of rosebuds, and the imagery makes me smile and give a small chuckle.
I feel her tense up. “What?” she asks.
“Oh, just,” I grin and chuckle again. “It made me think of a flower.” I laugh and imitate the motion with my hands. I lower my head to go down on her but she slides away from me, crawling backwards until she’s on the edge of the bed. Her thighs are crossed, and the gaff hangs between her knees.
Now it’s my turn to ask: “What?”
She just sits there, looking hurt. She covers her chest with one arm, and scoops up the bra she threw off with the other.
“Maybe we shouldn’t,” she tells me. She runs a hand across her face, down each cheek.
“If you’re not comfortable.”
“I’m totally comfortable.”
She looks unconvinced. “No. We really don’t have to. It’s okay.” She slips the bra on and fastens it, then runs her hand across her face again.
“Hey, what is this?” I crawl across the bed to her, but she turns around. I scoop her hair off her neck and kiss her shoulder. She slides away from me a bit, tucks herself, and pulls on the gaff before getting up. The strings are so fine she looks bottomless from behind.
“You’re clearly not comfortable,” she says as she walks over to her dress.
“Of course I’m comfortable. Babe!” I get up to follow. “I wasn’t laughing at you, I swear! I was just happy. I was enjoying myself!”
She slides on her panties and picks her dress up. Earlier the feel of it made me think of water. Now, in the moonlight, it looks as though she’s dangling a small wave from her hands.
I come up to her and try to pull her close, but she squirms away from me. She flicks the dress, then slides it on overhead. She runs a quick hand across her face again, and it’s only just now occurred to me why she’s doing that. She’s checking.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you self-conscious.”
“I’ll just call you tomorrow. It’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t! You know that doesn’t actually bother me, right?”
She finishes adjusting her dress, then squints and dabs at each eye with her fingertips. Her breath hitches and she ducks her head so her black hair hides her face. She bounces on her heels in frustration, the flats making a hollow slap against the wood floor.
“I just…” She takes a moment before finishing her thought. “Can I please just have a second?”
I leave her to it, closing the door and making my way to the kitchen. It’s probably best I leave anyway. I’m boiling mad now, and feeling, as most bullies do, like I’m being treated unfairly. I need to cool off before I make things worse.
I’m halfway through a glass of ice water before she comes out. She finds her clutch by the sofa, then turns and finds me sitting in the kitchen. She’s quiet for a long moment.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and she sounds so small when she says it I just want to jump off a bridge.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” I admit.
She runs her fingers through her hair, touching her cheek each time. “Can I call you tomorrow?”
“No. I’ll call you.” Because I just can’t resist the urge to be a victimized son of a bitch. Of course the comment hurts her, worries her. I can see her eyes widen a little, her pout deepen a little. Jesus Christ, haven’t I hurt her enough already?
I let the quiet hang there until she lets herself out. I wait a few minutes before slamming down my glass and grabbing my keys. I run out after her, racing to where she’s walking, already a block away. I have this half-baked idea to offer her a ride, but it’ll probably devolve into me just begging her to come back inside. I’m still in my undershirt. I never closed my fly. I see her under a streetlight. The image of her walking alone makes me want to stop, fall down, and cry, but instead I wave my arms and I call her name. I’m desperate to catch her, and even more desperate to hold on.