Lusty Blood

Clawing his way into my mind, his face is being etched in my head; like a police drawing, a vision that resembles him but there are some mistakes. His eyes are wider apart than this and they’re a lighter shade of blue. Almost a baby blue with a hint of green that meandered around his pupil. His nose is correct in length yet it curves to the side half way down, a gentle curve. You could be walking past him on a bright street. Observing a small child getting their shoelaces done up by a mother clearly in a rush; you didn’t see him approach and so you bump into his shoulder by accident, you would then instantly forget him. You could see him in a store, that man down aisle eleven with the fluffy, black beanie on his head, picking up a can of Heinz soup and then putting it down and getting Campbell’s instead, but you’ll forget about him two minutes later. He must pass so many people in a day, a lot of people every day will encounter him, see his face, gaze into his eyes or flick their eyes away from him awkwardly. It is only if you have the time to stop, and stare into his eyes, recognise the gleam of green that drifts around inside there. I only noticed it after we met. But it wasn’t until he was thrusting deep inside of me that I was truly able to stare into his eyes.

I had walked through a gateway to a new dimension where everything was colourful. Before me stood a medieval tower that I wanted to explore; part of me wanted Rapunzel to let down her long hair so I could climb up. Brick by brick I pulled myself up the tower. The guards below began to throw spears at me, hitting me, jabbing me with a strong sensation of pain yet it wasn’t stopping me; every moment of pain only made me climb faster. Most of the bricks were coloured a dark grey with the less obvious lighter grey ones, held together barely by a crumbling cement. I was climbing up to the wooden framed window I could see near the top of the tower, just beyond my reach. Beyond that, the thatched roof was ready to sprinkle me in hay, should I rock the tower enough. My hands finally gripped the warm touch of the wooden window ledge, almost too warm. My hands burned and I released my grip, allowing myself to be thrown backwards. I fell faster and faster towards the ground, I rolled over mid-air to face it. As I approached the ground warped into a sea of jelly, splashing me in the face as I hit it.

I awoke back in my bed with a long, hairy arm resting over my waist. It was his. I rolled over and was greeted by his entrancing eyes and a small smile. Before I could wish him a good morning, the rough touch of his beard scratched gently at my chin, his tongue inside of my mouth and his hands all over my body. I was so lost in pleasure that I forgot what was wrong with this scene. He isn’t my husband. He could come home any minute now and catch us together. I think about my husband for a brief moment and then he is gone from my mind, a distant memory lost in momentary pleasure. The moment was over; we lay sweaty and tired in my married bed. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and began dressing himself,

“Where are you going” I said

“Probably should go, message me yeah” He replied as he left the door.

I now lay sweaty and tired in my husband’s bed covered in another man’s sweat. Looking around the room I’m reminded of the life I tell people I live. The stained wood with the word love carved into it hangs above my bed. A picture of my husband and I stares me in the face sitting on our chest of draws, were it really him then he could have witnessed the entire act. That chest of draws was a gift from his mother I think, she gave them to us when we bought the house; I have no idea why, the oak wooden frame is falling apart and nearly every draw has a different handle from the originals falling off from age. Its varnish was tearing away and peeling off the sides like a sticker that you can’t peel off. To the side of that is the door through which my husband exists and my lover enters. I try not to think what other doors lie on the landing because they lead to my children’s rooms and I can’t bring myself to think about what they would say about me if they knew. Blinding my mind’s eye and opening my natural eyes I realise I’m still naked and sweaty in bed, I should shower before the husband comes home. I do so and head downstairs to the kitchen, trying to decide what to cook for dinner.

After a while my husband finally came home, he didn’t seem to be happy. Perhaps he knew what I had done, perhaps he was going to tell me he has known for a long time. “Everything okay honey?” I asked

“Yeah, just a slow day at work” He replied

I sighed with relief and he almost noticed but thankfully he moved on from it and instead went into the dining room. I brought him through his dinner and we sat in silence; Eating. It was a peaceful silence though, not an awkward silence or the kind of silence that we have after an argument. It was a nice silence.

“How ‘as your day darlin’” He asked me

“It was okay thanks, saw Todd earlier today” I replied.

“Ah, how is my favourite brother in law?” He asked.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.