Pure Obsession (Finn) - Chapter Five - Sex Stories

Pure Obsession (Finn) - Chapter Five

... sheets, all bodies and imaginations, and it would remind me of John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men where George and Lennie would talk about the farm they planned to own. And it seemed like a wistful dream, but it was such a beautiful dream that I couldn’t let it go. Alessandra made me believe that we could do it, her soft voice painting a vivid picture in my head of a vibrant, lively, renowned restaurant with our names above the door. The only problem we had was where to get the money. I was by this time literally living off what I made as a cleaner, and though I knew I could get the money in a heartbeat from my family, it wasn’t something I wanted to do. We’d puzzle about it, me and her, winding aimlessly through the London streets and speculating on how we could rob a bank or win big at a casino. It was all just fantasy, but she believed in me and what I could do, and it gave me this warmth and happiness which I’d never felt before. I liked talking to her, being with her, her hand in mine as we wandered past houses and shops, comfortable in each other’s company. I was in love. I could see my entire life being spent with her; marriage, kids, all those things I’d laughed at before. I loved the way she smiled, the way she leaned into me, the feel of her hair. She always looked so perfect. These days, you sometimes can’t tell the difference between a man and a woman by the way they dress or wear their hair, but Alessandra was all woman. She wore sheer blouses and floral prints ...

... and lacy tops over skinny jeans. Nobody could have faulted her style. I liked the way she turned heads, the way peoples eyes were drawn to her legs when she wore shorts or a skirt, and it didn’t make me jealous, because she seemed blissfully unaware of the attention. The attraction between us was something no one else could touch; I felt fully confident that I trusted her, and the faith was mutual. I was changing on the inside, becoming more open to meeting new people and doing things which I’d always looked down on before. We met up with her parents a couple of times, did lunch, exchanged pleasantries and in all honesty, I enjoyed it. They were great people, warm and affectionate, and they clearly adored her. I found it easy to talk to them, and they seemed to like me, which definitely made things easier. Everything was going well. Almost too well. “Don’t you talk to your parents?” Alessandra asked, one evening. It was raining outside, a real thunderstorm which had been building up its rage throughout the preceding weeks of blissful sun. Alessandra was showing me how to make lemon drizzle cake, as apparently if I was to own a restaurant, I had to at least be a baker, if not a pastry chef. “I do,” I said. ”Just not that often.” “Don’t you miss them?” “No. I kind of learned to live without them,” I said truthfully. “They’re not very much like me.” “I used to hate my dad,” she confessed. “He always went on about how I was throwing my life away being a dancer. I didn’t talk to him ...