Desolation - Sex Stories

Desolation

... easier to come clean and then the truth is easy. You don’t have to make an effort to remember it. I can hear the sound of the ocean. The sky is so blue it hurts my eyes. I wonder what will happen when we go home. Mark and I won’t be together anymore. It’s almost depressing. I think of the stony concrete and the grey skies, the drizzle and the frost on the cars. It’s suffocating but in a cold way. We’ll still have to see each other at work. The thought doesn’t scare me but I don’t want him to feel awkward. Maybe I should get a different job. I think of my desk. Hole puncher, stapler, calculator, potted plant, empty out-tray and overflowing in-tray. The coffee mug. Pens. “What are you thinking?” Trent’s voice is like a breath of fresh air. “Nothing.” “And what’s nothing like?” I shake my head and walk over to him. I don’t know what he wants, beyond the sex of course. He’s not the kind of guy you’d expect to be looking for an attachment and that’s the only reason I ever gave him a shot. I don’t think I could stand it if he wanted to connect in any way other than the physical. Men like him aren’t supposed to be emotional. I start worrying that he might disappoint me. I think of the first time, barely a week ago, against the door of the club toilet. I could blame it on drinking but that wouldn’t be true. I wanted him. His hand under my skirt, pressing against my damp underwear. I could hear the music, still loud and there was a queue outside the door, people banging on it, ...

... wanting us to hurry up. They must have known what we were doing. But they didn’t know how it felt. They couldn’t feel his hard cock slamming in over and over, the sweaty palms, the aching urgency. He was a stranger in a foreign country but feeling him inside me, my back against the cubicle door, I felt like I was home. Home isn’t about where people live or where you grew up. It’s where you feel like everything is right. Home is those minutes of nothing where all you feel is a hard body and fulfilment. Nothing more, nothing less. I think of the places I’ve been through. The damp walls and the sound of mice in winter. The burst water pipes and taped-up windows. I’d always dream that I’d find a way out, live in a nice place, warm and safe. And I’ve made it. I’ve got what I wanted but now it’s not enough. There’s something desperately lonely about life. I don’t know if other people feel it. I probably won’t ever find out. The only person who knows me is me and the only person I can talk to on some real level is myself. I want someone real in my life. Someone who is as problematic as me, someone who would get me. I think of the European guy who moved into the apartment next door almost seven months ago. I don’t know why he even crosses my mind. He’s not especially attractive and he’s a good few years older than me. He’s not polite, and he doesn’t even know my name. But something stirs inside me every time I see him. I don’t know what it is. It doesn’t matter. A dream. A fantasy. Some ...