A Moment in the Dark

A tense moment in low light where two people meet. Contains content which may offend.

Image Credit: 
Public Domain

Her breath’s coming quick and hard. Her eyes are closed, her chest rising and falling, and she looks so good, she has no idea what she does to you.

Your breath mirrors hers. You thought you’d be calmer, be cooler; in your head this moment was different, you were different, and for a second fear flashes through you: she’s going to laugh at you, she’s going to laugh and the moment will be ruined. But then she opens her eyes, those huge amazing eyes, and she looks at you.

She looks at you, and your heart is a drum inside your skull, breath and pulse and heat riding together.

You gaze at her, marvelling at the sense of her body standing so close against yours, the pale arch of her neck in the darkness, the scent of her in your nose, the feel of her body, breasts and hips tight up against you, she must be able to feel how hard you are, she must be able to tell. She gasps, gives a tiny moan, her wrists are so fragile in your hands, delicate bones and tendons, her fingers spread like flower petals.

She says, and her breath is a whisper: “I’ll hold you.”

You can’t think straight. All you can smell is her, all you can hear is your breath, yours and hers together.

She says: “I’ll hold you, please, I’m good at this, I can make you come, please.”

And you know, you know this is the moment, this is how it was meant to be, you know it’s true, so you drop her wrists and fumble for your belt, and her hand is there, soft and perfect, and you’re there too, hot and hard in her hand, and she holds you and you can’t stop yourself gasping.

She says: “Oh. Please.”

You feel like crying, but you mustn’t cry, that’s not how this moment goes. She moves her hand, she holds you tight. And then too tight, far too tight, and it hurts, and then

and then she wrenches her wrist and the whole world twists into agony, spiralling into a black pit of pain that fires into your kidneys and stomach and rises out of your throat with bile, and blood from your bitten tongue, and you can’t breathe, you can’t breathe.

There’s dirt underneath your cheek, and your vision is a blur, but you can see her running, she’s running away from you, back along the alleyway to the main road, and then there’s nothing, there’s nothing left at all. She’s gone. The moment is over.

Your mouth is full of blood, and you can’t breathe.

Alice Olivia Scarlett is a freelance writer and editor. She lives in Thanet with the seagulls and parakeets.

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