Tera [from PROWL] – Sean Kilpatrick
December 26, 2019
Puberty caught up and knuckled me under, file sharing necrophile fan club pics and preteen snuff footage circulated by elite, clandestine cults online, security cam footage of girls crushed under locomotives. One sailed out of her socks and skin and I was mentally on the tracks, mating with her shivering halves in a three-way before the next impending train. Around then, I chose to take a furlough from my dick. A different uterine lining was being shed by its girl every month in class, downgrading porn to a concept. One week of depravation imbued me with an undiscovered talent for banter. Chummy with any receptive female, I synthesized an ability to incite the recherché smile of my favorite: Tera. She had curly, raven-like, waist-length hair juxtaposed by milk-colored skin. Cute oval face, petite figure contradicted by an approaching buxomness, a subconsciously suggested fertility curved around the distance you’d pitch your biggest come up, a pre-voluptuous siren with eyes to match the bangs she chewed. Goth in demeanor, but bouncy – a kicked-off-the-cheerleading-squad blend of elemental girl accomplishment, a refined compilation of fetishes. Mind-numbing in her skill to shift from tried-a-cigarette-once-smart-ass to airheaded-princess-giggling-to-be-fingered. Out of my league, but they all were. She possessed the best feature of every type, a living homage to the success of her own body. I wasn’t sure if I’d composed Tera from some jasmine-scented dementia after too much self-abuse. A team of robots assembled her to give me tennis elbow. There was intense competition to be noticed by her, if the teacher ducked out. The teacher was a lazy nun who had us correct each other’s papers. Tera drew little hearts around her name when she failed my math homework. A sublime tenacity, suicidal in nature, obsessive-compulsive in practice, brought her into the nerve damage of my worship. Homeroom found our desks situated on either end of the room. Tera crossed and uncrossed her legs. The plaid skirt rode up more than the regulation inch above her knees, displaying perfectly rounded calves disrupted from their pallor only by a single red spot where her flesh had settled, resting against itself. Due to the arrangement, if she shifted enough – if all you did was stare – pink panties sometimes flashed. The sunken outline of her cunt, wetted slightly, I imagined, a calligraphy beyond religion, caused me to assault my khakis with a pile of books.
Tera had a twin brother as equally divorced from the status quo as I was. Serendipitously, or through sheer will, we became friends. I don’t recall planning to like him under false pretenses. We just hated the same aspects of life: primarily everything. Their house was within walking distance of the school. I saw where Tera slept, the heartthrobs taped to the ceiling she touched herself beneath. I found reasons to haunt the room’s doorframe, sniffing her edible hamper. She often brushed past us as she entered or exited the shower, changing her bathing schedule, perhaps, I hoped, peripherally aware of a new slavering audience member. Ethereal in a billowy silk robe light blue enough to fill in her silhouette, Tera padded over the floorboards, leaving tiny wet footprints for me to skew with my finger. Tucking the phone against her shoulder, she switched jeans under a towel in front of me. I went home and made the characters of a two player fighter game hold each other in compromising positions, because the female pixelation resembled her. I feared becoming a fly on the wall type of buddy she’d never regard as a threat. Would she soon piss in front of me by accident, without my demanding it?
Loitering on Tera’s porch with her skinny female friend, a car lurked to a yield, issuing three pops. Small-caliber bullets pinged off the house’s siding. Tera instinctually braced her palms on my chest, compressing her body against mine, trying to fold herself into a smaller target. It was just the noise, she lied, embarrassed at her reaction – and how my pants had become secondary to the erection charging through them. There was a looming, primal sense of life and death that prevented her from giggling at my faux paus. Her subconscious elicitation for security ameliorated my angst about how she might view us. Our bodies had informed her. This amplified the obsession, rerunning Tera shimmying out of her blue bathrobe, under which was a viciously monitored glimpse of the famous pink panties. I was so provoked, ornate table legs became reminiscent of her contour. Tera ran a wire through my wet dreams, coiling her calves around a rubber glove that stroked the bones exposed, waking me up mid-ejaculation. Being near her was a constant galvanic skin response.
In a cannonading gymnasium, despite music designed for urinating onto preteens like us, an uncharacteristically shy Tera accepted my invitation to slow dance. There was a premediated carnality to requesting we move together at the opposite pace of everyone around us. She wore a tight black dress cut low. The erection I shoved on and rode against its center led to an endurance match as to whether she would address us. For a short time, she accepted my upheavals, swaying with each pulse. Before I could swipe myself to completion, she broke away, overwhelmed, foisting her malnourished friend against me. The friend was not unattractive, and I had to excuse myself before I dampened the material between us. She was too niche a proxy for my more stubborn fixation. The precum in my boxers could have held a beehive in suspension.
Her brother, annoyed by these transparencies, mostly indifferent, sitting alongside a few others at our lab table, insisted, partaking in some jaded thesis, that girls are all an alike entity. Only the pussy-whipped limited their potential to a singular advance. Underlining the female’s flimsy nature, he switched tables, complimenting two girls behind us, trotting out boiler plate, socially adept, psychologically deriding placations, and presented their giggles to me with an extended flourish of the hand. Unbeknownst to the cheerleaders, he jingled a set of keys above their heads. I respected his opinion, conceding that many men, including our boomer parents, bowed under ambivalently monogamous mates who displayed a browbeating, dissociated queenliness, spoiled by the lifelong perusal of partner after partner, but I followed this up by pointing out that a unique quality of intelligence clearly ran in his family, or he wouldn’t be able to illustrate his point so effectively. When another in our group restated his conclusion as a blunt insult, I tripped over our own gender’s gridlock, mandated by a law dumber than its distribution, and shoved him into the wall. Tera happened by when the brawl was leaning in my favor, and I thought I saw her bite her finger, gnawing on the prize flesh our brains detested and our bodies unwittingly responded to. We compromised, reduced to the discussion of Tera as a debilitating topic. We scrutinize the feminine form, doling out slaver after slaver, I offered, holding a cold pop can against my head, by dint of genetic girding uncontrollable at this juncture in our groins, so why complain? They never dedicate…Why should they have to, if we’re the ones with the impetus toward elevating every attention spent on them into something perhaps holy? A gaze sustains its object, which is magnified by the flattery of a frame. If you build a fine enough frame you can get your subject to stand still forever. He pretended to hump my head.
Her brother and I were in their basement, listening to angry music, when Tera cavorted forth like a kitten on amphetamines, ambushing us with a can of silly string. I grappled round her waist to impede the dousing, wrestling with obscene playfulness, interpreting the entendre of this chemical spurt as an admission on her part. Her brother left to mow the lawn in disgust. Tera, plucking a fizzling stream from my shoulder, allowed my grip around her waist to linger. Our eyes snagged on each other’s. She grazed the drumming reoccurrence between us, on purpose. I was weightlifting her with my pants. We kissed like I’d bark her face off. Conscious of being too eager, unable to yield, I backed us against a wall and let our tongues web together, a bow of breath upon each earlobe, buzzing reward circuits till they merged a fomenting nexus, whispering ecclesiastical allegiances, lost in the mania of her taste. She paused the attack to express reluctance. People at school concerned her, likely my negligible standing therein. I licked her lips back shut. There is no society to an impulse, I shushed. She agreed, coasting on my urge, a flattered passenger of it. We stole a few last nips before her brother returned. Our connection demanded no less than meeting late at night in her room.
I took up knife throwing to alleviate sexual tension, stuttering OCD bets with myself after each throw. A can of silly string aided masturbation. We were no longer a haphazard accordance between my crackling palm and fate. In class the next day, she passed a note, cancelling our appointment. My response was to show up outside of her friend’s birthday party – a skating rink an endless bike ride away. She ignored me in the chaos of girlfriends. A line of string hit her as she skated by stuffed into short-shorts so revealing I could have guessed her wipe pattern. She hobbled close. I helped her pick at the webbing. It dissolved against her blushing skin. We resumed a brief match of slap and block. I had to carry her over my shoulder, wheels spinning with each kick, stuffing her between arcade games. Struggling, her ass rammed us almost coital. My palm dragged the front of her shorts. Blushing took on a new character. She clawed me, in what I assumed was pleasure. I didn’t care if it was panic, because the teeth of her zipper felt wetted. I sucked her from my finger pads. We separated, seeking against witnesses. I showed her the lines of blood her nails made on my arm, the bruises by my spine. She cooed and petted, agreeing about tomorrow night. I could see scars up her arms. Self-inflicted, she whispered, with a hush motion, curtsying dementedly. I removed one of her skates and broke off the wheel.
Waiting, awake in bed, I snuck out of my room, zipping five miles to her house, through crackheads fighting with their own clothes and prostitutes bowling purses toward the bike spokes. Ninja-slinking through the backyard – her father owned multiple guns – I leaned the bike against some torn siding and, standing on the wobbly seat, rapped her window. Trapped there for eternities, balancing on the stilt of my erection – Tera’s fingers slipped under the screen, lifting partway – I tried from my side and almost fell. Tumbling through many lives and deaths at the behest of this daft obstacle, risking everything, I finally busted the screen off the hinge, staggering onto her bed like an inebriated burglar. We remained stunned, in the same position, holding the ripped screen between us, awaiting capture. I eased the frame, poinking the mesh along her nails, down without a sound, thanking the effects of drugs, alcohol, or music that kept everyone else in the house unconscious, and said hi.
We exchanged variations on the word hi. I took her hands in mine and kissed her, hesitant as possible, with a savoring that went beyond perversity, into sacrament. Tera wore the famous bathrobe. As if she’d need to clean herself for what I was about to do. I plucked it from her body in one motion. She pressed against my clothes, trembling, helping me grab them off. We sunk below the covers, passed together through an unknown voltage. My cock slapped her tummy in the fumble. She had shaved herself, or was a late bloomer. We started and stopped the process of my mounting. I sat back, catching at the air, making out with her foot, licking up to the backs of her knees, almost coming on her as she spread her small slit. Born into the task with no question against rhythm, I took to her pussy – which tasted as if cinnamon had replaced carbon at the formation of the world. She unfolded against my folding tongue, juicing heavier with each drink. Her foot rose under me, toes bent stroking what was going to be premature either way. We paused together before the terminal jut, somehow knowing, not that our minds were active anymore. She wanted other things done to her before the explosion set in. Childhood test runs and a thousand hours of porn were panning out, but now book knowledge became instinct. I flubbed and bit her ass, rabid. She kicked, whisper-screaming, scuffling. I smooched the wound, following into her asshole, sampling other pinks. Breaking contact, out of shyness, she abated. I got us on our knees and painted the area with precum, trying to shove home anywhere. Tera yelped and turned over, obscured behind her black curtain of hair, staring through it like a piece of prey reaching acceptance. Navigating me over and on top, single-gripped, she lined us up, my clumsy assistance to no avail, excitement bordering on anxiety. The nails of her free hand dug into my chest to indicate pain and pacing. A tuft of slit bundled in dick tip, enlivening her labia, which had gone from pink to red, slight but swollen open, more glistening meat peeking vulvar, and I heaved forth, involuntarily. She worked a leg under us and tried settling me back, abstracting, fickle, in fright and physical shock. We hadn’t ruptured her. A bit of hymen glued round my tip and fought me expelled. I whispered insanities into her ear. Her no’s became a hold on, then an okay. This time I found the impossible resolve to teeter my hips to and fro, hovering with diplomatic focus. Before we knew it, I was half inside, clogging bigger. She exhaled so I could feel the squeeze of her entire tract and follow it all the way interior, snapping her hymen apart, almost audibly – one body, we could feel the blockage separate in our teeth, through the gasp – resting, not yet inserted to the base, against the puckered opening of her cervix. Tera took stabs at breathing, like a person rescued from a car accident, clawing and punching my shoulder. I held steady, fracturing the moment to ask if she wanted me to retract. She couldn’t speak. Minimizing every urge to fully perforate, reducing the instinct to incite berserk velocities, I plodded into motion, rocking us lightly as possible. Almost to the halfway point of a retreating thrust, I swiped one bead of sweat that had collected in the divot of her collarbone and tasted it off my hand. She was fixed in a tortured posture, nevertheless luminous in such agony. I kept cramming into her, even in stasis. Her expression inspired my glans into a state of constant accumulation. I broke her from her pain with a kiss. My tongue chased hers, lifeless in its stable. A spark brought her back into action. The wet of her blood mixed with the proper fluids. I could take her in gentle portions. We entered a controlled dive. Our latency still mutilated new room in her. It was like I had fucked her organs loose as one property. Each preemptive hump backed out, a conjoined function fucked in place, shunting me to her throat, so she had to scream to hold her guts steady, a piecemeal impaling, drenching the sheets with our butchery. Her eyes did not seem to exist in their lids. A milkshake of egg gathered at the base of my staff, rheumy cataract of us, precum frothing over. We went autonomous, grown into locomotion. She was so tight pulling out would have taken the rest of her with me. Enunciating across the rampant revival of moles, coloring them in, a gooseflesh vortex – even her shit felt worthy of an incubator – we were zombified, groaning just to stir our brain like a recalled joystick, jockeying toward a christened build, the pull-string knotted within puppeteering her with my thickness, testing the limits of her cervix, fused to that aperture, splicing its tensility, arraying an opening, in tandem, the tissue gone beyond, into her anterior epicenter, the A-spot behind us, her fornix on the belly-side, cervix-vault held parted, breaching in her breech, fucking the mucus within into stimulation, stationed back toward the cunt-barrel, pressure on the uterine wall making her piss without concern, tilting her G-spot high, flexing the star-fished nerve network toward swollen, spongy expellant, ejaculatory crystal, urinary squall busting into a squirt, drenching our flanks by intermission, an electrified sponge wrung through the trepanation of her womb. My cum crowded inside a yell from her lowermost throat in matching letters, tucking in the corners of this exorcism, eyes blooming white and wide open with the same palpitation as her canal, snatched jitteringly, gulped on and engulfed by a sediment we couldn’t stop laying paved into a single identity, our mutual cum: us as a strand. The previously ascended space inside her cinched shut altogether with such force that the ensuing vocals sounded as if they came from no part of her, but everywhere else, trembling the room, the walls and ceiling, coaxed into echoing arias, a hinge around the spurt. I stiffened more, if possible, and delivered radiating throbs she clamped on, matching her own, feeling strata of me coat beneath her sternum. I was crowned with her center, staying under all that body’s hallowed processes, snagged by post-coital constrictions that made us jolt. After a lingering while I slid out, breaking the dam for the rest of the blood, sperm, and lining to plash. A contour of my cock dabbed along the damp spot.
Her gush left cartoonish impressions of us patterned on the bedding. Both legs trembled, as if she were entering death throes, the light layer of fat on her thighs periodically vacillating. She couldn’t raise herself up. I fumbled to a sitting position, feeling the imprint of our bodies’ collision rubber-band inside my cock, a vice up and through the chest. Tera’s forearm went over her face and the motion became a sob. I tried to hold her, but she was inconsolable. When we lifted vertical too soon, she froze, bounding sideways, knees clapping shut, and wept again, apoplectic at the sight of the minor turd presented between us. I called it cute and snuck to the bathroom while she became fetal in the furthest corner of bed. Neglecting the brash amount of risks already taken, I returned, door wide open, and snatched the lukewarm pellet with a bunch of wadded toilet paper, covering the spot as best I could, and flushed it, quickly cleaning. She was carried, chirruping in terror, to the bathroom, red-faced, goofily convinced she’d have to live as a social, sexual hermit forever, snot bubbles popped and gathered in my palm. I set her, wobbling, in the shower, heating her in the spray, and lowered us, two-backed – she couldn’t stand – scrubbing every inch, licking more filth into the last soaped portion, gnawing and swallowing crusted hymen blood, wiping and tonguing her asshole. She wasn’t embarrassed about her workings anymore and bit a lip bloody trying to relax the opening. I placed the head of my cock against the wrinkles below her star, pausing for a protest, and we sat awhile, washing her clit. She repeated herself in shuddering rows, urethra to my cock’s base, and in I stretched. The cute rim nestled wider, straining parted, trying to wink. She bucked back toward me. Struggling open her pursed sphincter, step by step, chalking the tip eased inside her lubricated asshole, stroking each ringlet to unbind an abdominal scrunch, allowing the involuntarily clamping shit-muscle to evacuate my cock in repetition while she whispered curses, eyes shut, beautiful face upturned and agonizing, pogoing off me with as short a breadth as possible, I reached a finality of resistance. She struggled from a moan to a cry. I shot against her pinched off rectal brawn, shat back to the tub with another stoppage. She lost control again and scraped forward, urinating in pelvic distress, the rest of my come and her contents shifting free of the booster shot. I squeezed back, held tighter than any possible further action, half a lunge, her forehead bumping the tiles with even energy. The tension became violent, her pussy walls nearly squeezing prolapsed. She bucked off, squirting against the backs of her knees, dropping flat, twisting towards me horizontally, holding her little tummy while my come, restored in unreal portions, hit now from where her lips parted, straight ropes draping watery over each tit, patting her whole torso down. We excreted our heartbeats, animated into a meld, basting the apparitions flexing through us. Tera’s infrared insides were like a kiln scaly with melted clay spit-shined for a lifetime. We’d joined the tick noise of our bodies, producing untold energies, sieving into her ripped tissue. Coated with us, I bottomed out, full in her backwashing grip. Falling again, laughter beaming over the shower, a muffled groan rattled from the eaves of her voice box, like wind chimes regurgitated by a dove. Someone knocked, muffled concerns. I turned the water off. She played sick, an exasperated claim. We waited for the shadow below the door to dissipate, flying to her room, one after the other. I stayed in the closet, waiting for the house to dim back into silence. Exiting erect, I kissed and licked her nipples through the oversized t-shirt she’d slung on, anesthetizing the event, pinning her wrists down on the mattress, insect to a board. Her tremors renewed. She was wet enough to part, catching up with me, past shame and pain. Even my teeth felt swallowed into an infinite constriction. We joked about having just begun, preemptively clenching in prerelease. Dismounting was unnecessary. I stayed between her ribs till daylight, humping at a thousand frames per second, brushing her hair back from her face so I could see her blush rubricate by the square millimeter. Her come met mine, roving without partition. We carbonated in the flush carried from her cheeks, to her neck, to her collar bone, such an intimacy that we had to struggle against the orgasm the second I fit into her – fifth or sixth round notwithstanding – negotiating when to release together, teasing that release toward a shared and epic moment. We could have made a vasectomy backfire, discovering new tubes. She was my wife, lifespans riptiding. I fucked my girl into my partner, into my companion. We were in hospice together, same coffin, so our skeletons could stay fucking, so the bugs nutting in their shells from the pleasure of her flesh digested would be outdone by the elastic length of our ejaculate, penetrating a joint afterlife. I pointed in her at the propulsive mistakes behind the concept of time and kept huddling within the moment by a reservoir tip, useless as condoms would be for us, popped rubber chronos.
Dead-legged, I biked home and went to school. First we couldn’t look at each other, then it was all we did, sinking together into a hypnic jerk while people nattered on around us. Both our gaits were off. We looked damaged and renewed. I deeply resented the hurdle of any development that wasn’t her and I back in bed. At recess, I bee-lined toward her. She feigned another spell for curious friends, her newest theater, and met me in an unlit doorway. Tera was in horror of the mania she had been party to, cycling through anxious disgraces inside her head, half in want of a confession to the betrayal of her peers – having vaunted every protocol of age and gender – and half, reluctantly, alarmingly, in love, or was she split again, infinitum, between what the culture betrothed her frilliest expectation, a dowry of requirements shouting down her sacrificed virginity. Regardless, because she was a decent girl, she would, at least for now, as another fugue symptom of our honeymoon, share a degree of the unending, demented, unconditional love I had for her, a love which she could only drive into dormancy with all the help of hell, and hell was gathering momentum, as always, the more she analyzed a situation. Whenever I took her hands in mine, she would stamp her little ruffle-socked foot, relenting. Every other night, to be reasonable about recovery, became our night. But no more butt stuff, she hissed on the phone: I’m numb from the hips down and pooping the next day felt like acid. Don’t make me scared to shit, she whined, sexily. I nicknamed her poopy butt and she hung up, answering again, giggly.
I was studying what she responded to in bed, tipping into a plunge, balancing, so she experienced less pain. The previous overdone motions of carnality grew into an articulated layering, a prolonged naturalness, our catalogue of giddy love-making. My nightly bike rides to her room left me the leanest I’d been, able to postpone any urge. I arrived home, drunk, in a sleepless sweat that smelt of her, high on our shared glow. I thought exclusively of Tera, and she reflected as much, peering back in class, every minor intersection of contact amplified by a clandestine knowledge of each other. She re-crossed those beautiful legs all the more visibly now with a wink I punished her for later. When she napped in class, a ripcord got torn through her, rattling the desk, stirring a moan, like a dreamt up motion could make her orgasm by proxy, come the memory full. The social element I had zero concern about gave her a quiet reluctance. Shame and self-awareness flashed by, in hidden glances, if she thought of school. Whispering her sins to the skinny friend as a promised secret finally relieved this. She rode on top with twice the vigor, afterward, tapping my shoulder, stuttering how she had to pee, me holding her down by the ass so she’d lift up just enough to go ahead. She went grippy, yanking me out for space to spray, muscles snipping tight enough to jerk me off through her esophagus, each groan squeezing out more come-spurt. I bent her over and timed the twitch of her asshole. Fucking from behind felt like her overstuffed ends would pucker till we both ripped. My little hippity-hop bunny poo butt cuddle champion sailing on my chest, I would have sucked the snot from her skull daily in place of eating. We played games during the small hours, murmuring and tussling and speaking deeply before another round of sex.
I began dining on her periods. She was shyly aroused by exaltation. Red fabric bits tugged apart my uterine swallow, engorged with endometria. Panels formed from her to me, one cannibalized mass reborn as us. Her organs pinched together on a seesaw inclining over the hardness put through her, the limbic sunset reenacted under covers. She came uncountable floods, repeating the same expression of disbelief at her own pleasure. Her laundry had to become a household mystery. I started by licking her scars. She was more damaged than I could have hoped, thus able to match my love. Her smallness rejected my size less, the interior passing us between a shared hysteria, overtaken into acceptance, a livewire exorcism that could only clarify itself later with intellectualizations of love, our vows and commitments a paltry representation, good excuses to keep trying to almost fit. We were fucking with a professional skill based on chemistry and instinct. I threw my blade one night into a charging shadow and hurried through the ghetto toward her house. The story excited her. The next night I brought another blade and cut her camisole down the middle, metal lingering against flesh. She gasped, delighted, whimpering for me to relent. We entered our fugue, her cloud smell encasing. Too often her bed smashed the wall, the downed window screen whistling, and we decided to hunker in the pitch dark closet, collapsing together. She arched up, holding onto her wardrobe, climbing up her clothes to come. I felt the bend of her cervix bucking off, and stood to shoot on her and her outfits. A grandfather living on the other side of the wall was found dead of a heart attack the next day, underwear runny with jizz.
We had to switch date locations. It required two long days away. I took her aside at recess, nearly insane, shaking without a fix, cooing: I miss you, back and forth. She cried, in mourning and sexual frustration, shivering while I fingered her behind a column. My dick was swollen twice as thick from ceaseless blood flow and agitation. She pawed it into precum through my khakis, maneuvering, too rough, past the zipper, licking balls to tip, gagging back down, past her tonsils. When she blew me, a trap door opened at the base of my cock and flung fluid after fluid dose in gobbing spoonfuls across her, spattering thighs to forehead, draining kneeward, if she was on them, and even further if she backed up, helping, hands gripped, guiding wide arcs over what had survived of her stuffed animals, skimming in her lips, skipping her face, covering the dresser, knocking perfume bottles down, confused amongst girly lotions. She’d play fetch with my cumshot, correctly predicting where I’d land, but the excessive amount made this a rare event, due to the discomfort. I had no qualms being the one who went down the most, drinking her spurts thirstily. She tasted better. Behind the column, two days neglected, she forced herself to chug as I kept filling her mouth.
After class we found our way, chasing the fuck-glint of our own bodies, into the basement of the school’s church, unnoticed. There was a lost pew we tumbled into, tucked under a giant marble staircase. Gymnastics girls, wearing spandex, practiced within sight of us. I bent her into an echoing contortion. She knelt on the kneeler, parting her ass cheeks, mouth covered, the huddled rush of maybe getting caught. Girls in the distance seemed to mimic this move. She drove her ass downward, a falling rhythm matching the girls’ feet hitting the mat. I fucked through the cunt bubble fluids popping encircled and came like my eyes were going to break. Before a week, we damaged the varnish on the pew, fucking so much her girl smell wore off. Regardless, I wanted us to last till the worms in her corpse would come when they heard me digging.
Tera was holding the back of the pew, jumping on my lap. She scanned the gymnastics girls. I considered bringing their presence into some kind of acknowledged, kinky alignment between us, but feared this might offend her. They were just a garnish to the theatre of Tera, as far as I meant my lust, and she never saw me steal a glance. None of them at their most bendy could equal the back of Tera’s knee. She lifted and squirted on my uniform, scampering off without much of a goodbye, missing the next day, claiming sickness on the phone. Not just her skinny friend knew about us anymore. She’d been extra stealthy in our meetings, ambivalent. Were she into girls, or seeing one, no problem, unless she left. She was squirting smaller portions. I put the saturated shirt in my mouth and tasted someone else. The other person tasted awful. Not because I loved Tera more than anyone, because it was a male.
I gently inquired if she would like to try new things, await a better meeting location, anything. She was feeling cornered by the lies she had to tell in every direction, then compounded them by telling me sweet diversions. My desperation to please Tera exacerbated her skittishness. I spent weepy nights designing homicides. Tera’s broken home taught her no allegiance. The father was in court, on and off, for dealing drugs, the mother dead. I missed having her period on my breath, and held out many empathies, insisting, against common sense, in our favor. Much of my pain came from the impossibility of replacing her, both because of what I had built her into, and the giant effort it would take to get anyone half as pretty to speak with me. Circumstances had conspired against the poor girl, coupled with my immersive appetite – our abnormal and possibly unhealthy all night, every night stamina. Too brash for my age, overstepping direct communications, I laid out how her cheating needn’t be the end of us. She denied it, violently, like I’d accused her of incest. I remained patient through several hysterias and insults, her pernicious implication that all our sex had been an acquiescence, the only possible retort while she coasted along, helpless, conforming to my lewd vision of her for safety’s sake, Stockholm syndrome through a sprinkler. She’d been subjected to an unfair portrait of herself and felt abused by the comparison. Despite my not imposing this in any negative context she could palpably indicate, the fact that my idealization existed proved psychologically damaging enough. The pedestal she was on inferred a power she could never vindicate, and the unmet expectation justified her reprisal against my insufficient hopes for us, that we’d last forever, because she was far from infallible. Each time I proclaimed anything to the contrary she felt mocked by my insistence. She’d been worn down, after a long-term smothering, into sharing that agony, esoteric as it was, way more directly. That’s beyond blasphemy, I declared, putting my own moratorium on kissy face. Never again would I become the enfeebled casualty of an emotion. It wasn’t my insecure love employed as a method of manipulation against her, like she suggested, rather arrogantly – considering her motivation to find fault with how much I cared and never should have – but the cessation of that love altogether, not just for her, for any scalp-hunted cunt that came in her wake. She shoehorned the unconditional into a condition of nonconsensual dormancy, and, worse, accused me of somehow violating her over the past year of a relationship. You are in a position to question everything about me, except my loyalty to us, I yelled. Are you done, she stated three times, bored by the mess she made. Not yet, bitch, I muttered, unsure of what it was I aimed to finish. Chemicals had been bribing me to perpetuate myself. Women sold their pussies out to courtship, not an individual mate. Taken with being worshipped idols, the power of society presented to them, but never given over, a twin service, cashing in on looks temporarily, they were usually betrayed, by age, if nothing else. I hoped she’d stay suspended in that horror long enough to come back, if it took decades. She started treating me like a friend the second I let sex become mere collaboration and not the appearance of despotism. That safe sense of control is what she was riding through her biggest orgasms, not me. What had meant so much to me, the building of our lives together, was to her just a momentary reciprocation that could be evoked again by anyone’s attention. Especially if that person engineered her along a range of rote rejoinders. Anything she felt was because someone had sustained that feeling for her, a reactionary process of keeping anally spread as long as possible so we could all endure the kernels within. The irony was the circumstance would only ever be my fault for failing to cement negotiations with a party completely uninterested, while she adhered, without loyalty, to her next millionth option, eventually settling on the lucky chump patient enough to dedicate himself to her faltering charms and the nonsense she’d inevitably demand until they faded.
Shittily explained disappearances, and a general flirtiness with others, sometimes in front of me, confirmed Tera’s betrayal. She had us down to once a week, with the excuse that she was moving soon, usually coming once, a reluctant afterthought, fingering her clit for assistance. Dressing for a date, she directed me, and her skinny friend, to await an appearance. The friend, who I assumed was laughing at my situation, sat thigh to very-warm-thigh with me on a couch covered by boxes. I dejectedly suggested she hop on my lap to leave room for the bitch’s materials. Fervently alive with that much attention, perhaps misinterpreting it as a flat command, she did. Surprised, I shifted and gripped the back of her knee, balancing us. She squirmed with involuntary pleasure. I inflated faster than could be prevented, being deprived. My cock smashed upward, harder than her boney ass. Absently riding through our clothes, like it might be a joke, if someone walked in, I held the back of her knee, feeling heartbeats through the popliteal artery, kissing an olive-skinned neck. She purred, whispering to stop, planting her wrists over her lap, saddling forward against them. I felt the skirted asshole twitching to a close against my shaft and brought her lightness down firm enough to drag our cum out through the frottage. She rose, almost fell, standing far away, refusing to peer over, insinuating some vague blackmail about telling Tera. I followed her outside, explaining what would happen when we eloped. Tera’s brother, looking vindicated, back from seeing girls in our class, along with older high schoolers, presented a shit-covered finger, and said: guess who.