When the blossom has blown away, still we stand.

Click on the image to find other’s thoughts on this week’s quote.

I’ve found lots of prompts recently here and elsewhere lead me to write about me…and that isn’t really why or where I started when I opened my blog. I enjoy writing fiction. Life isn’t all peaches and cream for anyone this year, but I can honestly say there have been at least two worse years in the past decade and that every year is a bit of a slog.

For this prompt I could write about the family court judge we met at a friend’s house who after we’d chatted to for an hour said “How are you still together? I mean, most families under your strain end in divorce…99% of them.”

I could write about the sappy tune played at our wedding about become captain and first mate on our journey through life and our kids becoming the crew- that we planned to be together for a long haul and that the planning put us in good stead for very rocky seas.

But fuck all that. I wanted to write fiction.

And this is sort of fiction.

Sort of.

Storms have blown away all our blossom but still we stand.

I heard your key scrape at the lock and the clanking of the barrels before the stamping of feet on the mat. I had the mug under the hot water before you even reached the kitchen.

“Hey, you!” Knackered, your bag falls to the floor and I bite my lip to avoid the usual nag about leaving it where it falls. It’s been a long day.

Your hands slink around my waist as I dredge the teabag from the mug, fingers night cold where they sneak under my sweater. I let my head fall back on your shoulder.

“How’s mum?” I don’t really think there is an answer.

“Quiet. Your sister had been over and changed the bed.”

I acknowledge with a hum, but I can’t dwell on any of it. You know and drags me back against your chest. Familiar. Safe.

“Kids are down. Flic’s kindle is in your office and I had to bump the router off again to make sure they weren’t sneaking back on. They’re snoring now.”  Your turn to hum an answer.

Your beard is soft against my cheek and I rub against it like a cat. So certain and calm. I want to climb onto your lap and be stroked and held and for everything to be ok. Instead, I pour the milk into the tea and absorb love through the tiny circles of thumb against belly.

I want taking out of my head. And you know me well enough to know it.

The clock ticks heavily marking seconds. The central heating fires up with a roar then drops away again. Our breathing synchronises.

You warm to me and the slightly humid post cooking air. Your hand lifts my sweater higher and I cool without getting cold.

One finger runs under the wire of my bra. Just rubs in small movements that highlight the roughness of your skin. Focuses my attention.

I let the day fall away.

That finger ticks over my skin. Hypnotic.

“Hands on the counter,” you say and your words move my body. I arch against you. Your hands stop dead.

The clock ticks on. I force myself to relax. You won’t be rushed.

I breathe with you.

Your fingers again traces patterns, follow the smooth snail trails of stretch marks across my skin. Brush through coarse curls on a downwards quest.

On another night I might squirm beneath your touch and you would respond by demanding your will, trapping me with your body and demanding with your words.

On yet another, you might peel down my jeans and spank my arse, the sound crisp and sharp bouncing off angles and surfaces. The coldness of marble beneath my fingers in contrast with the fiery bruises under yours.

Memorably, I remember the nights we fuck over the high backed kitchen chairs, the hard wood digging into my belly as I strain to balance on tiptoe, palms flat on the seat, desperately trying to hold still enough to avoid the groaning scrape of chair on tile. Forcing my head up to watch our blurry bodies reflected on condensation coated windows.

I wonder if the images are shared between us because you are hard against me now. I want to spread and soften. To welcome you. To be consumed by you.


I couldn’t do anything else, rooted to the floor. Eyes closed, I follow you around the room. The splash of water as you wash your hands. The friction of the junk drawer as it opens brings a sudden ache. Emptiness. The rustle as you search for lube is deliberate. Signposting. My throat tightens and the roof of my mouth aches with want.

My body screams for you to fuck me. My mouth stays closed.

Taps to the inside of my feet have me spreading my legs. You rush nothing. The slow pull of my belt before it loosens. Chill air hits exposed skin as my jeans fall to my knees. The dry fingered swipe is a tease. As though I didn’t know my ass was yours.

Patient fingers. I want this, don’t get me wrong, but I hate it at the same time. Hate that you haven’t asked. Hate the anticipation in my thighs. Hate myself for the wetness dampening my thighs as you spread me wider. The knife sharp anticipation.

I want this with a thirst that dries my mouth. A bone deep ache.

Two fingers. The slurp of the lube reminds me the bottle will need replacing soon, but that thought is chased away by the pressure and the screams that build silently.

Fuck me.  I’m not some delicate flower. I want the sting. The consuming of me into that single focus. Your dick in me now. I want you to break and do as I demand.

Fuck me.

Fuck me now.

Knees locked against the cupboard door, arms braced, you slide home and my thoughts burn to dust.

Nothing. Everything.

Just the thrust and withdraw.

 Breaths loud against my ear.

 Fingers bruisingly tight against my hips.

I want to hang here forever.

Want you to finish.

Want to be used.

Don’t let me come.

Make me.

We tumble over the edge, you first in a helpless staccato that pins me to the counter, then me.

Then me. The day washed away in a tide of emotions and sensations.

You stay close, spunk leaking down my thighs, your face sweaty against my cheek. Stay in a bubble of our heartbeats till the ticking clock intrudes. We right our clothes. Wash our hands. Drink our lukewarm tea.


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