Pricks Dicks Pricks

Just like that.
His words were so smooth they wiped her tears away. Words of promise.
Rivulet after rivulet fingers cleared the waterworks as the words soothed the heart.

They had a promise made, pairs of lips and then away. Both under the influence, it was a night to be confused.
She was the ‘you’ll send me a letter and a rose’. She was the ‘we’ll grey together, we’ll hold hands forever’.
It didn’t hurt in depth of the night, it was the sweetest pain. With numbness it was only but a memory.
It was a night of magic rush, it was a night of torn knickers and soiled sheets.
Like a knife cutting through her soul, she cried for the scattered petals scattered all over the bed.
She cried for what would have been, what is, what are we and what will be. She just cried.

It started with a simple touch, a dance, and then a warm embrace at the stroke of midnight.
He knew what to say, when to smile. He just knew. He was just cute and his chest was the warmest open field.
Every step he made, every breath he took, he was her refuge, and she was as smitten as she was tipsy.
Just another clear, lit night sky and the coldest breeze left yet another couple with pointed nipples and hard-ons.
It was a strange night, cold winds, signs of rain but no dark clouds.

She was the girl in the corner in a crowded bar. He was the boy with the prettiest girl and a standing out leather jacket.
“I want to dance with you, take my hand, and let me get your jacket off.”
“And if you care about me, don’t go for the cigarette break.” “You might get a kiss if you behave, you know”
She’d come with friends, she wasn’t to leave with them. She was having the night of her life. And cock-blocking is a sin.
It’s well written in the old old Testament. In Song of Songs to be precise. And she was enjoying each passing song.

They could have danced forever, but the DJ cut it out. He just did. He said the rat had eaten the wires.
But we all knew it was time to close, we all knew they were avoiding a fine by the City Council.
Just like we all knew it would start raining in the next… It rained.

The ride back home was parked in the lower basement, it’d need a walk down the stairs, a walk tired legs in high heels wouldn’t or rather couldn’t make. She had to be carried, it was romantic, and it was sensual, much as it wasn’t necessary.
It must have been his idea because his finger found their way to the ridges of her butt straight to where the heart of her womanhood was. The cloth that covers the beautiful was the only impediment.
She was enervated buy the sudden touch and threw her legs in the air begging to be put down. She was put down.
She wasn’t happy with his touch, and told him so. She told him how she was from a religious family and was expected to keep some moral standards. In her stupor she told him a lot. She told him how she was keeping herself for the man she’d marry, for that night after the wedding vows.

She told him how she really loved him and wished they could walk down the aisle someday.
She told she wanted to be dropped at her apartment. How her roommate must have been worried all this time.
He listened in silence, probably being a good listener or perhaps counting his losses.
All that was interrupted by the startling realisation that the car keys were nowhere to be seen. They’d been in his jacket. The jacket she’d been custodian of. He was angry, more like disappointed but angry. He’d been guilty seconds before and wasn’t the type to get angry for long.

An Uber had to be called. They were half drenched in rain, half drenched in silence. First to the apartment, then to his home. It was to be.
“Hey, guess what, I’m wet, “slowly leaning on his shoulder. He hastily and subtly angrily shrugging her off replied, “Like we both are.”
“No, I’m wet,” she winked at him and placed her lips on his. Without minding the Uber driver they kissed, lower lip, upper lip tongue and all.
And he couldn’t help it, again his hands were up her skirts and it wasn’t the rain wet, it was the wet wet, the cream wet.
The Uber driver played deaf ear the whole journey and did what he did best. Hit potholes, it was sensual with every hole hit. The journey was as short as short journies come.

Soon they were at her plush apartment. She kissed him goodnight, they moved out, him opening the cab door and all the other endangered chivalric antics. He now had a smile on his face and evidence all over his fingers and palms.
She moved out but her knees couldn’t hold. So they paid the driver for waiting charges would be exorbitant.
Up they moved, up the terrace to her door. She fumbled for her keys, finally finding them in the deepest chambers of her bag. All this time she was sat on the veranda by the living room window pouring out all the contents of her bag, as he watched. Men don’t touch into ladies’ bags, it was written.

The door was open just in time to realise the roommate wasn’t around. Who jumped at who, it’s hard to tell. Her last memory was opening the room, which subsequently closed her mind.
Skirts tossed via the door mat, jackets under the bed. Bras half removed. Shoes on top of the bed and torn panties.
It was a night of pushes and screams, drips and creams. It was a night of dancing to perfect tunes. A night of shared heartbeats and wolf teeth bites.
It was the night. But they had a promise made, and now had a promise broken. The writing written on the wall in hand of the devil.

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