Acts of Random Violets

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Just take what life offers you.
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Rob_mDear
Rob_mDear
1,563 Followers

As soon as she entered the room, she smelled the faintest trace of lilacs. Violet closed her eyes instantly, feeling for where she knew the edge of the bed would be. Blindly, she crawled across it, fumbling for the nightstand drawer, and the blindfold safely and discreetly tucked in its corner. It didn't take long to get it in place, but her heart pounded in her chest the entire time, screaming within her, revealing to the world her state of panicked excitement.

She slipped too hastily back to the center of the bed, where she forced herself to lie back and relax. Her breathing was too fast. Her excitement was too obvious.

As slowly and as teasingly as she could, she undid the top three buttons of her blouse, letting her fingers peel the folds of fabric away from her breasts like a shy, hesitant child timorously peeling the wrapping away from an unexpected and so unpredictable gift.

She heard the door open for his entrance.

* * *

It was a small, nondescript house, almost completely hidden from view, so that it stood out from all the rest. The others were nondescript, too, all the same, and all different, but in all the same, few, tired ways, with the same subtle variations on just a few ideas. They were all low, one story affairs, each tucked neatly onto the center of a tiny square parcel, and each and every one with gray, weather stained cedar shingle siding, except for four or five that were brown. They all had shutters and trim in assorted, bright colors, like makeup on an old woman, turquoise, or lavender, or maroon or teal, except for six for seven that were plain white, or stark black. The paint on them all was pealing and faded, except for two or five that been allowed to go for far too long, but now were finally very freshly painted.

Each and every house had a plain yard of sandy dirt mixed with sparse grass, except for five or six with perfectly green, freshly cut, lush carpets for lawns. Most of the lawns were otherwise bare, with only a gravel drive and a hastily and sparsely laid straight, red brick walkway leading up to a plain front door, except for one or two with a gray wooden post fence or a tree or two or a large, blue flowering hydrangea bush or a pristine, proper, winding walk leading up to yet another plain front door.

The one, eccentric, nondescript house in question had butter yellow shutters and trim, not freshly painted, but not faded either. It wore plain gray cedar shingle siding. It had a dirty, white picket fence. It had a gravel drive. One couldn't tell what sort of walkway it had, because it was too obscured by the foliage.

The front yard was a riot of plants, some low and green, some tall and sparse, some flowering in blue or pink or orange or purple, hydrangeas and roses and tiger lilies and lilacs. And violets. But most were not. Most were green and lush, but flowerless. There were a few trees, shading the yard and house both, but letting splatters of sunlight strike here and there and here.

Amidst all of the greenery, if you looked for a while, you could find an old wagon wheel, several bird houses, three giant stone mushrooms, a bird bath, a ceramic frog, a garden trellis, and more.

The plants continued, unbroken, from the edge of the fence at the street all the way in to the sides of the house, except for the gap where the mostly hidden path snaked its way up the middle, with one sharp turn, presumably followed by many others after it all was lost from view. The forest of plants wound around the house, left and right, without interruption except for the gravel driveway and the hidden walkway. The small forest ringed the house like a moat, or perhaps more appropriately like a besieging army.

It was a nondescript house, almost completely hidden from view, so that it stood out from all of the rest, just like its owner.

* * *

Violet was plain. Nondescript. She wore plain clothing, but always with a splash of subtle color, nothing too bright, but enough that she wouldn't stand out as the only one dressed in drab gray or brown or beige. She wasn't ugly enough for anyone to notice her. She might even have been considered pretty, if she weren't so plain.

Her eyes were small, but not too much so. They were brown, but a medium brown, not a striking, dark, twinkling brown, or an unusual, intriguing amber. The light in them was dim, as if she were afraid to turn it up too brightly.

Her mouth was small, but not too small. Her smile was bright, when she bothered to show it, which wasn't often. Her hair was straight, and sandy brown, falling on thin, but not skinny, shoulders, topping a frame that was thin, but not skinny, with a small bust, and a narrow waist, but narrow hips, too, so that she looked almost like a boy, with barely any figure at all. What figure she might have had was masked by the loose sundresses she tended to wear.

She was Violet, the one that no one noticed, simply because there was nothing to notice, which just perhaps was why someone had noticed her.

She received a note one day, a romantic, secretive, enticing, anonymous note.

The next day she received another.

And another.

She came to look forward to every day, never knowing when or where she would find it. She still didn't smile, much, except for that moment in her day when she found the note, and then three or four or five times afterward, the first of the many times she would reread and reread and reread it for her pleasure.

The notes became intimate.

"Good Lord, it said what?" That reaction was from Sandee, her very best friend since first grade. Sandee's boyfriend, Scott, draped on her like a hastily grabbed and lazily placed scarf. He was always there, always close, always touching her, sometimes kissing her affectionately, but more often just closely there, as if he and Sandee were a two headed beast.

The radio crackled in the background with a news report. The Germans had launched a surprise offensive in France, trying to drive the Allied armies back into the sea. The brave troops were holding fast, but they were taking heavy casualties. The two waitresses and the cook were gathered around it, as were three patrons at the long chrome and formica counter, sipping coffee, eating bacon and egg sandwiches, and intently listening to the report.

They didn't care about Violet, but she looked around anyway, before answering, to be sure that no one anywhere in the diner was listening.

"It said that he wants to touch my naked flesh."

Sandee broke into a grin. As usual, it lit the room like an exploding pyrotechnic rocket. If there were any new guys around, and if Scott didn't already cover her like a mother swaddling a baby, they would certainly come to talk to her, or offer her gifts, or just flat out give her a stuttering, impromptu marriage proposal.

Where Violet was plain, Sandee was a superstar, a beautiful and vivacious blond that radiated pure sexuality with every simple breath or dainty tip of her head. She could have any man she wanted, but she already had the one she wanted, Scott, the dashing, darkly handsome sort that worshiped the rays of the sun that warmed her skin, and the darkness formed by her shadow, and whatever breeze of air whispered through her clothing.

"Are you going to do it?" Sandee asked.

Violet tried to glare at her from under a shocked brow, but she knew that every thought was written on her face like the pulsing neon sign in the diner window. Open for business. So instead of answering, she blushed, looking down at the note in her lap, hidden beneath the edge of the table, kept secret from a prying world.

* * *

I have to touch you soon.

That was all the note said. The words, the thought of it, sent a shiver through Violet each and every time she read it. She had no idea who or what he was, but she wanted him to touch her more than anything in the world.

* * *

You must trust me.

Nothing more. No explanation of how, or why, or when. The note was a simple command, or a plea, or a hope. Violet didn't know how to take it, and didn't care. Trust she would.

* * *

You can never know who I am. If you know, it will all be broken.

Violet squeezed the note in her hand, crumpling it just a bit, not to ruin it, but to possess it even more, to establish a firm hold on it, and to keep it from prying eyes. She looked out the diner window, past the pulsing neon sign, into the black recesses of the night. Sandee giggled beside her as Scott nuzzled her ear.

Violet didn't want to know. She did, but she didn't. She didn't want it to break. And she liked the fact that her lover was perfect. As long as she didn't know who he was, he was perfect, and in his eyes, this way, she was perfect to him, too.

She liked it this way.

* * *

She lay on her belly, blindfold firmly in place exactly as instructed, as he entered the room. In spite of herself, she looked for clues in the sounds that he made, but she found none. She could barely hear him over the thundering thumps of her own blood pulsing in her ears.

Violet tried to relax as a strong, warm hand caressed her naked back, starting at the nape of her neck, then gliding slowly down, along her spine, to the small of her back, and then beyond, following the slight rise of her ass, up, and over.

She clenched her eyes tightly shut as the hand touched sensitive flesh that had never been touched before. A broad expanse of thick, calloused fingers cupped her ass cheeks, gently at first, then kneading them gently. After a while his hands relaxed, becoming wisps of air, floating delicately over the globes of her ass, before one finger moved toward her thigh, and invasively down.

Her sharp intake of breath signaled something new for Violet.

* * *

"What if it's Jake?" Sandee offered.

In spite of herself, Violet's head automatically twisted toward Jake, the young negro cook behind the counter, behind the service window. He was bustling around, as he always did, sweating like an animal over the heat of the stove, working frantically to fill the orders and avoid Mr. Ashton's wrath for being too slow, or making too many mistakes.

Violet's only answer was an angry glare at the countertop.

"No way, it couldn't be. No way."

"But what if it is?"

"It's not. So just drop it."

"What if it is?" Scott added.

Violet glared at him. She rarely got angry. She didn't have the nerve. But this upset her.

"It ain't no negro. I'd know that much."

Violet turned her glare back down at the table top, unable to hold Scott's gaze for long, even in her anger.

"Not big enough to be a negro?" Scott asked, with an annoying, teasing laugh in his voice.

Violet blushed violently, then turned her head to look out the window, yet again, to hide her blush, and her anger, and all of her fears.

* * *

Violet fought to stay silent. She chewed on the sheet under her face as his cock jammed itself up into her with shocking speed and strength, sliding her up along the sheets. She stifled a whimper, and then a yelp. Her own sounds frightened her. What she was doing frightened her.

For his part, he was utterly silent. He didn't even moan to give her a clue as to what his voice sounded like. She tried to guess at his height from the feel of his thighs, and his arms propping his body up on either side of her, but she really had no idea.

All she knew was how good his cock felt inside of her.

His cock withdrew, then held itself there, with just its bulbous head embedded. She begged him to give it to her again. Softly, trying not to sound too eager, trying not to be a slut, she begged him to fill her again. As she did, she inhaled the scent of fresh cut flowers filling the room, flowers that had signaled his presence, and would still be there for her after he had left.

He thrust into her abruptly, hard and deep, holding himself inside her for a long, satisfying moment before he resumed his frantic, pummeling stabs. Violet lost her composure, then. She whimpered continuously, unable to hold it in, while begging wantonly for more.

She felt him stiffen, at his arms beside her and his thighs pressing on the insides of hers. He held his hips down against her, crushing her ass, driving her own hips down into the mattress, with his cock driven as deeply into her as he could.

She opened her eyes wide at the feel of it, to see only the blackness of the blindfold. She opened her eyes to darkness, to feel him come inside her.

* * *

"It could be Mr. Tarpee," Sandee said, as the elderly man left the diner.

"Hey!" Scott said. "That would fit. He's married, but he can't be getting any from Mrs. Tarpee. Or at least, if he is, he's not enjoying it."

Sandee and Scott both laughed at his joke. Violet scowled.

"I told you, I don't want to discuss it. I don't even want to risk figuring it out. That's not the point. Just leave it alone."

"Oh, come on, Vi," Sandee said. "We have to at least try. It's fun. Aren't you curious?"

She grabbed Scott's hand as she said it, conspicuously moving it off of the table, and down underneath, presumably to rest on her thigh.

"Yes, but I don't want to know. I don't want it to break."

"Oh, posh. Don't let him frighten you. It's not going to 'break.' Nothing's going to 'break.' That's silly."

Violet blushed again, just a small, maidenly blush, an ever so slight reddening of her sallow cheeks.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Have it your way, spoil sport," Sandee said, then leaned over to give Scott a kiss that was almost, but not quite, too long and deep to be delivered in public.

Violet was jealous. She wanted that. She wanted people to know. She wanted to be loved, but she wanted people to know that she was loved to.

She looked out the window, as Mr. Tarpee backed out of the lot, spun the wheel, and carefully crawled his fancy new car onto the street.

It could be him. It could be anyone. But she didn't have to know, and she didn't want to know. She had to be happy with what she had. It wasn't everything, but it was enough.

* * *

You are my treasure.

Violet smiled. Every note was so short, but so sweet, and so perfect. It was so simple, but she didn't want anything more, at least not all at once. She only wanted one simple note, here and there, for as long as it could last.

She never even let herself wonder who he was. She was a good, obedient little girl, doing exactly as she was told, and getting as much as she could hope for.

* * *

One doesn't have to touch to have sex. Or rather, one doesn't have to be touched. Sex, love, is about giving pleasure, and receiving pleasure by giving pleasure. As long as Violet felt pleasure, as long as she felt love, her lover felt pleasure, and loved. It was incomplete. It was a shadow of what her lover wanted.

But it was all that she could have.

Scott stood behind Violet, with her sundress pulled up over her waist. It took all of his strength to keep his balance without complete use of his bum leg.

Sandee watched silently from the door as Scott eased his cock into her again. Violet stood before him, blindfold in place, facing away, half bent over her dresser. She smiled as he entered her, letting out a sweetly soft, timid yelp.

Sandee smiled in turn. Scott watched Sandee as she brought her hand to her ear, and blew him a kiss. He took his cue, kissing Violet's earlobe gently, soliciting soft, happy growl of a purr from her.

Sandee touched her own breasts, cupping them with both hands. Scott followed suit, cupping Violet's breasts, making love to her as Sandee directed, a marionette lover for a puppeteer that could never do as she pleased.

Sandee had tried to touch Violet once herself, when they were younger, when Scott was an ocean away getting his body and his version of a life blown all to hell. Violet had recoiled from her in the most hurtful of ways, with a look of fear and panic that chilled and wrinkled Sandee's soul. She instantly laughed it off, telling Violet to be a sport, that it was all in fun, with all of the men off to war. It was just a lark, and a joke anyway. She'd never really do anything so queer as that.

She thought Violet could tell that she was lying, but Violet looked too embarrassed herself to call her on it.

Sandee never tried to touch her again. Scott returned from the war, with a metal plate in his skull and horrible memories and dreams even deeper in his skull, and a limp that he could easily hide when he remembered to try, and was well rested. The scars on his skin were visible to everyone, long and raised and smooth and shiny. The other scars were deeper, especially the ones he took with him into the war to begin with.

He came back to Sandee, and Violet was lost to Sandee, or rather, she never had a chance of having her.

* * *

Scott closed his eyes, trying to enjoy the feel of Violet's body, by imagining that she was someone else. He looked to Sandee for direction. It was all so fucked up, he was all so fucked up, that none of it mattered. He'd do whatever she said, because he loved her, and Violet, as his only true friends in the world, even more than friends, like sisters.

Sexual love was forbidden to him, at least the sort he wanted. It was forbidden even before the horrors of combat. He had marched off into a brutal, horrific war to fight as best he could for freedom, against tyrannical fascists, when in the army he himself wasn't free, and at home he wasn't free, and everyone he knew was themselves a tyrannical fascist, of sorts. He was a shell of what he wanted to be, unable to love whom and how he wanted, unable to even give the slightest hint of where his true heart lay.

Only Sandee knew. Only Sandee understood. So she and he put on a merry show for a the world, the perfect, imperfect couple, clingy, loving, inseparable, and inconsolable and unfulfilled.

At least he could do this for Sandee. At least, in an obscure, convoluted, fuck up way, she could be with one she loved. It even gave him a sort of release. Violet was enough like a man to let him at least imagine what that would be like, or what parts of it would be like.

He didn't mind. She enjoyed it. Sandee enjoyed it. He tried his best to enjoy it, and if he didn't, that was okay. He just did as he was told.

He wasn't meant to enjoy much, it seemed.

* * *

Sandee died in '46 of hepatitis. It hit her quickly, disabling her and taking her life before she really had a chance to say her goodbyes, or to open her heart and let the truth out. Scott and Violet went to her graveside, together, every week for years. They grew close, as Violet's secret lover slowly, but not immediately, drifted away.

They fell in love, after a fashion, or so they pretended.

They lived their lives. They married. They had their children. They built a nondescript house, one of many all around them, all the same, and all different.

He'd been a good man. She wasn't right for him, she knew. She wasn't what he wanted. But he lived in a time when he couldn't have what he wanted, so he took what he could get. He played a role. He was a good husband, and a good father, and a good man. He wasn't really what she wanted, either, but she never had a chance to even try for that brass ring. She was happy just to be on the carousel.

So instead she did what she could to put some small joy into his life, and he into hers, and they watched together as their children grew, and the world changed, and others were given the chance to be what they truly were. It lasted for a while, but things got rough when his depression got worse, and he was forced to quit work and live on disability. His past just seemed to swallow him whole, then.

He passed away in '97, leaving Violet alone in her nondescript house, where she was visited by her children, watching the world spin as it would, until she lay down one day, tired and weary, to take a nap.

Rob_mDear
Rob_mDear
1,563 Followers
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