Reflection

Benediction

Coarse, venomous words were exchanged between the two before he went to bed, that night. He recalled the sound of a slamming door, the very slight rumbling of the room, as if the earth itself was acknowledging and agreeing with her anger. She left the house in tears, he stayed in bed with a weak frown upon his lips, eyes narrowed up at the ceiling, not daring to look over at the empty spot on the bed. They'd had fights before, certainly. But none that were quite so rough, so heart-wrenching and leaving them in an unsure position.

For the first time, no exaggerations, no hyperbole, Eric felt cold in his own bed. When he was little, he was used to having the bed to himself, the warmth of a nightlight served him well. When he was a teenager, the nightlight was replaced by the gentle glow of a TV screen, and a light was finally replaced as he'd reached adulthood by the constricting, though welcome arms of Melanie, who squeezed into his back, her head nestled into him through the thin fabric of whatever tee he was wearing. She said it was his smell, and the fact that his muscled back was like a make-shift visor, protecting her from the cruel sunlight boding them awake.

It doesn't take a lot for an argument to erupt into a screaming match. Where the octaves reach new highs, and the eardrums rattle brutally as they try desperately to hear one another ---through the abyss of admonishment. He laid there, and now, with no light, having no strength and no motivation to push himself to switch on the TV, or the light, and no Melanie to use his back as her pillow, he shivered, and let himself fill with quiet regret. He stared blankly up at the ceiling, until the sorrow exhausted him enough that the darkness coloured in the beige above him. His imagination began to fill that solid canvas with depictions of their first night in this bed together.

He remembered that he had brought her back here on their third date. She was nervous about going to a man's house, a previous relationship had left her feeling cautious around men. But she was even more anxious about the idea of a man knowing where she lived, so this was a suitable compromise on their first date. She was so skittish, so worried about how the night would turn out that she couldn't stop talking, and that's where he learned about this. The words "Don't melt me in the bathtub" were tossed around, and a poorly timed "Okay, chopped up and dunked in the acid sink it is" was the response. She laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that lasted a couple of seconds, then went to an awkward silence, eyes darting around restlessly. He eventually sat her on the couch, unable to avoid noticing the fact that she was fidgeting with her fingers. It took him three months to eventually enquire, and they were able to laugh about it... sort of. That niggling fear in the back of her mind, though when he offered her the remote, her breathing slowed. She no longer felt as on edge. She trusted him, but there was something about that one, insignificant gesture that felt... significant. He'd picked the restaurant on the first date, he'd picked the movie on the second date, even the snacks they would eat. He did ask her, but she had felt too nervous to even say that she didn't like sweet popcorn. But giving her the remote control felt like giving her actual control, and while it wasn't world-ending, or something to get choked up over, it just felt good to know he wasn't going to dominate every single decision. That moment, they playfully argued over what to watch, they scanned Netflix, and Disney Plus, Prime Video for more options. He didn't specifically remember the jokes, maybe he felt like they were slathered in cringe, he was purposely filtering them out to save himself the second-hand embarrassment, but the reality was much more down to earth. The thing he did remember was that she had snuggled into him. He put his arm up around the back of the couch, he wasn't the fisherman, hoping that it might hook her in, but in that moment, she took it to mean he wanted her closer, and with remote in hand, she let herself use him as a pillow for the first time.

Fast forward a short while later, and what had began as gentle touches here and there, like toes in the water to test the temperature had eventually become her straddling him atop the couch, one leg slung over his waist, his hand rested upon her hip, their lips joined in a fierce brawl of intention. Eric remembered the feeling of not wanting to overstep, but the primal desire to pin this petite brunette down... even the fact that he began to notice her curves all the more, the way her shapely, voluptuous figure settled onto his musculature, her lilac skirt offering her little protection from the protrusion of his crotch, she was grinding against him. Through the fabric of his jeans, he could feel her own fiery passion through the thin underwear she'd wore that evening. They'd joke about it afterwards, he remembered them being in bed shortly afterward, clothes strewn over the floor, even the sheets had been slightly mauled in the process of what had to be the most intense sex either of them had ever had.

Just like he was doing now, he remembered the two of them staring up at the ceiling, panting from their escapade. A condom tied up next to them, giggles being shared over Melanie's eagerness. But that entanglement of cosy bodies, the delight in each other that they found that night... he felt himself swell at the thought of it. The natural urges of any man, the craving for his one and only partner. He jested with himself, teased about the possibility of apologising to her just so he could have her perfect curves in his grasp once more. Her left hip dipped ever so slightly, he only found that out when he came to realise how much she enjoyed being on top, his hands glued to her waist and hips. Her right breast had a freckle over it, and her abdomen had the outline of her dream womb tattoo; a butterfly flying out of a garden of curled grass and into a piercing star. He remembered the way she bit her lip atop him when he was hitting just the right spot, and he knew to go a little harder. If she'd release her lip, if her breathing grew staggered, and the tips of her hair delicately caressed his face as she lowered her head in a moment of absolute ecstasy, he knew she was about to have a mind-blowing orgasm. That was when he would go past the rhythmic thrusting, and let his primal urges fully consume him, allowing him to erupt into a wild frenzy of throwing his hips upwards into hers. Like a puzzle having found its final piece, he'd know she was finishing as she let out a stunted cry, a raspy exhale followed by a hushed expletive that crescendos into a screaming fuck.

Indeed, their first night together in this bed had been a night of exploration, revelation, and understanding. But perhaps most of all, it was the redemption of their mutually scarred ego. That fragility that had been reinforced by finding someone they were so physically in sync with. He glared at his phone. Sat there, perched atop the nightstand, charging silently, preparing itself for the inevitably depressing phone call, the humbling he'd endure as he sobbed softly down the phone, begging, grovelling and letting her revel in his humiliating display. Though, as he played that scenario out in his head, he knew it was more his own musing, his own failure to contend with his emotional instability before his fingers crawled up the nightstand and wrapped around his phone, pulling it gently toward his face as the light from the phone blasted his eyes, forcing his lids to shutter over them as they attempted to adjust to the punishing illumination. For a few, awkward seconds, he wrestled with the most difficult question of his life -- should he apologise? Does he need to apologise? Was she at fault? Or was he the one who ruined everything?

"What?" He heard her voice down the phone, gravel in her tone, tears having shredded her throat, the warmth he'd heard earlier this evening was replaced by a cold, indifferent disregard. Eric's brain wrestled with itself, and in the melee, he found a question being fired out from his lips.

"Do you still like Turkish delight?" Silence followed. He thought she might hang up. She didn't. But the silence lingered, and with a laboured breath, she finally found her reply.

"Uh-huh."

"Why? It's like the ugliest, least tasty chocolate."

"I hate that I agree with half of that statement."

"If it's the second half, you're on the right track."

"I like it more than I like you right now."

"My ancestor felt that one. That burn was so severe I felt myself--"

"Okay, okay. I miss you. I do," the words drew breath from him, the physical manifestation of intense relief. "But I don't like what you said."

"I know." A timidity captivated their conversation, as if though they were both cautiously gleaning what they could from each statement. If they were playing chess, they both felt like scared novices, staring down the board, a mile of black and white squares between them. In his desire to feel her once again, his lips tightly pursed as if his vindictive body wrestled with his weakening mind; he furrowed his brow and then shut his eyes more tightly, still. A soft sigh escaped his lips, "I'm sorry, bubbalicious."

Another few seconds of awkward silence followed by a simple: "Can I come home?"

In the cold war, they had all these massively powerful weapons, reconnaissance would tell them everything; both sides looking for an excuse to bombard the other, or at the very least, threaten them with it. People aren't the same. Eric and Melanie didn't have a thousand poisonous, atomic words to fire at one another. They didn't have erudite, fanged barbs to impale the other mentally. They had both had their own tastes of gaslighting, and that left them feeling scared of saying one thing, letting themselves be consumed by their frustration, and say something they'd regret. Her asking that simple thing, leaving the house for half an hour, and now knowing she wanted to return... He smiled to himself. "I have Turkish delight waiting for you, here."

He rushed out of their place in his socks, sandals, boxers and a robe, using a double-knot to ensure people wouldn't get a piercing look at his excitement to have his partner return to him. He rushed to throw in at least six bars of Turkish delight into a bag, paying for them and leaving before he could get his change. He could've given them a £100 note and left without getting his £95 change, he was that eager. He rushed back to his home, she was stood there, at the front door, sat on the porch, looking at him.

"Classy look."

"You too," His retort had her shooting him daggers, but those daggers might as well have been made of plastic, because a snarky smile severely blunted them. Melanie got up, wiping her streaked makeup from her face, and with another awkward pause, the world still around them -- everything disintegrating, she just saw his scruffy, uneven five o'clock shadow, his chest hair curled as a most distinguished gentleman's body hair would be. He had a singular horse lick from laying on the pillow, a finite, thin lock of dark hair like a sprouting weed atop his head. She found it adorable.

He saw beauty incarnate. He saw a short girl with a slowly growing smile, her lips get any wider, he'd start calling her Cheshire. Her perfect, pearlescent smile from years of meticulous brushing way before the two met, continuing long into their relationship. She'd obviously brushed her hair; he could see the metallic handle of her brush sticking out of her purse. Her glasses were slightly fogged, she wore them whenever she had to drive, and the thick frames sometimes hid the most beautiful green eyes. As unintentional as intentional, his view dipped to her cleavage, noticing the reason for all of this. It was a joke that got carried a little too far. She still hadn't removed it. In the cleavage of her camisole, he saw a small, silver, square packet. His heart started beating a little faster. He could hear it in his ears.

The world around them had disintegrated. There was only Eric. There was only Melanie.

One step became two, and two became four, and four became the tightest hug they'd ever had, locked in the warmest embrace of all. They loosened it only to look at one another, and shared a deep, longing kiss, her cheeks stained with more tears as she couldn't quite help herself. "...'m ready."

"What?" She said, the sparkling mossy green gazing into his wild hazel. He half-expected her to have heard it, but just wanted him to repeat it.

"I'm ready."

Her smile dropped, but her face brightened more. She'd become a tomato before long. "Are you sure?"

"I think I'd make a good dad. I'd teach them the right chocolate to enjoy."

"Yeah. Turkish delight." With a joint chuckle, they locked lips once more, his hands gliding down her body, sweeping over her curves, the tips of his fingers curling and squeezing down upon the plush globes of her ample rear.

In the soft night light mode of the laptop, playing their favourite lo-fi playlist, he pinned her to the bed, their bodies enraptured by one another, feeding off of their mutual lust. The both of them diloricated, clothes haphazardly, carelessly thrown every which way, though he did take a great deal of pleasure in helping her remove her jeans, his fingers locked into the waistband, peeling them down as he feverishly swatted at her behind, causing little moans and gasps to escape her lips.

He eventually unleashed himself, allowing his turgidity to stand at full attention for her, swollen, throbbing and twitching. Their active sex life had been dull lately, she didn't want to do a single sexual act other than the occasional teasing here and there. How surprising when he discovered she had been purposely making him save his essence for a full week, more than enough time to fill her up completely with the promise of their lovechild. He felt harder than usual, as if his manhood could sense the impending rutting, the purpose for which it truly served. A silvery, glistening drop of preseed flowing down his tip right onto his engorged balls, ready to flood her. He dropped the solid, bulbous crown of his tool to her soaked entrance, having relieved her of her thong. They share a knowing look, her chewing on her lower lip, him letting his rock-hard length tease her for a few seconds, though it felt as though he was only teasing them both. The wave of relief filled the room with an unfiltered joint moan, the both of them mewling heartily as soon as he penetrated her, he placed a twitching hand at her side, and let his other brush along the soft skin of her thigh. A gentle assurance before the feral side takes over, he took a gentle hold of her pale thigh before starting to ease himself in and out.

Everything felt slower at first, much slower than they normally would be going, even with the absence of foreplay. But it seemed as though they were both far too frustrated to think about foreplay, and with a thrust forward of his hips, another cry was generated. He fell into a rhythm, a wriggle of his hips, pushing forward, pulling back -- until she coiled her legs around his back, the two sharing a deep, passionate kiss, tongues wrestling for absolute dominance as he made her round ass bounce fervently on and off of the bed with now fierce movements, happily rutting with his one and only. His balls roiling with viscous essence, plapping loudly against her butt with each thrust.

They eventually rolled over, her on top, riding his pipe-like organ with ecstatic movements, what started as just her lifting and dropping her hips, evolved into her placing both hands atop his chest, her own pillowy bosom bouncing with each movement, years of dancing allowing her hips the perfect rhythmic, melodic movements, practically following the beat of the sonorous drum and bass in the background, but eventually, he'd grab her hips, and once again tilt his body in just the right angle to tickle that sweet spot, she lowered her head, whispering a soft "Oh, fuck. Oh fuck, Eric... Eric... No... no... together. We need... to do it together..."

His reply was to slap her plump rear, practically sealing his hands to her waist, and pummelling that sweet spot with everything he had. In his response, he uttered out through restless breathing: "You can cum more than once, can't you?"

Every so often, he could feel the rumbling low in his testicles, he could feel the rising of his baby batter, the desperate need to pump her full. He threw his hips up still, and then he felt his chest dampening all of a sudden from her drooling a little down her chin, the sheets beneath her scrunched into her fists, she gritted her teeth wildly to hold back her noise -- but just as the crescendo hit, as her climax washed over her, as her body rattled uncontrollably -- she let out a massive scream, falling into low, shuddering sob-like moans of ecstasy.

Only, he wasn't finished. He moved her onto her stomach. She felt as though he was giving her a break, only to be proven very wrong as his now-sopping wet member disappeared once again into the depths of her tiny womanhood, swallowed whole as he began humping at her from behind. She felt tighter in this position. All the more perfect to milk his seed into her. He began to get a little more rough in this position, this time grasping a handful of her hair, tugging her head upward as she couldn't stop moaning. "Oh, god! Oh, fuck! I'm st-still really... sensitiiive!"

Her words fell upon appreciative, albeit deaf ears. He was locked fully into breeding this little bitch. Though, out of a sheer, sadistic amusement, he stopped himself, his swollen girth twitching inside her. He noticed as soon as he stopped, she started throwing her hips back, shaking her head. "No... more... I want more..." Again. Both hands fell upon her hips, viscerally drilling into her, a sloppy, lewd noise filling the room from their lovemaking. It went on like that for a couple more minutes, he felt the rumbling in his balls getting stronger by the second. He was getting close.

He lowered himself to her side behind her, spooning her, grasping under one of her knees, lifting her leg and his other hand gently coiling around her throat. "Gonna cum so fucking hard, baby..." He growled, his member feeling like it was expanding to twice its girth, almost like a knot.

"Cum in me! Breed me! Do it! Knock me up!" She cried, and with that, they shared one more deep kiss, and it was broken only by his growls turning into groans, his groans turning into a roar right as his tip turned into a hose, the first thick, viscous shot of baby batter pouring into her pussy. Eric felt himself emptying completely into her, every last drop pouring straight into her womb. Gushing inside her. So much so, it began to spill out slightly from between their mixed sex. They finally collapsed onto the pillow, breathing, huffing, puffing.

That had to be the best sex he'd ever had. And she giggled, happily nestling back against him. "Mm, god. You were insane... that was... ugh. Unbelievable..."