Stories We Ruined Together Pt. 09

We passed a nice few weeks together. In fact that's not enough, to say that, to call it nice. It was wonderful, it was almost heavenly. To me. Every time I saw Ed I felt that my heart was so big, that it had grown to fit in all the good feelings I had for him. We talked and talked, and listened, and enjoyed silences, and learned each other's habits. He had a way of rubbing his face when he was tired and I thought that was adorable. He said that I liked to wag my finger when I was using strong sarcasm, and that he liked it. I probably would have done anything he'd asked, in that time, and not given it a second thought. But he didn't ask much from me -- we just did normal things, and enjoyed it almost obscenely. Cooking together, the cinema, walks in the biting wintery air that usually made me miserable.

Not this year. This year I had inner warmth. Sugar had been poured into my life, from an unseen hand, and I didn't question that, other than the think with amusement that at Christmas I hadn't even known he existed, and to call myself the luckiest lady around. People at work commented on my mood -- they weren't used to seeing me look happy. Brian met us for drinks and told me afterwards that Ed seemed to him 'a damn fine match' for me. And all of this positivity made me look at other parts of my life in a different way too, and all of a sudden my job, and my difficult parents, and the cold flat, seemed more than bearable. It seemed like all of my cards were organising themselves into a nice row, or the ducks were stacking themselves, or whatever the phrase is. I believed life was working for me. What an idiot, right?!

The only key thing I felt I was neglecting was my writing. Rosie's Winter of Love had been on pause for a while, partly because I spent most of my free time enjoying myself with Ed. But also I was a little bit afraid of coming back to it. Unlike previous things I'd written, I'd channelled a lot of negativity into Rosie's..., without meaning to, or realising it. A thread of cynicism ran through it, an unromantic atmosphere of foreboding. I didn't want to step back into that. The new me didn't fancy it much. Ed asked me about it a few times, it was very clear he wanted to encourage me, believed that I would regret abandoning it. Five weeks after our midnight lake dip, he even brought it up during a blowjob.

"You've got some good experiences to put into the book now... all the stuff we've been having fun with," he said, through short breaths. I looked up at him from my kneeling position, there on the carpet, in front of the tall mirror just as he liked it best. But I had my mouth too full to talk, and I just kept the motion going, lips tight around his cock, along and back, along and back. Firm sucking and lots of spit.

"Just like that..." he whispered through gritted teeth. I sped up very slightly, feeling his hands in my hair as he guided my movement, thrust towards my throat but not quite there, managing to hold himself back from that. I was glad -- I hadn't done it that deep before. This was enough for now. Feeling his smooth shaft pushing in over and over, the swollen head occasionally coming all the way out to my lips before shoving its way back in, saliva starting to run down my chin. Half the rhythm was his and half of it was mine, and it was all ours. I gently cupped his balls, moving my palm under them like I was sifting sand, feeling the trimmed hairs brush my palm, and he gave a deep groan to tell me that he was close. I gave him a deep burning look, and when he met my eyes that was the final nudge, and he stopped trying to thrust, just held my head, gasped, and I felt his cock spasm in my mouth, then fill it with thick warm salty cum, and I closed my eyes and concentrated on not choking on it. I swallowed, felt it slide down -- not pleasant but not awful.

He told me that I was wonderful, and sat down on the carpet next to me. I put my hand on his heart and felt the pulse returning towards normal, gradually. Eventually he returned us to the topic of my book, and asked when I would resume it. My reply was that I wasn't sure.

"It would be a waste not to."

"Why do you care so much?" I said it gently, to show that I wasn't annoyed, yet.

"Because I care about you, and I know it's important to you."

"It's not the only thing that's important to me. You're important to me. Maybe I just don't feel the need so much anymore, now that I've got something in my own life, something good. That's actually real. Maybe I don't have to imagine things anymore."

He stroked his hand through my hair. "You can do both."

"I know."

"Well, let me know if you want some help. Anytime."

I felt that this was a good moment to ask. "Can I read some of what you've written? You've never shown me."

Ed sighed, and shifted away from me a bit, but I kept my hand on his chest and waited out the silence. "I just get embarrassed about it."

"Well so do I, but I don't let that stop me. I've let you read mine."

"Yeah, but you write for people to read. I don't."

"Come on, you big idiot." He laughed at that, and I knew I had him. Two nights later we were at his house, in his bedroom, with Gareth's strange techno music seeping muffled through the walls, and on Ed's desk was his laptop and I was reading his short stories. While he lay on the bed and pretended to be thinking of other things, I read and read and read. Stories of lovers meeting and parting. Of friends travelling the world. Youngsters growing up. Relatives lost and found. Hurdles overcome -- financial, social, health, psychological. The characters were relatable for me, they were imperfect and passionate, vividly expressed with little quirks and understandable motivations. And the plots made sense, they were well-constructed and thoughtfully paced, they moved along with good momentum and took me with them.

But there was something odd, and it took me a while to work out exactly what. I sat there in front of the computer pretending to still be reading, while I thought it through. And then I realised -- every single story had a happy ending. All ten of them. And none of these conclusions were ambiguous, or bitter-sweet. They were clear, simple, happy endings. The characters got what they needed, the plots were neatly resolved. Even the stories featuring danger, and pain, and intimidating odds. Everything tied up all rosey every time. What was that all about? An enthusiastic reader, I had never found a book of short stories for adults that contained only nice endings. Some of Ed's worked well, but some of them felt improbable, or contrived. Like the natural direction of the plot had been misery, or an incomplete resolution, but he had forced it away, forced it to a sunny end. Why?

It felt a bit too personal, somehow, to ask him about. As if it was some sort of accusation. As if I would be saying that I thought something was wrong with him. But that would be the truth, I genuinely thought that. For the very first time, I felt that there was something off about Ed. Something concerning. I didn't mention it, I just told him that I liked his writing, a lot, and that I thought the stories were excellent, and with a lot to relate to. Which was true. And he smiled that nice smile, and came over to kiss me on the top of the head, and thanked me for reading, and we spent that evening all lovey-dovey, seeing nothing of his housemates, only wanting each other. Until I had to use the bathroom. Things in this story will get weirder from here on in, but I may as well tell it like it happened, as I don't see any other way. Other than lying. Well, the truth is coming your way, although not all at once. I only ask that you cut some slack for me, while you're reading. If you think I was completely stupid for not taking the following event more seriously, then yes, I suppose I agree, you're probably right. But please bear in mind just how caught up I was. How happy I was. For the first time in a long long time -- and I wanted to believe in what we had, I wanted to believe in its purity, its goodness. So go easy.

Mary was there when I opened the bathroom door, she'd been waiting silently and I jumped. She held up an apologetic palm. Then she fiddled with that cute blonde bob of hers, in a way that made her appear nervous. When I'd seen her previously she had been all confidence and charm, and I'd assumed she was always that way. I do that sometimes -- forget to remember that other people have hidden issues too.

"You scared me."

"Sorry," she said, in a low voice, glancing back down the corridor. We were a few metres from Ed's room, and Gareth's music was probably enough to cover our quiet conversation. "I just wanted to quickly tell you that, err... that I think you're hot."

I stared at her, confused to a very high level. "Oh... thanks. You too." She was, she really, really was. Even a very straight woman like me could appreciate that.

She licked her lips, and it occurred to me that she was probably on something. I hoped she was one of the chill drug users, not one of the unpredictable, violent ones. "Yeah, so like, if you ever want to get it on sometime, all three of us... I'd be down for that. Just so you know."

Now I really didn't know what to say. I looked up at her, then down at her long, beautiful legs, which she was showing off by wearing a neon-pink micro-mini, and then back up to her face. "Right. Thanks."

Mary put her hand on my arm, stroked it gently through my soft jumper. "You look so good in those photos, I was literally drooling."

I felt a cold chill and a warm nausea wash over me simultaneously, and it was not nice. Mary licked her lips again, and that somehow made me feel worse.

"What... what photos?" Even my voice was weak. Mary's face went from eagerly flirty to mortification.

"I mean... the... the photos that you took with Ed. That he took of you."

I took a long slow breath before responding, and glanced down the corridor. We were still alone. I drew back into the bathroom, and gently pulled her in with me, hand on her toned bicep, the warm skin of which was freed by her silky vest top. Now she really did look scared.

"What photos? Show me."

"Liz, I, I just thought....,"

"Show me," I ordered her, than forced myself to calm my tone, and held up a hand to ease her nerves, as if I was some kind of magician. "Just show me what you mean." Mary rummaged in the pocket of her baggy cargo trousers, her panicked eyes never leaving mine. Then her phone was out, and a moment later she held it out to me. After a moment to ready myself, I took it from her.

At first I thought no, these photos aren't of me, they're of some naked girl masturbating on a bed. And then I realised that yeah, that was true, but that girl was me. Using the dildo on myself, eyes closed, giving myself up to the moment while Ed watched. And took pictures, apparently. Our special evening together, less than two months ago. It seemed impossible but there was the proof. I couldn't even try to fool myself that maybe someone else had taken them, somehow, from a crack in the curtains or something -- because the angle from which they were shot corresponded exactly to where he had been sitting. In that moment I wanted to cry. Seeing myself like that -- not that I looked bad. These photos were erotic, and my body looked slim, smooth, even beautiful. But the level to which I was exposed, everything on show, cut me deeply. Privacy had always been precious to me, and trust had always come slowly. It felt like someone had beaten the hell out of me and I'd only just realised. And all the pain had come suddenly, caught up with me.

When I finally managed to speak I asked Mary to delete them, and not mention it again. She just nodded, fearfully, and whispered apologies as she backed out of the bathroom and disappeared. I remained for a minute longer, composing myself, bringing my emotions back in line, pushing everything back down. In the mirror I smiled at myself. Empty smile. Then I walked back down the corridor, to the bedroom.

"I thought maybe you'd fallen in and drowned," Ed said, winking at me. He was in bed, holding his phone.

"I'm fine," I said. And he smiled at me, and I managed to smile back.

**