Stories We Ruined Together Pt. 11

Author note

This is part 11 of 12, the next one I write will be the last of the story. Thank you for your patience, thanks for reading, and rating, and especially for commenting. I hope some of you have found it interesting -- I wanted to write something a bit different, something that felt plausible, something that was ultimately about the characters. A bit more planning and care could definitely have helped, but I am what I am. I've enjoyed the process and I think I've learned a lot. Thanks again..

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I did try very, very hard to reclaim my life at that point. Honestly I did -- please believe me. I went to work and applied myself. I chatted away with my colleagues and even managed to enjoy it. I let Brian take me away to the seaside for a weekend with some of his friends. We walked the beaches, ate ice creams, laughed, drank a lot. One of his besties told me I should become a lesbian, and I said that I wished I could, and meant it. In fact I told myself that I was done with men for the next three years. I made a little promise on it, and threw a pebble into the sea in some sort of symbolism. There was camaraderie that weekend, and enough fun to keep my mind mostly away from Ed. He didn't call, and neither did the police -- a relief on both counts. Maybe I had gotten away with it, I thought. The whole thing, the whole mistake of falling for that guy.

Back home, I spent my evenings of the following fortnight alone -- well, with Romeo, but he is pretty quiet company. For the first few days I watched TV and read, and listened to music, and just lay there on the sofa, thinking about what I'd lost. But eventually there creeped over me an itching desire to finish my book. Rosie's Winter of Love. I skimmed through what I'd written so far. It all seemed a bit silly, a bit naïve. But there was something nice about that.

And Ed had been right, when he said that I now had the experience to re-write those key scenes, to make them colourful and convincing. And so I went back to them, and poured myself onto the pages, channelled the thoughts and feelings from our experiments to bring life to Rosie meeting a stranger at a bar, Rosie spilling her insecurities to a boy she trusts, Rosie touching herself while the professor watches, Rosie jumping into the lake at midnight. It hurt me to write those things, and remember the joy, the excitement and the fear that I had felt in doing them myself, so recently. But I pushed through that, I got it done. Sixteen days after the car incident, the book was almost finished, and I was satisfied with it. It was better than other things I'd written, and not just because it didn't contain vampires and werewolves. It actually had a little bit of me in it. And that meant something. Perhaps my small band of loyal readers would like it, and perhaps not. Either way, I believed I'd gained something from it.

But day seventeen had a big surprise for me. It was a Friday, and at eight pm I had eaten my dinner, washed up, sent some silly messages to Brian and fed Romeo, and I was enjoying a hot shower, loving the escape from the cold, from the inefficient heating of my old, cold flat. I rubbed the soap over my arms, shoulders, the legs I hadn't bothered to shave for a good while. I thought about the weekend, and how I could spend it, whether I should go visit my parents or not. Then over the water I heard my buzzer. I considered not answering it. But my curiosity overtook. In fact I thought that it was probably Brian -- in my messages I'd mentioned that if he wanted to drink that night I was up for it, and so I thought maybe he had decided to come over and surprise me with a bottle of something nice. And so I turned off the shower, wrapped a towel around my slim frame, and went to the door. I didn't mind if it was a neighbour who needed something, they could see me in a towel, I was beyond caring about something like that. The weeks of emotional rollercoastering had burnt out my normal reserve, at least temporarily. But when I opened my door, it was Ed standing there.

"I came through the main door with one of your neighbours," he explained, instead of saying hello.

"Oh." I didn't know what to say or do, so I just stood there. And when he asked if he could come in, I shrugged, and turned and walked back inside, and he followed. He sat down on the sofa, slowly, usual sureity missing. In fact he looked lost. Buying time, I went through to my bedroom and dressed myself in jeans and my comforting old black jumper. I took a while in there, trying to figure out what I wanted to say. My mind was blank. I gave up, returning to the living room. It was quite dark, just my big standing lamp lighting up one corner, and Ed's figure was large but ill-defined, face mostly shadowed. Romeo had made himself scarce, as if predicting a fight. Ed was staring at his socks, but then he looked up -- and why did that combination always get me like that? The deep brown eyes and the strong thick eyebrows? What's really in the way someone looks at you, could someone tell me that, please? Why do we care how they look at us, what difference does it really make, how can we really use that as a basis for trust? Somebody out there must have the answers.

"Come sit with me," he pleaded, quietly.

"No thanks."

A long silence, his eyes on me while I looked at anything else but him. Then he spoke again.

"None of this makes sense to me. I really need you, you know. I don't want to be without you."

"Why not?"

He pushed his unruly hair away from his forehead, and it flopped back again. "Because you're special to me. You're not like anyone I've been with before. And I want you all the time, I think about you all the time. I'm... fucking hell. I'm in a lot of pain, alright?"

"Why... why should I believe you?"

"Come on Lizzie. Why else would I be here? And whatever happened at the road, I don't care. We all have our mad moments." He stood and approached me, and I let him take my hand, and I let him put his lips to it, and then I let him hold me to him. Everything of me was warm, and alert. I didn't put my hands on him, but I didn't move away. I didn't do anything at all, just stood there. He whispered in my ear that he loved me, that he couldn't be without me, that I was more to him than anything else, than everything else. And I found myself whispering back to him, saying that I didn't believe him. But he kept repeating his mantras of devotion, and my declarations of resistance faltered, and tailed off.

Is it so bad to want to be loved? And to want, desperately, to believe in the person you adore? That's all I was doing in that moment, that's all I was guilty of there, so please don't judge me too harshly. Maybe you already have, back when I told you about pushing him into the road, and I suppose I can't complain about that -- it was dangerous, brutal, stupid and irrational. But I didn't mean to do it, it wasn't a plan or even a conscious decision in the moment. And neither was this, this acceptance of him, this wordless forgiveness. It was instinct.

I touched him without realising, pawing his back, his shoulders, and I could hear someone crying, and then I realised it was me. Ed told me it was okay, that everything was going to be okay. The floodgates really opened after that, and I soaked his shirt with my tears, as he kissed my neck. Softly. Again he told me that he loved me. And I thought he did, and I thought he was going to take me and drag me onto dry land, and safety. I didn't know it would be quicksand.

"Take this off for me," he murmured, pulling at the hem of my jumper. I obeyed, lifting it over my head, dropping it to the floor, and he took my right breast in hand, gently squeezed, stooped to kiss my nipple, and I felt a jolt of anticipation shock through me. I unbuttoned his shirt, and he shrugged it off. The flat must have been very, very cold, but I didn't feel that. Eyes closed, I kissed him deeply, gently bit his lower lip, ran my hands from his ribcage to his chest, to his jaw. Breathed him in as he unzipped my jeans, helped me out of them, turned me around and pressed me against the wall, his strong body against mine -- mine which felt so weak, blissfully weak, pliable to him, faithful and obedient to him.

He took my hair in his hand, wound it up, and put his lips to my neck. I shuddered involuntarily. His other hand grabbed my hip as he ground against me, and I felt his hardness strain against his jeans and push against my bum, heard his lustful breathing in my ear, smelled his familiar scent. He released my hip, kept my hair held, moved the free fingers between my legs, parting them, rubbing the wet cotton of my knickers. It was obvious that I was ready for him. I was so, so ready. I don't think I've ever wanted it so badly. He stepped back and I heard him hurry out of his jeans and shirt, and then a moment later he was against me again, and I was against the wall, my cheek pressed against it, my heart thumping, and he was asking me if I wanted this, if I wanted him. A genuine question, seeking permission, not some kind of teasing.

"I do. I want you inside me," I gasped, and a second later he had pulled my knickers out of the way, the head of his cock was rubbing my slick labia, trial and error driving me wild with desire -- and I had to help, couldn't prolong the waiting, so I reached back and guided him to my entrance. When he pushed into me we both groaned, a simultaneous sound, a shared emission, and he shoved his full length into me, one hand firmly squeezing my bum cheek, the other braced against the wall to allow him to thrust into me harder, to find his pace. I arched my back, pushed myself back onto him, put my hands between my face and the wall so that the motion wouldn't hurt me. For a second I felt a tell-tale welling up and I thought I was going to experience the fastest orgasm I'd ever had, by far, but it subsided again, leaving me to lower, softer pleasure. And how good that pleasure was, how warm and wet and willing I felt, feeling his cock plunge into me over and over, his pelvis slapping against my bum, everything heightened and intensified by passion and surprise and sheer desperate need. He pounded me like that for a few minutes, harder than I was used to, and I liked that, liked the intensity of it, the feeling of his hardness slamming into me repeatedly. Ed heard me whimper, and asked if I was okay, I told him to keep going, keep giving it to me. He did for a few more seconds, then abruptly pulled out. I nearly fell backwards, he grabbed my waist and steadied me, turned me around and we kissed with hunger, and then I pulled back and asked him what the hell he'd stopped for.

"We forgot to use a condom -- again."

"Oh, fuck. Yeah."

"And I was this close to finishing, nearly shot a load right up into you," he said, grinning. I laughed.

"That was a close one then. Come on."

I led him through to the bedroom, and fumbled round my bedside table for the condoms I'd bought a few weeks ago. I presented him with one.

"Here you go. No charge."

He sat down on the side of the bed next to me, kissed me shoulder, ran his palm down my back.

"You put it on for me."

"Are you that lazy?"

"It'll be more fun."

I shook my head but obliged him, extracting the condom from its foil, pretending not to mind its strange latex feel and the slickness of its lubricant. I pressed it to the swollen head of his cock, held it there with the fingers of one hand, and with the other I pulled it down slowly, down the length of his shaft.

"All ready. Now back to fucking me, please." This was more direct talk than I was used to using in the bedroom, but so much arousal had accumulated, and I wanted him to take me again, to really make me his. He nodded and pushed me gently onto my back on the bed, parted my legs and entered me hard, groaning his approval when I cried out in pleasure. I let myself go to it, lay there with my hands clasped round the back of his neck, letting his body warm mine, taking his erection deep into me, feeling the bliss build up. Minutes later I came hard, shouting it out, not caring about the neighbours, not thinking about anything but my orgasm as it shook through me. Then, as I lay there quivering and spent, he thrust in quicker, shallower motions until he finished too, noisily, and collapsed forward onto me.

"Sorry about that," he mumbled as he lifted his weight off me again, and pulled out, holding the condom in place.

"You don't have to apologise for anything," I whispered, eyes closed. I suppose in that sugary moment I managed to forgot why we had split up. "That was so, so good."

"Yeah, it was." Ed disappeared for a moment to bin the filled-up protection we had used, then he was back and lying down by my side, taking me in his arms. Our naked bodies joined via a loose arrangement of limbs. I could have looked into his eyes, but instead I looked at the ceiling, because I wanted to talk to him and my rational mind was coming back. I wanted to say things that I would be too bizarrely shy to if our eyes were to meet.

"Why do all of your short stories have happy endings?"

He laughed, and poked me in the ribs with his thumb. I squirmed and giggled, and repeated my question.

"I didn't know they did. Do they? There was quite a range in what I gave you to read, a lot of different stuff there."

"Yes, but all of them had happy endings, honestly."

"Hmm. If you say so."

"I do say so." I took his hand and kissed his fingers. They smelled vaguely of latex and semen. "I'm not, like, criticising you or anything. I'm really not."

"I know."

"It just surprised me. But if you didn't realise, then that's fine, you don't have to explain yourself or anything." I closed my eyes, I think he did the same, and we were quiet for a while. Then he broke it by again saying that he loved me. I asked him what he meant, because I couldn't believe that I could just have what I wanted.

"I said that I love you. I told you earlier, but you kept telling me no."

Now I did turn to make eye contact, and he was looking at me with all seriousness. His hair was a mess, but his expression was sincere, and affectionate, and everything I thought I wanted. I struggled to even speak.

"I just... I... I can't believe it."

"Believe it. Please." He kissed me, slowly, stroked my thigh, and I reciprocated with the same actions. We did that for a bit -- copied each other's movements, taking turns to switch the area of touching, the rhythm of it, and I felt him smile as we kissed. "You don't have to say it back yet, I want you to be sure... I can wait."

"Thank you," I murmured when our lips next parted, because he was right about that, I wasn't ready, my mind was a mess, even if it felt good. Even if it felt absolutely wonderful.

"I remember you saying that you'd never even thought about someone one day loving you."

"Oh, you remember that?"

"Of course I do," he said, and I snuggled against him, and yawned. It was too early for bed but I was half asleep. "You told me that at the park, not long after we met."

"Oh yeah. And you said you worried about being boring."

"Correct."

"That all seems a long time ago."

"Yeah. It's not though."

"No. It's not."

We stayed up for a while, talking about silly things, reminiscing about how we met, about the bar incident and the lake, as if we were old lovers. He described a trip he wanted us to take in France, and I questioned him hungrily for details, wanting more, convinced that we really would go there together. Eventually we readied ourselves for bed, and said goodnight, and fell asleep in each other's arms.

The next day started lazily, with slow, gentle sex that made me tingle all over as I rode him carefully and gazed into his eyes and thought I saw love gazing back at me. We fed Romeo, made breakfast and talked about work, telling funny stories about colleagues and complaining lightly about management. After that we took a walk around the frost-peppered town, arm in arm. Sat on a bench near the market, listening to the bustle of small business, we held hands and agreed that sometimes life could be very, very nice indeed. Ed said he wanted to read my changes to Rosie's Winter of Love, and I was able to oblige because I had it saved on the cloud. He took my phone and scrolled slowly through the document, and after he finished each of the scenes we had worked on together, I found the next relevant one for him -- because I didn't want to be sat there for hours freezing my arse off. He laughed at the bar scene, told me it was really funny. According to him the scene in which Rosie detailed her insecurities was subtle and effective, the lake moment jumped off the screen for him, and the dildo scene was 'hot as hell'. I baulked a bit when he said that, unable to prevent myself from remembering just how he had hurt me with that, the pictures he had taken without my permission, and then shared with Mary. I'd managed to forget that for a while, at least superficially. And I tried to again, I swallowed it down as if it was just a price I needed to pay for happiness. As if it was a toll-booth on the road to joy, rather than a massive red warning sign. Road closed due to landslides.

"There's still one more scene we didn't get you inspiration for," said Ed, glancing at me with a wide smile. Almost shy for a second or two.

"Is there?" Another thing I'd forgotten.

"Yeah -- Rosie gets tied up and blindfolded by the professor, right?"

I watched an old man shuffle by with a tote bag full of vegetables. I could hear families chattering, birds singing. "Well, you're not wrong. We don't have to do that though, I might not even put that in the book."

Ed laughed, and put his arm around me. "Obviously we should do it. It'll be fun, come on."

"Okay," I said, hiding my sudden excitement about the idea. I wanted him to control me. I wanted it. "When?"

"Let's go back to your place right now and do it, how about that?"

And so we walked back, and turned the central heating up, and had a cup of tea while we waited for the bedroom radiators to achieve a respectable temperature. We didn't say anything, and I could hardly meet Ed's eye -- I was nervous, I'd not done this kind of thing before. Soon we were sitting on my bed, kissing gently, removing our clothes slowly, getting closer and closer to what we desired.

"I'm ready," I told Ed, breaking our kiss and holding my hands out to him, wrists together, ready to be bound.

"You need to beg for it," he whispered back. "That's what Rosie does in your book."

I nodded, even though to beg felt somehow more disgraceful than the act of being bound itself. There was something wrong about it, irresistibly wrong. "Please... please tie me up."

"Good girl. But clasp them behind your back, that'll work better." I obeyed and he removed his belt, flexed it and for a crazy moment I thought he was going to hit me with it, but of course he didn't, he looped it round my wrists, round and round, and fastened it securely. Tightly.

"And the blindfold... please," I said to him, my eyes to the floor like I was ashamed. And I was, a bit. Does that make me some sort of prude, some sort of soft vanilla girl? Well, I can't explain it properly, but for some reason the asking was the bit that made me feel... I don't know. It doesn't matter. He pulled a pair of tights from my chest of drawers, and wound them round the top half of my face. Slowly. At first I could see right through the sheer material, but with each pass my world became darker. And then I could see nothing. "Thank you, professor," I whispered.

Next thing I knew, the head of his cock was pressed against my lips. He told me to open up and I did, and I let him steadily slide it in and out of my mouth, never going to deep, never pushing too hard, just filling and withdrawing, filling and withdrawing, all the while building up the saliva in my mouth, and I applied light, wet suction, just as he always liked. And I enjoyed it, it made me feel valuable. Pulling out, he told me I was a dirty little slut, and slapped me. Hard enough to sting, but not too hard. It surprised me. I liked it, and that surprised me too. I liked the pain and the dark. More shame. Even worse, I heard myself ask him to slap me again. And he did, and just a tiny bit harder. And then again, taking me unawares in my blindness, and my cheek burned, and I felt things that I hadn't before.