The Scar

The sun was warm. She brushed the flaky croissant crumbs from the crimson tablecloth at her corner table. A summer breeze threatened her napkin. She pinned it with the tall glass, half-full with orange juice and smudged with dark red lipstick.

The breeze licked at her dark brown hair, tickling her bare shoulders. She adjusted the fashionable sunglasses that covered half her face. She eyed the rest of the café slowly, without turning her head. He was still the one.

He read the newspaper. It was folded, like he was on the train, not spread out. He hadn't checked his watch all morning. There was no ring. He was eating cut fruit with his fingers, the fork beside the plate untouched. His coffee was black.

She uncrossed her legs, smoothed the sundress, and then crossed her legs again. Her skin felt smooth. She imagined his hands running down her legs. She unconsciously reached under the sunglasses and touched the scar.

There was a noise on the street behind her. He looked up. Her hand darted back to her lap. He smiled. She gazed at him through the sunglasses. He went back to the paper.

The waiter cleared her half-eaten pastry. She kept the juice. She raised the glass to her lips. The tart citrus danced on her tongue. It had been freshly squeezed.

She patted the corner of her mouth with the napkin. The waiter came back, and she paid the check. She pinned his tip under the glass.

A gust took her napkin from the table. It skittered across the ground towards him. He must have seen the movement from the corner of his eye. He plucked it from the air as it passed.

He looked up. She was looking at him. He smiled, again. He started to rise, napkin in hand. She breathed.

She rose, and pulled her bag from the back of the chair. He strode toward her. She met him half way, hips swaying and heels clacking on the flagstones. He was taller than she had thought.

He held the napkin in his right hand. He extended it, palm upturned. She placed her hand in his, and looked up into his light brown eyes. She licked her lips lightly. It was right.

He opened his mouth to speak. She reached her right hand up to his shoulder, pulling him down to her. She stretched up toward him, placing her lips at his ear.

"I need you to take me home and fuck me," she said.

She ran her right hand down his arm as he slowly straightened, coming to rest so he held both her hands in his. He did not flinch. He looked at her. Her heart raced. It was an eternity. He nodded.

He dropped her left hand, but clasped her right. He led her back to his table. He left the napkin, and a $20 bill.

***

He opened the door. She stepped inside, and he followed. It hadn't been a far from the café. He had led her by the hand silently, striding at a pace she could match in heels.

It looked like a nice apartment. It was clean, but not meticulous. It wasn't big, but it looked modern.

He led her down the hall. He pushed open the bedroom door, and she stepped in beside him. The bed was unmade, but not unruly. It was a big bed.

He pulled the covers off in one motion, and turned to her. She shuffled toward him. Her heart fluttered. She fidgeted with her bag handles. She began to speak, but he hastily put his index finger to her lips. It still tasted like cantaloupe.

"Shhhh," he whispered.

He took her bag from her and placed it next to the footboard. She placed her hands at her sides, smoothing her sundress. He reached towards her face, and slowly pulled off the sunglasses.

She started to raise her hands to stop him. She forced them back to her side. He saw the scar. He pressed his lips together. They turned white. He ran his thumb across its length lightly. Five inches from her eyebrow, around her eye and across her cheekbone. It was where the small, insignificant son of a bitch's bottle had taken her.

"Not the only scar," he said.

It was not a question. She nodded anyway. It was the first time she had heard his voice. It was deep and pleasant.

He held her head in his hands. His thumb caressed her cheek. It was soothing. He bent towards her. She closed her eyes.

His lips met hers. They were soft. She opened her mouth slightly, and his tongue slid in to meet hers. They twirled. It was nice.

She felt his hands slide down to her waist, and her eyes shot open as he hoisted her in the air. She squealed, and he spun and threw her on the bed. His hands went to her breasts. They lingered for a moment, then slid the straps to her sundress off her shoulders. She reached down to the hem, thrust her hips into the air, and pulled the dress over her head. It fluttered to the floor behind her, and was forgotten.

She was naked underneath. He reached up, and smothered her bare breasts with his large hands. They fit perfectly. He squeezed, gently at first, then rougher. She gasped.

He cupped her breasts, smashed them together, and brought his mouth down to her nipples. She arched her back, bringing them closer to him. His breath was warm. Inside his mouth was warmer.

He tongued her nipples for a while, then kissed around them gently. She reached down, and pulled off his shirt. He stood, unfastened belt and button and pulled his pants to the ground. He quickly worked on his shoes. She worked on her heels.

She wriggled to the end of the bed, and sat up. He straightened. She ran her hands over his chest, her fingers working through his dark chest hair. His physique was well modeled, but not bulky. She tweaked his nipples lightly, and he shivered.

She ran her hands down his sides, and hooked her thumbs into his underwear's waistband. She yanked them down, and he stepped out of them.

His cock bobbed up towards her. She grabbed it with her right hand. It was thick. It throbbed as she squeezed, head bulging. To her, it felt powerful. She needed that power inside her.

She kissed the head, lightly. She twirled her tongue around its ridge. She slid her hand down the shaft, and took most of his length into her mouth. She flattened her tongue, and slid it slowly along its bottom. She could hear him breathe in sharply, and hold it.

She drew her head back gently, leisurely, and brought her tongue crawling back towards his tip. He moaned, expelling breath in one throaty rush.

He brought his hands up to her shoulders, and pushed her to the bed. He dropped to his knees, and forced her legs apart. He brought his face down between them. She had trimmed and shaved; she was smooth.

He slowly traced his tongue up the crease where her legs ended and her torso began. He moved across her, tongue outstretched, tasting her briefly. He sucked her lips into his mouth, and she shuddered. He dipped his tongue into her. She was sopping wet. She shuddered as pleasure raced up her spine, body bucking.

She reached down, entangled his hair in her hand, and pulled him up to her. She looked into his eyes.

"You can make love to me later, if you like," she gasped. "Fuck me now."

He smashed his lips into hers, invigorated. He brought his hands up to her breasts, and brutally pinned her to the bed, thumbs pushing in her nipples. Electricity shot through her. She groaned, eyes closed.

He grabbed her legs behind the knees, grasping her thighs. He pulled her to the edge of the bed. Her ankles found his shoulders. He pointed his cock at her, and plunged forward. She took him entirely. Her eyes burst open. He filled her.

She marveled how he fit her. Nothing had ever felt so magnificent.

He pulled back, and thrust forward again. She cried out. She could feel his point dragging across her inner flesh, toward her spot. He hit her just right, and she shook with satisfaction.

Breath ran ragged across her throat, rasping. He pulled back and assaulted again, plowing through her. Every nerve lit, every cell throbbed, every synapse fired inside of her.

She thought of the bastard that had mutilated her. He was a pathetic man, a drunk, a loser, a hateful hanger-on. She had a million chances to leave him, but always gave another chance. For her understanding, for her love, for her trouble, he had smashed a bottle into a face she had once thought beautiful. She left him that night, and he left town. He left her with a puckered scar.

She opened her eyes, and saw this man she didn't know was fucking her without abandon. It wasn't that he didn't see her scar. It was clear he saw beyond her scar. He dragged himself through her, relentlessly, hands holding onto her breasts tightly. Her eyes found his, and he was staring intently into them. Into her.

She moaned, loudly. He buried himself to his hilt. She felt beautiful again.

He pulled out entirely, and pulled her legs off his shoulders. He grabbed her waist, and spun her around. He knees found the sheets; she wagged her ass into the air, looking back toward him, licking her lips. He steadied himself with his hand, and then guided himself back into her.

The new aspect was amazing. He spread her, driving into her with passion. She arched her back, thrusting herself back toward him. He reached forward, gripped her swaying hair firmly, and pulled. Her head whipped back and she gasped.

She was getting fucked, wantonly, just as she had wanted. Just as she had needed. His thickness still stretched her. Her breasts bounced rhythmically, and pleasure met each extreme, up and down. All the heat in the room seemed to rush into her, spiraling up from inside her. She could feel the orgasm building.

She could hear him breathing heavily; she knew they were both close. She turned back toward him, and locked her eyes with his.

"Cum for me," she cried. "Cum in me! Let me feel you spreading through me."

She saw his eyes roll back, and he redoubled his efforts into her. She bowed her head forward, gripped the sheets as hard as she could, and accepted his onslaught. The fucking he gave her was unlike anything else. Her orgasm wracked her body. All her muscles contracted; she could feel herself clench around him. He pumped twice more, and groaned.

He came into her. She could feel herself painted, his semen spreading inside her. She collapsed forward. He fell on top of her. Limbs barely responding, they turned. Their heads barely found the pillows.

Her back was still to him. He pressed against her, arm draped over her body and face pressed into her hair.

"Excuse me," he said. "I don't know why you chose me for this, but thank you. I'm honored."

"You seemed right," she said.

"And you are beautiful," he said. "My name is Rex."

"It would have to be," she said.