Yours for the Weekend

Inspired by the songs 'tis the damn season' and 'dorothea' by Taylor Swift. All characters are over eighteen, including in flashbacks.

*

Dorothea fiddles with her scarf, nerves tangling her insides as she gazes out the window. Her hometown seems so small thousands of feet below her private jet, a village of dollhouses, and she smiles to herself, the view bringing back memories of her childhood.

She'll be seeing them again, all her childhood friends. After all these years, how much have they changed? Lord knows she's not the gangly teenager she once was, wishing her friends goodbye as she boarded the plane to California, giddy with optimism and naivete. She bites back a wistful smile as she remembers all her friends waving her off. Well, nearly all of them. All but her high school sweetheart, Elliot.

Elliot, so unlike the men she dallied with these days, all chiselled jaws and plastic veneers, inhumanly gorgeous and emotionally constipated. Elliot was nothing like that, with his curly hair and quiet beauty. He adored her--worshipped the ground she walked on, and she, young and conceited, revelled in that, wrapping herself in his devotion. A pang of nostalgia shoots through her as she reminisces. She and Elliot were attached at the lips, sneaking away to screw in backseats and under bleachers. He gave her the confidence to make the big move, to get where she is today: A-list actress, Hollywood star, face plastered on massive billboards and tiny screens. But he wanted to keep her all to himself; couldn't stand to watch her board the plane, leaving him and his small-town life for bright and shiny Hollywood.

Will she see him again? Surely they'll bump into each other--a town this small, it's bound to happen eventually. But would he remember her as fondly as she did him?

*

The boys are treating him with a careful wariness that's edging on his nerves. Stephen and Cory are giving each other sneaky sidelong glances and not-so-subtle elbow jabs as they prattle on about nothing in particular. None of the typical ribbing and roasting that accompanies them when they intrude at the bar where Elliot works. They think he doesn't notice, but he's no idiot.

Finally, with a sigh, Elliot says, 'Come on lads. Spit it out.'

Stephen and Cory exchange glances and feign innocence.

'What do you mean?' says Cory, tapping tattooed fingers on the bar.

'Spit what out, Elliot?' says Stephen, chewing on the complimentary peanuts.

Elliot is wiping down the bar with a cloth. 'There's something you're not telling me. What's up? Out with it, already.'

Stephen grimaces, then stuffs his mouth with another handful of peanuts. He looks at Cory, who seems to find the countertop absolutely fascinating.

'Oh my god,' says Elliot, 'I'm not some delicate flower. Just tell me.'

Cory, finally, is the brave one. 'Dorothea's back in town,' he says, with such insincere nonchalance it's almost laughable, were it not for the bomb he just dropped. Dorothea. Back. Here? 'Just for the weekend,' Cory continues, 'she's seeing her folks for Christmas.'

But Elliot can barely hear the words. Blood rushes in his ears.

'Dorothea?' he mutters. His high school girlfriend, back home? Does she remember him? He never stopped thinking about her--not that she'd given him that chance. He sees her every day, in blockbuster movies and makeup ads, on magazine covers and the poster at the bus stop. (And the secret polaroid in his pocket. When Cory found out he gave him shit for it, but never told Stephen, for which Elliot is grateful.)

Dorothea. He never thought he'd see her again, not in real life, resigned as he was to always be just one of her many admirers, only ever dreaming about being able to touch her again, to fuck her like he used to in the back of his old truck.

Stephen scoffs. 'See, I told you he'd get like this. Get that fuckin' dopey look off your face, dude.'

Cory laughs, and mocks, 'Oh, Dorothea, the one that got away. Do you think she still remembers me?' He puts his hands over his heart and bats his lashes, pouting.

This snaps Elliot out of it, and he throws his wet cloth at his friend. 'Shut the fuck up, dude. That was years ago, we've both moved on.'

Stephen, evidently, thinks this is the funniest thing Elliot has ever said, and he chokes on his beer.

Cory throws the cloth back at him, and says, 'She'll be at carols tonight.'

'She will?' asks Elliot.

'She will?' Stephen copies, mocking in falsetto. Elliot punches his shoulder.

Cory ignores Stephen. 'So I've heard,' he says. 'You're gonna go, right?'

'Eh,' says Elliot, with a shrug, 'not really my thing. Probably not.'

*

That was a lie. Of course he goes to carols.

Inside the church, he's skittish all evening, eyes peeled for perfect auburn curls and blue eyes. He sings along to the carols half-heartedly, craning his neck to examine each face in the crowd. Cory has to elbow him when he misses the cue to sit down.

'Pull yourself together, man,' Cory hisses to him. But Elliot doesn't, letting the sounds of carols and Christmas hymns wash over him, inattentive. He has better things to focus on--namely one celebrity ex-girlfriend hidden in the throng.

After the service ends, he's unintentionally rude to regular churchgoing old ladies, brushing them off as he scans the congregation. Just as he's resigned to miss her, ready to head out among the dispersing crowd, there she is.

Rugged up in designer coat and scarf, laughing in slow motion, perfection personified. She's so shiny and smooth compared to the rest of the town, in their thrift store layers and five-dollar haircuts. Everything about her is so magnetic, the rest of the world fades to greys beside her vibrancy--she's a cut-out from a glossy magazine taped to a scribbled children's drawing.

Elliot is caught in her orbit, and he finds his legs moving toward her before his brain can catch up, and suddenly he's standing right in front of her. Heart hiccupping in his chest, he wipes his palms on his jeans as he clears his throat, catching her attention.

'Hey, uh,' he begins eloquently. His voice breaks, squeaking like he's a teenager again. 'Dorothea. I don't know if you remember me, but uh--'

Dorothea's face breaks into a wide grin. 'Elliot!' she all but squeals, 'Of course I remember you, silly!' She wraps him up in an affectionate hug, and his nerves melt away, slush down a drain. She's standing on tiptoes to reach her arms around his shoulders, and his arms snake around her waist as if they were made for this, and it feels exactly the same as it did eight years ago.

Dorothea loosens her grip and Elliot pulls away reluctantly. Behind Dorothea, Stephen makes a lewd gesture, which Elliot ignores. Instead, he says, 'Wanna go on a walk with me?'

Dorothea's smile could melt polar ice caps. She takes his hand.

*

Wandering through town streets, mittened hand in mittened hand, Elliot and Dorothea reminisce over old memories. The main drag is empty and quiet as they walk down it, streetlights aglow.

'Oh, I remember the Christmas pageant parading down here every year,' Dorothea says, wistful smile on her face. 'Is that still going! Oh, tell me it is!'

Elliot has never been one for Christmas spirit, but Dorothea's enthusiasm is just so adorable, he can't help but get caught up in it. 'Yeah, they'll be parading tomorrow.'

'Oh, we have to go!' she says, tugging his arm. 'I used to love the parade!'

'Loved being the centre of attention, huh? You in your little elf outfit, with the stripy tights, I remember.' Elliot pokes her side and she squeals, skipping away.

'It was very vogue, Elliot,' she jokes, putting her hands on her hips. 'Not that I'd expect you to understand.' She gestures to his khaki puffer coat, and he gasps in mock offense.

'Not all of us have closets the size of Texas, Dolly,' he retorts, giving her a playful shove.

She laughs. 'Don't get started with that old nickname again, Elliot!'

'If it fits, it fits!' Elliot says, 'You had a new Sunday best each week! Your mother dressed you up like a little plaything. You were her little Dolly!'

She rolls her eyes and scoffs. 'I'm everyone's Dolly.'

Elliot says quietly, 'You were never a toy to me, though.'

Maybe that was too sincere. She looks away, avoiding his gaze, and an awkward silence makes the chilly air colder.

Then suddenly, Dorothea points and says, 'Hey look, the playground!' and she tugs his hand, skipping towards it. Elliot struggles to keep up, following Dorothea and her ruby red scarf flapping like a flag in the wind.

They play on the playground like they're kids again, and they don't talk about their lives since Dorothea left. They don't talk about who they've been seeing, even though Elliot knows she's been seen with some strong-jawed Adonis of a co-star, and the thought of it leaves him with an iciness he'd do better to ignore. Dorothea was never his to keep. Always her own person, never tied down--he'd do well to remember that. But when she tilts her head back and says in that sing-song voice 'It's snowing!' and sticks her tongue out to catch the flakes, he can't tamp down the pang of heartache.

'Dance with me,' he says.

He pulls her into him and they twirl around as snow floats around them like slow motion confetti.

'You remember prom night?' he asks.

There's a gleam in her eyes. Of course she does.

*

How could she not remember the best night of her life?

Dorothea examined the corsage on her wrist as the chevy rumbled down the main street, warm spring air ruffling her curls through the rolled-down window. She was speaking to Elliot in the driver's seat. 'I mean, it's not that I think prom is overrated, I just--'

'You just think prom is overrated?' Elliot shot her a lopsided grin and Dorothea's stomach flipped. Always a sucker for that smile. 'I mean, it kinda is,' he said, 'Never saw the big deal, myself.' He turned his attention back to the road, and Dorothea couldn't help but admire the way his hands gripped the wheel, strong and sturdy. Her gaze travelled to his crooked tie and unbuttoned collar, to the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he talked. She licked her lips.

'Me neither,' she said, 'It's just. My mother is so insistent, especially after--' she gestured to her dress, a magenta monstrosity of silk and taffeta. 'It's like, after all the effort she put in, I'm kinda obligated to--'

He cut her off. 'You don't actually think we're going to the prom, do you?'

She frowned, confused, as he turned right into the parking lot of the local playground. He jumped out of the truck with enthusiasm, and before Dorothea could react, he was opening her door and holding out his hand.

'My lady,' he said, bowing, and she took his hand and giggled as he led her to the playground.

Dorothea ripped her dress sliding down the slide, scraped her palms when Elliot pushed her off the swing, and scuffed her pumps chasing him around and wrestling him, her perfectly styled ringlets slowly coming undone, becoming more dishevelled as the night went on. She laughed so hard her belly ached.

And then the sky broke above them, and they were caught in a downpour of rain, drenching them both. Elliot hauled Dorothea to her feet.

'May I have this dance?'

Dorothea had never felt so alive as when she waltzed with Elliot in the pouring rain. It was a perfect spring storm, thunder booming in the distance, scent of jasmine rich in the air, as the two of them twirled together under fluorescent streetlights, laughing into each other's mouths.

'This dress is going to be a nightmare to get out of,' she said. It clung to her, heavy with water.

'I can help you with that,' said Elliot.

And then they were in the back seat of the chevy, swapping virginities in an awkward clash of limbs and mouths.

There was no hesitance about it--they had been waiting long enough. Waiting for the perfect moment to screw each other's brains out, and finally, here it was. A perfect moment as any: in Elliot's old chevy, rain tapping the roof, back seat lit only by the yellow-gold light of the streetlamps.

Dorothea straddled Elliot's thighs and kissed him, sloppy and graceless and full of passion. She ground down on him, swivelling her hips, and felt the hard length of him beneath his pants. He gasped out a grunt that sent shivers of anticipation through her and he shoved her off him. He couldn't undo his belt fast enough, trembling as he wriggled out of his pants, cock springing free.

Dorothea leaned down, gave it a curious lick in one long stripe, before eagerly putting the whole thing into her mouth, swallowing down. Elliot jerked his hips up into her and hissed out a whispered 'Fuck,' in a voice heavy with lust. Dorothea became aware of just how turned on she was--there was an urgent, gooey feeling underneath the lace of her panties.

She moaned around him, saliva dripping down his cock. He had to pull her off him, tugging at her hair to free himself.

'Fuck, Dolly,' he groaned. 'Slow down.'

She gazed up at him. He was flushed and panting, jaw slack and lips bitten red. Fuck, he was so hot, and Dorothea's mouth watered as she tried to get his cock in her mouth once more, but he pushed her back, denying her.

'Seriously,' he said, a little desperate, 'I don't wanna--you know, too soon.'

That stopped her. 'Oh,' she said. Her ego flourished at the thought that she could get him there so quickly, and a smug, feline grin spread across her face. 'In that case,' she said, 'You should make me come first.'

She twisted off him and leaned back, hiked the skirts of her dress up and spread her legs, exposing her purple lace and silk panties. She waggled her eyebrows at him. 'Eat up.'

'Bossy,' Elliot replied, but he manoeuvred himself between her legs and tugged at her underwear. 'Oh my god, Dolly,' he breathed, stroking the damp lace. His breath was hot against the fabric. 'How are you already so wet?'

She squirmed beneath him. 'I hear a lot of words coming from that mouth, when it should be doing something else,' she said. She tugged his curly hair, urging him closer.

'Yes ma'am,' he said. He pulled her panties to the side and dove in.

Dorothea's body sang. His tongue, so hot, so wet, lapped at her pussy fervently. Unpractised, sure, but his enthusiasm more than made up for it, and when his middle finger slipped inside and pumped wetly, she lost control, squeezing her thighs around Elliot and trembling as orgasm descended.

He pulled off her, obviously pleased. His chin was wet and sticky, and she licked herself off him before kissing him deeply, sucking off the tangy juices coating his tongue.

'I bought--I have a box of condoms in the glovebox,' Elliot murmured into her mouth.

'Someone came prepared,' Dorothea said, giggling.

'Shut up,' he said playfully, 'and let me fuck you.'

That shut her up. She leaned back, expectant, while Elliot retrieved the condoms from the front. He rolled one on, and then he was holding himself over her, nudging his cock at her entrance.

When he sank into her, it stung. The stretch of his cock inside her was unfamiliar, uncomfortable, but not altogether unpleasant. His self-control was admirable, holding himself still while Dorothea settled in, still getting used to this new feeling of fullness.

'You okay?' he said, voice throaty and low.

She bit her lip and nodded. 'You can fuck me, Elliot,' she said. 'I won't break.'

He looked like he might. 'I'll go slow,' he promised. And he did. Slowly he slid out, almost to the tip, then inch by inch he slipped inside again, and the friction was delicious. In and out, in and out, she clenched around him, and his eyebrows creased in concentration. Beads of sweat dotted his temples.

The thrusts increased in speed, and she moved her hips in time with his. 'Harder,' she commanded, 'faster.'

He slammed into her, and the truck rocked with them. Dorothea moaned and squeezed her knees around his chest. He grunted, gasped, then froze when he came, muscles coiled as his cock pumped inside her.

They lay back in the chevy, damp and panting as the storm raged on outside. Elliot pulled out a polaroid camera from the glovebox.

Flash.

There was Dorothea, frozen in time. Her grin was radiant sunshine in a spring storm, glassy eyed and rosy cheeked, a satisfied woman.

*

Back in the present, they dance together like they did all those years ago, snow crunching underfoot. Elliot is just as lost in her as he was back then, drowning in aquamarine eyes and plush, playful lips.

If he kisses her now, will she taste his heart in his mouth?

He surges forward and catches her mouth in his, and she kisses back just as desperately, just as hungrily. He can taste the ache in her, and it matches his. Dorothea presses herself to him, and he's embarrassingly hard.

'I want to fuck you so bad,' he says into her mouth. Their frosted breath mingles together. 'I'd bend you over right here in the park if it wasn't so freezing cold.'

'I'm staying with my parents,' she says. Her voice is shaky, saturated with want. 'You live alone?'

'You know it,' Elliot replies into her neck. Then he bites her gently, and Dorothea's moan in response nearly shatters him right there on the pavement. 'Come on.' He takes her hand and together they run to his apartment, four blocks away.

At home, he barely has time to turn the lights on and shut the door behind him before Dorothea pounces, and they crash together on his sofa. Her tongue is in his mouth, her hands are clawing at his winter coat.

Removing Dorothea's clothes is more slapstick than striptease, a clown car of clothing. Elliot laughs into her mouth. 'How many fucking layers have you got on, woman?'

'Shut up,' she says, smiling and pushing him back on the sofa, straddling him as she peels off her thermal underlayers. His hands are all over her skin, releasing her breasts from her bra.

'Your tits are fucking amazing,' says Elliot. He massages them, giving a gentle squeeze, and Dorothea arches into his touch. No longer the thin, coltish figure from her youth, Dorothea's body has well and truly filled out into a classic Hollywood shape, full breasts and hips, and truly incredible ass. Elliot takes a moment to admire with his hands.

Dorothea hums and grinds her hips into him, eliciting a hiss from him. 'Come on, Elliot,' she says, tugging at his flannel shirt, 'your turn.'

When, finally, they are both stripped bare, Elliot wastes no time, hauling Dorothea to her back and tonguing down her body, kissing her smooth, tan skin until he reaches her pretty pink pussy, waxed bare but for a triangle of dark curls. He licks the crease between her vulva and her thigh, and she shivers beneath him, hand tangled in his hair.

'I've been thinking about this since I heard you were here,' he says. 'Daydreaming about it all through carols.'

'Naughty,' Dorothea replies. She's about to say something else, but Elliot licks a line up her slit and the words are lost in a moan.

He hums in satisfaction as he sucks at her clit and pumps a finger in and out of her, the sound of her slick and sloshing making him even harder. He recognises the tell-tale signs of imminent orgasm and pulls away.

Dorothea whines and tries to pull his mouth back, but Elliot says, 'You're gonna come on my cock this time.'

'Fucking do it then,' she says.

He smirks and tuts at her. 'So demanding.'

But then he sinks into her, all the arrogance slides out of him, replaced with pure pleasure. It's fucking unreal, the sounds she's making and the way her tits bounce as he pounds into her. She claws his shoulders and her hips gyrate, and she tightens around him, moaning his name as she comes beneath him.

That sets him off, and he pulls out and paints her skin with him, streaking come on her stomach and breasts.

He's never going to forget this image: Dorothea, perfectly dishevelled, sweaty and flushed and striped snow-white with come.