Dirty Seduction

JULIAN

I stared up at the gorgeous girl catching her breath on the sofa, rubbing her wrists from being bound. I knew the road ahead. My resolve was broken beyond all recovery.From NôvelDrama.Org.

She was smiling, the scrawls of marker pen displayed proudly as I found my phone from my suit jacket. I called up my email account and typed in the words to my office manager.

Please accept my resignation, effective immediately.

Regards, Julian.

And that was it, sealed. We were both done for, until Rosie reached the end of the infatuation and life moved her on. I wouldn’t be moving on at all. I was done for. My only reason for existing was right here in this room. The drab routine of putting on a suit in the morning and setting off to the office, purely for the benefit of a token stab at normality, was redundant. Put into perspective.

Maybe this whirlwind of beauty would in fact make my eventual exit easier. Rosie would be a loss I wouldn’t be able to accept when she finally outgrew and left me, and the outcome could be inevitable. Finally, maybe I’d press the proverbial overdose button and wave goodbye for all time.

Rosie didn’t belong with me, or to me. I wasn’t going to be the man of her life and the man who deserved her future. He was still out there somewhere, craving his soulmate. I only hoped he was worthy from day one when he found her.

I took a seat on the sofa and took hold of her wrists, rubbing the rope marks to ease them.

“What happens now?” she asked me, slightly hesitant, as though I was in any way likely to backtrack on her exit from work and change my mind.

The poor girl had no idea just how firmly she’d snared me.

I kept it simple. “You stay here until you decide to leave.”

She laughed. “Thanks.”

Another cute message of appreciation where none was warranted. She was a beautiful innocent temptress in my shitty apartment, the appreciation was all was mine.

I ran my finger over the slut scrawled on her face, still soaking in the sight of her. Her lips were swollen puffy from kisses, and she was battered, tainted, used. Perfect.

It was her who made the move towards me, shifting herself onto my lap to brush her lips against mine.

“Steady,” I told her. “You’ll be reawakening the filth.”

“That’s what I want,” she whispered back, and we plunged straight back in.

The night was a blur of whisky, cigarettes, croissants, cereal, and sex. We were nothing but flesh exploring flesh, soaking up every single sensation. I traced marker pen scrawls all over her body with my tongue, and she sucked at my cock with the ferocity of a desperate slut. We fucked. We played. We teased and tempted, driving each other into the realms of insanity.

We were still a tangle of limbs on top of the bed sheets together when the morning came, and there we resumed, kissing as I pinned her down and used her pussy all over again. She was nothing more than whimpers and willing, and I was besotted by them. The angel from downstairs was a dirty drug, and I was a filthy addict, but she was just as hungry as I was. She couldn’t stand even the slightest distance between my body and hers. I soaped her down in the shower without giving a shit about the taste of suds as I sucked on her nipples. I knelt and ate her pussy under a cascade, almost choking at the streaming water, and she held my head to her, begging. She returned the favour straight back.

The hours blurred, contact with the outside world forgotten. We made boring sandwiches and laughed together, eyes twinkling with humour between long rounds of bodily pleasures, and then the night came again, long and dirty. I knew every single taste of her. I knew every dainty inch of her body. I adored every tiny part of her.

She called in sick at college and didn’t bother to get dressed for five solid days. Neither of us did. We didn’t step out through the front door. Not even to the shops for food supplies, or to the trash bins.

Her pussy was a delicate flower with a very good aptitude for taking cock, and her ass was always willing. Her mouth was a treasure. But so was her laugh. So was her smile. So was the way her eyes would light up over jokes and conversations. In those first few days we were superficial around our closeness, focusing on the physical pleasures without the risk of diving into the depths of mind, but that changed. We talked about everything from the wider world, to our views on the afterlife, to favourite characters in TV shows, books, movies. We talked about annoyances, and politics, and laughed about our quirky little habits. I smirked every time she pushed her glasses up her nose and she’d point out every time I tapped my chin when I was speaking.

It was only a matter of time before our chat turned towards the past. Not so much as to my family, or irresponsible choices this time, but to my career ones. It took me aback when Rosie asked if she could see one of my old thriller manuscripts after breakfast one morning. I had to dig my old laptop from the case it had been holed up in for months, and search back through old directories. My novels and attempts at them hadn’t seen the light in years.

I was in nothing but an open shirt with my laptop on my lap. I spun the screen to face her with my oldest manuscript on display, less than proudly.

“Feel free to take a look,” I said, but she shook her head, her eyes sparkling in her beautiful fascination.

“No. I love audio. I want to hear your voice, please. Can you read it to me?”

I wasn’t sure about that, but she carried on asking, spinning my screen back to me.

“Please, Julian, you have the best voice in the world.”

That was enough of a compliment. I cleared my throat and began to read my story. One I’d written around college, when I was about her age. A thriller, about a man who wakes up to find his wife gone, with nothing more than a note on their sideboard saying sorry.

My little goddess was transfixed right the way through the first few chapters. I paused after chapter four, but she shook her head with a smile.

“Keep going! I love it!”

Her enthusiasm was addictive.

“I’m serious!” she said. “I love it. It’s amazing.”

As it turned out, I loved it too. I loved reading my words out loud to her. My taste and style had changed a lot during my years in the lecture halls, but the story pulled me back into the memories. I remembered my creativity eating me up as I sat for hours every evening with my ashtray at my side, smoking and typing, lost in my imaginary world.

Sometimes surprises can hit so hard, they knock you sideways, and this was one of mine. I’d given up the writerly part of my soul a long, long time ago, but it was still there, like a shadow in the corner of my unconscious, waiting for me.

Rosie encouraged every second of it. Her enthusiasm was infectious. I kept reading through lunch and into the afternoon, even taking the laptop into the kitchen with us while Rosie made us a snack. The twists and turns of the plot was consuming her, her eyes fixed on me with every word.

I’d almost forgotten the ending myself, when it came to it. The fact that the woman had become besotted with someone from her criminal past of which her husband had never been aware of.

Rosie applauded me, as though I’d written a literary prize winner, declaring it was brilliant, but she was wrong. It was ok, yes, fine, but it wasn’t brilliant. The story arc could have done with some extreme tightening, and the character development could have been ramped up considerably. Plus, there wasn’t enough depth in the feelings the man had shown for his wife, right at the beginning. All skills I’d been teaching other aspiring writers, but hadn’t yet used myself.

Yet.

It was the first time I’d had a calling to write in decades.

“Which others have you got?” Rosie asked, and I scrolled through some other files. Some finished, some half written. I’d had the trademark stack of rejection letters sky high on my desk for years. I’d almost forgotten most of the stories.

“Why don’t you release them?” she said. “You could publish them yourself. A load of the stuff I’ve listened to is self-published. People would love it.”

“They’d take an awful lot of work to get them to that stage,” I told her, once I’d scanned through a few more of my files. “They’d need some serious rewrites, and editing, and I know sweet FA about branding, or covers, or marketing.”

She shrugged. “So? You could do that, you could learn.”

I dismissed it, stroking her cheek.

“I love your belief in me, angel, but all I care about right now is you.”

She kissed my fingers. “And all I care about is you. Which is why I’m saying you’re so good at this, you were born for it.”

I scoffed a friendly scoff. “Hardly.”

“Definitely.”

“I wish you’d have been an agent when I was writing. Maybe my destiny would have been mapped out differently, but it wasn’t meant to be. Clearly.” I closed my laptop. “I became a lecturer, not an author.”

“Tell me this, then,” she said. “If you could be a writer now, would you want to be?”

I placed the laptop on the coffee table.

“I think anyone driven by creativity would want to be an author or an artist, or a dancer, or whatever else their soul called for.”

“I’m not asking about anyone. I’m asking about you.”

“I don’t know,” I answered, honestly. “I haven’t even thought about it in years.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe one day,” I replied, and turned my attention back to her perfection.

I didn’t want thriller manuscripts. I wanted her.

Another night turned into another day, still insatiable. We stayed consumed in the world of just us, with no outside interference, for another night and another day after that, but I knew our isolation couldn’t last for ever.

I was having a cigarette by the window on morning number nine as Rosie typed in her regular message to her mother. She was conveying how she was having such a good time with Jenny that she’d not come home yet. How lovely it was to have a new friend, away for days at a time, exploring the country.

“Do you think she has any suspicions?” I asked her, pondering. “Surely she must. Has she asked who Jenny really is yet?”

Rosie shrugged. “No, I don’t think so. She’s too caught up with Scottie and their imaginary plans for a future.”

“I see.”

I took a fresh drag and felt the curiosity in Rosie’s stare.

“What about your imaginary future?” she asked.

“Sorry?”

She put her phone on the coffee table.

“Well, we can’t stay in here for ever, right? What do you want to happen? Between us?”

I’d been avoiding probing the question in my own head, so I didn’t have an answer for her.

I was trying to view only one minute at a time, savouring every second.

I kept up my policy of honesty when it came to her.

“We play until we peak, and then you set yourself free when we plummet. You can give me a wave goodbye as you move on to better things.”

She looked as though I’d slapped her, open mouthed.

“What?” I asked. “You have a whole future ahead, Rosie. I’m just a distraction at the beginning.”

She shook her head as though I was speaking the absurd.

“I’m not going to wave you goodbye and move on to better things. I don’t want to.”

I stubbed my cigarette out in the ashtray, pulling the window closed.

“I appreciate the faith and sentiment, but this isn’t your road ahead in the long term, I assure you. You’re only just beginning your adulthood. I’m approaching the end of mine.”

Her beautiful innocence shone through. She was still insistent, still shaking her head as though I was wrong.

“I’m not going to move on. And you aren’t approaching the end of yours. You’re forty-eight, not eighty-four.”

“And you’re barely approaching nineteen.”