Psychological
The Notes You Never Heard
You shield yourself from recognition. You shield yourself from becoming more than you can cope with. Always take the most convoluted route home. Instead of walking along the main road from your workplace, Ciccones Ristorante and Taverna, you double back on yourself and traverse back streets and alleyways.
By Paul Stewartabout a month ago in Fiction
You.. Content Warning.
You. You. Three letters. Inhale Exhale You. You. Three letters, one syllable. Inhale Exhale You. You. Three letters, one syllable, one consonant and two felt vowela. Inhale You. You. You wake. You hope. You again. Your name. Exhale Again and again. You take a walk. Through asphalt jungles. Where painted ladies beckon you into their charms. You stay to the left for the right is where the lecherous lepers of lust and primordial desire, the forgotten, sell their wares. You smell the thick intoxication of lust and vaginal musk. Where stale sweat meets fresh sweat and where pheromones are the atmosphere. You stay to the left but your eyes peer over to the right. A scandal of red lace and fishnets with blackened faces, shadows that blur and coalesce. You hear the combination of the salacious and the sorrow as you pass smoke-filled doorways as indecipherable arias full of perfumed grace and entrancing disharmony. The pull slows you to a crawl. You stop as a faceless silhouette of shapely long extended legs, curved bottom and round attention-asserting breasts draw you forward. You step one foot forward. Towards the breach. Towards the precipice. Where many a person before you has faced the decision you now face. The cream awaits your catlike curiosity. She beckons you to cross the threshold. Where the flesh entwined plays its control as the soft lull of the ambience of brass destroys your self-control as the scent of fresh linen soaked in oils absorbed from bodies who overpower you before you reduce the distance of separation. You are awake. You are awake. You. Are Awake. You lose sight of the straight path you've memorised as you press your body into her dominion. A skin-like partition curves and coalesces with your primed body as the distorted face guides you into her soft embrace as her arms slide under your arms and you feel your strength drain as primitive want takes hold of you as unchallenged as her arms lock you into her bosom as her legs complete the journey you began and she lays you down in her den. You do not fear the neck crack or the back crick. You wake. Again. You hope. But no. You are there. You are motionless. Even the rattled percussion of your heart blurs and dissipates into the soft woodwind and piano malady punctuated by her hitched breathing and sorcery of sound. You taste her on the breeze as she stands over you. A sweetness, a pungency you need that dances on your tongue and sashays up your nostrils as you reach to hold her. Her nails prick the stubbled skin of your chin as she draws a kiss from your lips. You don't even recognise the signals your synapses sent to your lips to press together against the syrup-coated surface of her fingertip. You close your eyes as shame and guilt grip you, or so you imagine. You're not really closing your eyes out of fear or disgust, you're closing them with need and want that this will never end. You feel a weight lifted and think somehow your self-loathing has been removed as your leather Oxfords hit the floor and feel your feet gasp as the light breeze of her breath sways along the curved sole of your feet and across the top, delicately between your toes. Her fingertips gently prick at your calloused skin from years of barefoot existence as you feel a warm sticky embrace against the top of your big toe. You involuntarily tense but don't wish it to end as your body reacts. You feel your stomach churn as your pelvis aches. So needy, she calls you and you respond so softly. Without care or thought for reason or conscience. You feel her fingertips perform perfect heel-turn leads up your ankles to your calves and over your knees. Until she pirouettes her fingers on those long pointed nails before your waistband. Effortlessly she eases you out of your self-inflicted prison as you feel the lavender-scented, honeyed air and her intoxicating warm breath fire electrical charges across your thighs and beyond. You are awake. You are. You. No one else. Your hope for rescue, for reprieve, or your hope for rescue and reprieve to be impossible is manifest, as you feel her pierce your skin. You are alive. You are here. Your feet. No, your yearning led you here. As she crawls across the firm but gently yielding mattress she laid you on. You wonder did she lay you or did you lay you. Perception is. Three syllables. Six consonants, four felt vowela. Something you can't quite articulate as your beating heart seems to drum a rhythmic samba with the agony and ecstasy of an Argentine Tango. But you hear no music. Just her breath against your skin as your body is exposed as she almost silently whispers as your shirt is removed. Your bra. Did you have one on? You are not sure now. Do you wear bras? Nothing makes. Sense. But. You. You. Inhale exhale You are alive and have given yourself a perfect offering. You can feel it, can't you. The air of her fortress, cold and refreshing but heavy with musk. Yours, hers, your body's scents combine to poison the last of your self-control. You are no lamb to the slaughter. You take great delight. You can feel it, can't you. As you imagined it, hoped it would be. Burning like acid, rising through the oesophagus and descending between your legs as you open them wider. The fire. The. You can feel it whether you want to or not. Your eyes are closed or darkness shrouds the dim light as her hair. You didn't notice her hair until now as it strokes the sides of your face as her fingertips bite the skin of your abdomen and chest before pricking the taut but yielding skin of your neck. Your body is inflamed and you feel it melt into the soft linen as she presses a kiss to your lips, scratching up your neck to your ear. You. You. You want to say something. You feel you should. But no sound escapes you. You wonder if you should kiss her in return. But no. You fear the dream will snap in two and you'll be left on the mezzanine or concourse of some institution. Her lips peck at yours like a bird rearranging the feathers of a mate or decorating its humble treetop abode. You can't help but respond. Her taste, her insistence demands it. You reach your hands up to stroke her back and it feels... Different. But. You drink in her kiss, as lustful inebriation commands you. As she nibbles your lips with hers and her teeth. You respond, looking at her tongue as hers slithers between your teeth, she smiles and you want it never to end. You feel her bite. You feel nirvana. You feel her gasp and her facade drips from her intoxicating visage. Before the silent crescendo as her lips allow your lips to lead them. You feel more control as your lips lead her in a mouth-to-mouth waltz. She gasps again and begs you. You. You. She begs you. You. Become one. You are awake. You are alive. As you twist and curl her fair and fragrant hair between your fingers, and you roll her onto her back. Control? She grins with one too many teeth for what seemed at first an average mouth. But you don't feel alarm or worry, all you feel is a desire for your lips to press into hers for you to offer your saliva in exchange for hers. She hisses from beneath you, gripping at your waist as you grip her hair. You can't resist her. Not now. You. You. Inhale You have passed the point of no return as she opens herself and you become part of her or does she become part of you. Are you entering her hidden sanctuary or is she becoming you to consume you. It doesn't matter. You push down and she pulls you in as the world shakes. You cry and she cries. Disharmony the song you sing. The union in the dark. Your fingers in her back, her fingers in your skull. Symmetry in motion. Sensual symbiosis. You have longed for this in your dreams. You recall her calls, her beacon in the dark. For days you tried to fight it. To say to the left. The safety of the status quo. For years. You think maybe it could still be a dream. You will wake alone in your bed or with your partner somewhere safe and secure. That you didn't step to the wrong side. That you didn't step to the right side. Safe in your bed with your partner or that tiger or lion, bear or reliable cushion and bedside lamp. It doesn't matter what you think will be there when you close your eyes and click your heels. Her snake skin raised your temperature. Her green eyes flashed and sealed your doom. Your truth. Green eyes or beacons. A tail whips at the dusky night. You could fight it. But You reach to hold it, to know it and teach it your touch. You. You. Exhale You entered her world. You crossed her plane. You. You. Inhale You chose this. You thought these words. You read those words. You, intrigued, pondered them and let them guide you. Didn't turn away. You are awake. You are alive. Stripped of your facade. Your flesh exposed. Finally. Gratefully. Welcoming. Evoking. Long drowned feelings you hid. You buried. Smothered under your soft cheeks, between your arm and side, between your thighs. Locked away because you dared to ever face them again. Your hands slid into hers effortlessly. As the pungi sounds. You can't hear it. You. Feel it. Its lull. Consumption becomes everything Inhale Exhale You are hers. She is yours. You. You.
By Paul Stewartabout a month ago in Fiction
The Rover. Winner in You Are Here Challenge.
“Lewis. Lewis.” The sound cuts out. The metal around you smolders as you dig through the wreckage for Clarke. You don’t remember much. Panicked voices over the comm. Your seat ejecting. Clarke’s seat not. You want to scream his name, but you can’t, and it’s not like he could hear you, anyway. Finally, among some of the burning chrome, you see his legs poking out, skin torn but not bleeding, copper wire meshed with muscle.
By Steven Christopher McKnightabout a month ago in Fiction
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It would have been nice to have had advanced notice that Optix Automation, the company you work for, would be shutting down for two and a half months, effective immediately.
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What a night!
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You always loved true crime. You have listened to all the podcasts and all the documentaries. You had a weird fascination with serial killers. You often would take notes and compare them to your own experience.
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The Name They're Waiting For
For years, you hunted down every rumour and whispered warning about the secret society—including stories of those who searched too deeply and vanished. Today, after a handful of discreet deals and a costly sacrifice from your life savings, you secured a place at its annual party. Now you are within their reach. Footsteps stop just behind you, though their echoes continue for one beat too long, and a voice murmurs your name close enough to stir the hair at your neck. When you glance back, the exit is already sealed. The voice quietly lists the names of everyone you told where you were going, lingering over each one, then offers you a choice: enter willingly, or leave and make one of them take your place. Your mind catches on each name. Boots scrape over grit behind you, but never quite match the rhythm of the footsteps; when you picture them dragged from home, your heartbeat stumbles after every slow step. A thread of icy air whistles around the sealed exit, carrying the sweet, spoiled smell of wet stone and stiffening your fingers as you imagine yourself walking free through it. One name seems easier to surrender than the others. The cart reeks of rust, damp wood, and breath that does not seem to be yours; bile coats your tongue as you remember your last promise to them.
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Stitch. The lore of Sara Foxgrave.
The neon glare of the diner vanished in a flash of black and chrome as Sara throttled the Triumph out onto the main road. The storm wasn't letting up. It slammed straight into her chest—a wall of freezing water and biting wind that would have forced most riders to pull over. But Sara just tucked her chin lower into the collar of her heavy leather jacket, her boots locked tight against the pegs. Letting her helmet take the blasts.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
Stitch. The lore of Sara Foxgrave
The night thinned out fast after the rush. A few regulars left early, muttering about the storm rolling in. Bane was one of them. He slipped out without fanfare, without lingering, just a nod toward Josh and a last glance at Sara that she pretended not to notice.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
