Swing:
She took hold of his hand and led him through the outhouse to the garden. It was getting dark. He made out the stars appearing in the young night sky, a half crescent moon. The mossy lawn was surrounded by shrubs, bushes, overhanging trees, creating a feeling of privacy, peace, quiet. They were alone. Georgie took a deep breath, relishing the fresh evening air, reached up for him, drew him to her, and kissed him. She was wearing scent.
He responded: parting his lips, opening his mouth. She explored his palate, savouring his strange taste, coating her flickering tongue in his saliva. He crushed her in his arms. When they eventually came up for air, she was panting, breathless, clamouring for him, gasping,
‘Think we should go and play on the swing now, don’t you?’
Georgie took off her t-shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her back was dripping with sweat. She took his breath away. He couldn’t speak. There was a child’s swing in the corner of the garden. She led him there.
The twins must have played here once, as little girls, he thought, feeling a sickening rush of guilt over the wretched state he’d left the girl in. Now Georgie wants to play with me.
She forced him to perch on the seat while she unbuttoned his shirt, undid the stud on his cords, unzipped his fly, and slid her hand inside his pants. He groaned as she played with him, on the swing. Georgie ran her tongue down his neck. Her langue explored his torso, licking his stiff nipples, tasting the salty tang of sweat in his navel. Tenderly, she caressed his proud, velvety, flesh with her soft hand, gently squeezing his taut sac until he felt fit to burst,
‘How does that feel, good?’
He didn’t know how to answer her. Georgie knelt in the grass, grasping him, staring into his flushed face, she asked him,
‘Would you like to make love to me?’
‘Yes.’
She spoke to him, as if he were her child,
‘Shall we go inside then, see if we can’t find a bed?’
‘I don’t have a sheath.’
Georgie felt inside her back pocket, and took out a thin silver foil pouch,
‘It’s alright,’ she intimated, ‘I’ve got one. Come with me.’
Quickly, she tucked him away inside his pants, put on her t-shirt, held his clammy hand – and led him to the scullery door.
Save for a few scattered cans, empty bottles, and overflowing ashtrays, the table was bare. The food had been devoured. The gaggle of teenagers had dispersed. Gripping his hand, Georgie negotiated the animalistic lair of bodies writhing on the floor. They reached the stairs. There was a queue stretching from the hall to the landing for the upstairs toilet. She felt him tense. He turned to her and confessed,
‘I’ve never made love to a girl before.’
Georgie smiled at him, lovingly, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.’
Her love, her care, her warmth towards him, infected him. He loved her smile, wanted to make her happy, always. Eager for her to take the lead, he followed her upstairs, his eyes fixed firmly on her rear, avoiding the knowing glances from a handful of sober voyeurs.
They arrived at the landing which was decorated in flock wallpaper. There was a solitary picture of a few snowdrops growing out of a bed of dead leaves which Georgie took as symbolizing new life out of death. Other than the loo, on her right, there were three doors off the landing. Two of them were shut. She wondered if they all locked from the inside.
The sensual thrill waves permeated her body. Trembling with anticipation, she brought her lover to the threshold. They ventured to the open door and peeked inside. The bedside lamps were switched on, casting gloomy shadows.
He hesitated.
How Can I Be Sure? was playing in the background.
Georgie kissed him fully on the lips, rubbing his crotch, stimulating him, hardening him, murmuring,
‘Shall we go inside?’
Lovebird:
She couldn’t believe her luck. The main en suite bedroom was free. Georgie entered first, followed by him. His chest felt tight with expectation. She shut the door, blinding prying eyes, turned the key in its lock, and slid all three bolts in place. The ballad: Alone Again, Naturally, faded into the background. The bathroom was at the far end of the room, beyond the giant-sized bed. He felt her squeeze his hand,
‘I have to go to the toilet to prepare myself. Will you wait for me?’
She’d looked at him so seriously. Was she that worried he might stray?
He felt an enormous surge of relief flush through him. A sensational burst of happiness, feeling so protective of her. A strong sense of caring he had never felt before. He adored her. She gave him hope. For the first time, he smiled,
‘Of course, I’ll wait for you. I love you.’
He made her blush. She let go of his hand, pecking him on both cheeks, his lovebird. No-one ever uttered those words to her. Her soul sank at the thought of their parting, the morning after. She needed him, she wanted to reciprocate his feelings, but couldn’t bring herself to say the beautiful words, for fear of breaking his heart.
Georgie struggled to control her emotions, stinging inside with guilt. Tonight, she would give of herself to him. Heartbroken, she told him to switch off the light, take off his clothes, lie on the bed, and wait for her to make love to him.
Elated, euphoric, he watched her close the pure-white door. He looked around the room. There was a pine dressing table, a turquoise stool to one side of the bed, cluttered with lady’s make-up: lipsticks, combs. A clutch of old photos: a woman on her wedding day, sunbathing on a white sandy beach in her scarlet bikini, suckling her babies, holding them over the font, as they were anointed.
Strange, no photos of her husband?
He decided: this should be Georgie’s side of the bed.
The twins were conceived here. She wants to make love to me, here, on their parent’s bed.
He switched off her light. There was a royal blue armchair on his side of the bed. He soon undressed, folding his jacket, shirt, and cords, placing them in a neat pile on the chair. He pulled off his socks and pants, throwing them in soft balls at the chair. Switching off his light, he stretched out on the bed, shut his eyes, and waited, as innocently as a new-born baby – for her.
We love the heated suspense, but we aren’t as trusting that the same person that enter the bathroom is the same that exits. We think there is a twist to this piece and we like twist, tight one Lady