Thursday, January 12, 2012

Mr. Pitiful


He sat at the bar, an empty glass in front of him, another in his hand. He sipped his bourbon slowly, slowly for him at least, and tried not to think of her.

He knew this was a mistake. Drinking was for remembering, not forgetting. Trying to drown his sorrow would only in fact make them worse.

But it was Sunday. It was their day. So he sat at his same place at the bar, sipping his bourbon and remembering.

They'd met a few years ago. Her eyes caught him. Her body enticed him. He was hooked. She looked on him with carnal eyes, like a predator stalking its prey. Now, as he thought back on this, it seemed ironic. His long time submissive had hunted him down and captured his heart.

Sunday was their special day. Each had busy lives, too busy to do all they wanted, but they always had Sunday.

She'd clean, primp herself especially the way he liked it, smelling of sweetness and looking even more sugary. Her short skirt, her two pony tails secured high up in her head, her little ankle socks with lacy frills, and her black and white saddle shoes. Just the thought had his manhood strain against his jeans.

He'd prepared himself especially for her, too. His leather boots, shined to a brilliant luster. His leather chaps, smooth and supple to the touch. His leather jacket, embroidered with a screeching devil on the back, dark red and hellacious. His pressed white dress shirt and tie. She loved ties, especially when he'd take it off, wrap it around her neck, and cinch it down tight, too tight.

He longingly remembered the beatings, the begging. Oh, how he loved the begging, hearing her plead, "Sir, sir. Please sir. Please oh please may I cum. Oh please may I come." The silky sweetness of her voice tempted him to always say yes, but he never broke. He chose when she came; her begging would make no difference to the time, only give more fury to his thrusts as he fucked her.

He especially loved fucking her when she floated in the air, strung up by his aromatic raw hemp which scratched against her skin. No limbs were free. All she could do was hang, a floating fuck toy for his pleasure. After he'd beaten her red, and spanked her silly, he'd fuck her til he was exhausted.

Both were sweaty messes by the end of their time on Sundays. Both yearned to do more the next week. But once, it was only he that readied one Sunday. Only he that waited at his door for hours. Only he who worried where she was, what was wrong. And then only he who happened to open the door, see the letter on his porch, read it, and descend into a depth of hatred and heartache.

He carried the letter in his back pocket. It was worn with time, constant folds and unfolds. He pulled it out now and read it once more. Read the flippant dismal. Read the relaxed way she threw him out like garbage. Read the words from the person he thought loved him.

He craned his head back, downed the rest of his bourbon, and signaled to the bartender for his check.

And then he turned to his left, saw a woman walk in, and knew he was done. She looked so much like his love, so much like the woman he drank for, yearned for. It wasn't her, and yet it was her. Her face, when it was innocent and wanting. Her manner, when she was submissive and pleasing. And her eyes, when all she desired was him.

And in that moment, he fell in love with a woman he just saw, a woman he had not yet met, and pitied himself still more.

She gave a small smile, sat down beside him, and asked the bartender for a bourbon. The man told the bartender to put it on his tab.

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