“Fuck that’s good,” she said, breathing a bloom of condensation onto the mirror, “fuck.” We started to build a rhythm, me thrusting and her moving up and down. Very soon I was thrusting so hard that the sound of her arse slapping my belly was almost echoing around the lift. I watched my cock and her pussy, then into the mirror. Christina was braced against the handrail, biting her lips, her eyes half closed. She was breathing quickly. I reached up and cupped her right breast and it made her jump. She opened her eyes, smiled lazily at me, then let herself go back to the fucking, pushing against me harder. Her pussy seemed to suck at my cock, pulling it in further than I thought it could go. With everything else, the sight and the sound and the feeling, I was almost there and then she came, hard. Her pussy walls rippled against me and I eased off the pressure on her clit, grabbing her other tit to try and give her a bit of support. I felt her legs wobble and she made a strange sound,. Her hands were warm, reassuring on his shoulder, He found himself singing along, but as he looked at his and her reflection on the blade of the pairing knife, he caught a glimpse of his mother, her face a rictus of pain and horror, blood in her hand and hair. It was but a momentary trick of the light, he told himself. But was it? Similar moments presented themselves soon, along with an increase in the frequency of his dreams. Screams from his mothers bedroom, blood on his fathers fists…his father screaming obscenities at his brother, (he had a brother?) something about the boy being queer, a fucking faggot, something about being caught wearing his mothers’ dress. He dreamed of a funeral then, with a casket much too small for an adult. He didn’t awaken from these dreams screaming. He didn’t awaken at all. He was cold, dispassionate. These thing happened. This was the world, the harsh truth of life. It was something he knew inside himself, dreams aside. He’d waited for something.
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