Sunday, October 3, 2010

From Fucking The Mermaid


in my new antho Coupling. Ta and Da. This is a snippet and dash weekend. I'm off to...hmmm, I'm not sure what's next on my to-do list. I'm not running the show, I'm just the chauffeur...cook...nurse...maid. LOL.

Happy Sunday!

pendant found here
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

from Fucking The Mermaid by Alison Seay
from Coupling: Filthy Erotica For Couples

"You are. Let me play with you."

I laugh. It's not as dirty as it sounds. "Why would you do that?"

"Because I can show you what I see when I look at you."

I glance at my scars without thinking and his fingers hook under my chin, push my gaze up to meet his. "What I see whenever I look at you. What I've always seen. And they're just scars, Sammie. No big deal."

"They're near death scars."

"They're beat death scars," he corrects and turns me away from the mirror. "Will you
behave?"

I nod. "I'll try."

"Well, that's the most anyone can ask of you. You're pretty ornery," Jace says and all I can do is laugh.

The makeup is cool and smooth and makes me shiver just a bit though the heat is
cranked. Jace keeps it high so that I don't catch a chill. My body's still at war some days.Warm when it should be cold, shivering when I should be toasty. My scalp tingles, my fingers go numb, my stomach rebels at the smell of food and sometimes I get headaches that cut me off at the knees. So he babies me. Coddles. Treats me like I'm made of glass and light and candy floss. Fragile and treasured.

I like it and I hate it, too.

"You are more than your scars," my husband says, swirling makeup on my formerly
naked face. Jace is a makeup artist. A damn fine one who works for movies and theatre and even Broadway when we can travel. It is his joke. He started as an artist and now he paints people for a living.

I wonder what he will make of me?

Some fragile fairy tale beauty? Some pale pink figure with a kewpie doll mouth? A
sleeping beauty, a damsel in distress, a great lost broken woman with a wicked tale behind her?

"I know. But the scars are a big part of me now," I admit. I feel my eyes fill up a little. I stave off the waterworks not wanting to mar Jace's artistry. I don't quite know why I'm still angry. The worst is behind me. I am now the proud owner of a new breast and a clean bill of health. Sure, I'll have more doctor's visits, scans and check-ups in my future than most, but I am clean and healthy and symmetrical. I laugh out loud at that thought. Why the symmetry is important to me, I do not know.

"Funny?"

"The fucked-up way I think sometimes," I say.

"Symmetry?"

"You're reading my mind again. That's creepy. Not to mention unfair." I shiver when he dips the brush, smeared with wet, cool liquid makeup to my collar bone.

"That's what a baker's dozen of years in our marital arsenal will get you."

Jace paints the scars that accent and mar my breast and I have to fight myself not to
shy away. From the paint, from the brush. From my husband.

"Stay right there, Samantha Marie. Don't you move. And if I weren't busy painting your tit, I'd be sucking it."

My mouth pops open in shock and I want to be outraged. Instead I feel a swirling mix of intense emotion. Love, gratitude, lust, anger. I shake my head. I will not cry. The fact that he still wants me is a given on some days, a mindfuck on others. "Stay out of my head, mister." I whisper.

Jace smiles at me. "Drop the pants. Panties, socks. All of it."

5 comments:

  1. This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

    ReplyDelete
  2. This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

    ReplyDelete
  3. This comment has been removed by the author.

    ReplyDelete
  4. This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

    ReplyDelete
  5. This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

    ReplyDelete

What sayest thou?