MSOS

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: February 13, 2019

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Submitted: February 13, 2019

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The smell of sex is all I smelt. Yet, this particular smell was very foreign to me. A feeling of confusion washed over me as I faced my husbands flexing back and watched his shoulders roll of pleasure. To his sides, I saw a pair of long tan legs, legs that never seemed to end, as his arms trailed upon them with a firm grip. I wish I could lie and claim that this act was simply a husband and wife having passionate sex but those legs did not belong to me. I watched and watched as my ears flooded with sensual sounds and heavy breathes. It was almost as if I was an invisible ghost watching from a birds eye view. Eventually Chris turned his head and caught my eyes, glistening with pure horror and embarrassment. I continued to watch as he frantically removed his body from her and started began to exude with embarrassment, almost as if he wanted to, at that moment, disassociate himself from the whole situation. I stared back with a blank expression; my boiling blood could not seem to convey any other type of emotion. I could not explain my feelings, I could not digest my feelings, and I couldn’t do it at all. My eyes trailed around the room like a panorama that was filled with lose underwear, pants, a bra and a tie slung on the floor and a stain of red wine dripping from a wine glass. That was my favorite wine glass, I remember buying it from Wal-Mart thinking about endless memories that would be filled in the wine glass and resulted irrational actions that would spill out of it. My poor wine glass, witnessing an act of pure horniness. I continued to scan the room and saw the books on the shelves, neatly stacked by size, my Vanity white as snow yet tiny blots of red lipstick surrounded the edges. All of these items were present in the room that we build together, the world that we built together, him and I. I truthfully never liked my vanity and hated how ridiculously neat and put together the stack of books were. Why the fuck are they be so neat? It was a sign of how untouched it was. As if plans of literary indulgence were ever going to be pursued. As I took notice of the construct of our world, I began to hate every inch of it. I stared back at his still flustered self and smiled. His response was a look of incertitude, and with that I walked out of our world and closed the door, a gust of wind hit my face, I allowed myself to breathe in. 


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