Tonight's the Night

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Sometimes its always about the first time.

Submitted: April 18, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 18, 2013



Tonight’s the Night


The wood slatted shutters break up the light falling onto your bed. Dust particles catch in the rays and dance in their hue like bubbles in orange soda. You stand, stare, and hope the bed will be forgiving this time, as if it has any say at all. The door vibrates with his strong knock. You will be okay. You tell yourself over and over again until the words become nonsensical and mush together in your mind. You try to move to answer the door, to let him in, to move forward with this relationship but your feet melt into the carpet.

The sheets are messy, tied together in hangman knots. You know you should straighten them out, but the effort seems pointless. The door sounds off again. You manage to inch a toe towards the door. You breathe heavy and try to slow your heart; you don’t need to be sweating right now. Before you make it out of your room you hear a voice:

 “Hello, anyone home?”

You close your eyes and pray that he won’t come down the hall and see the panic on your face.

“Yeah, Simon, sorry. I was just cleaning up.” you call out, hoping that the crack in your voice wasn’t too obvious.

“Okay, no problem. I will just let myself in and get comfortable!”

The excitement in his voice wasn’t hidden at all. You know he has been waiting for this evening for a while.

“Yeah, please do. I will be out in a sec.”

You run out of your room and into the bathroom across the hall. You try to shut the door without making any noise but the latch still snaps furiously against the metal plate. You cringe, you know he can’t possibly read your dread from how harshly you shut a door but every fiber of your being begs to differ.  You release your white knuckle grip from the knob and flex your fingers. The scent of your perfume still lingers in the air from when you sprayed it earlier. Peony and vanilla—it’s calming, until you remember how much Simon said he loved it. “It’s delicious; it makes me want to eat you up.” You recall him saying. Your stomach turns to fire.

“Oh god!” you blurt out; loud enough to surprise the silence you surrounded yourself with. You feel nauseous. You brace yourself on the counter, your head dangling over the sink. “Just fucking breathe!” you scream at yourself, hoping the oxygen will somehow calm the fire—but nature wins again. You gag on your nerves and dry heave, letting gurgling sounds echo off the walls. He had to have heard that. The realization makes you wretch even louder and stomach acid splatters over the faucet.

“Samantha? Are you okay?”

Simon’s voice softly crawls through the thin wood of the door. You take one big breath and smile at yourself in the mirror, as if he could see it.

“Ha! Yeah, I am fine. It’s the pipes in my house, sometimes they gurgle so loud! It’s like the house is hungry or something!”

You laugh wildly, trying to sell it. Simon gives an awkward chuckle in response.

“Oh. Okay, good to know.”

You hear his footsteps fade down the wood floored hallway, until they disappear on the living room rug. Tears collect in your lids, preparing to lay siege down your face. Stop it! Your demands are not met and soon your freshly powdered cheeks are zebra striped with your perfectly placed mascara. The next ten minutes are spent repairing the damage. You pull yourself together because you know delaying will just make everything worse.

The bathroom door feels weighty as you pull it open. The wood floor feels hot against your bare feet. The living room is miles away but somehow your journey ends too quickly and you are too soon standing in front of Simon.

“You look beautiful baby”

“Thanks” your cheeks redden, hopefully he just thinks you’re blushing and doesn’t realize that fear has consumed you.

“I brought over some red, you want me to crack it open?” he says while holding up your favorite wine. You smile slightly, surprising yourself because its genuine.

“Sounds perfect.”

You know he is a kind man. Maybe a little bit of wine will help calm you down. After all, he has never done anything to hurt you. You know you shouldn’t be afraid of him; he has been a perfect gentleman. Every day for the past month he has held open doors and waited patiently for your craziness to subside. He deserves to be rewarded. This isn’t about you. Do it for him. That is how you will get through it. Do it for this kind, wonderful man who has done everything you have asked of him since the two of you met. He deserves it and you know it would do you some good to think about someone else for a change.

A glass of wine is placed in your hand. You smile down at it and then look up at Simon. His deep blue eyes bounce from your hair to your nose, to your freshly painted lips. You love it when he takes in your every feature, like he is observing a Van Gogh. His black hair is tousled perfectly, making him look carless but dapper at the same time. His jaw tightens as he sips the wine and his lips tint slightly as the red splashes over them. The pale blue button up shirt seems to hug the muscles in his arms so sensually that you almost feel voyeuristic for staring at them. He is a handsome man. You suddenly feel chills race through your body, and you shift awkwardly when they all settle between your thighs. You gulp down the wine, letting the tangy liquid swirl down your throat, on its way to ease your tense body.

He takes your glass and couples it with his on top of your side table. With one of his robust arms he pulls you towards him and curls his body so his head is at your neck. A shudder attacks your spine as he begins brushing his lips on the soft spot just below your ear. You crumble into him. Deep, raspy breaths cartwheel out of your mouth, letting the smell of warm wine fill your nose. His hands slide down to the small of your back. His strength overwhelms you and you feel vulnerable and protected all at once. His hands fall lower and lower and soon he is lifting you up by your fleshy curves. Your arms wrap around his neck instinctively even though you know he has all of your weight completely supported in his grasp. Your lips marry his giving a clear passage for your tongues to meet. You forget about your nerves. Your worry disappears. You don’t even realize he is moving you towards your bedroom until you see the orange light dance upon his cheeks.

Panic again. It is so strong this time that you can’t bear letting him see your face. You pull away and throw your head over his shoulder, clenching your eyes tight, trying to shut out the possibility of him asking you what is wrong. He doesn’t. He continues to kiss your neck, dampening it with his sticky tongue. He sets you down on the bed and tries to pull away, but you dig your nails into his back, still trying to keep him from looking into your terrified eyes. His body heat rises. The roughness turns him on and he pushes you down and begins to undo the button of your jeans. His eyes are glazed over, you try to pull yourself back towards him, you want the kissing to continue—the harmless kissing; but he is too strong.

He releases the button, the last means of separation, and lowers himself down on top of you. The warmth of his body makes you sweat. You stop moving, he doesn’t notice, he is too consumed with your form. You stare at the ceiling and count the dust particles that scurry by. You try to remember that Simon is different. You try to think about five minutes ago, about the way his shirt strained to keep his arms contained. How his eyes made you feel beautiful and priceless. You tried to think about the kind man who had waited for you, waited until you said you were ready. You told him you were. You told him tonight was the night and you remember how his blue eyes lit up. You remember how happy you were to finally see him happy—to know that you made him happy.

You peek down at him for a moment; his black hair doesn’t look black anymore. The orange light makes it look brown. His skin is no longer olive toned; it burns with the fiery light and glistens with his passionate sweat. He looks up at you but even the blue in his eyes seems to disappear. He begins to pull down your jeans. Your body defies you, the sweet smell of your arousal fuels Simon’s intentions. He rips your jeans from your legs and begins to work his mouth around the lace of your underwear. He grunts like a dog rooting through bushes for the perfect place to mark. His hot breath on your inner thigh makes you squirm; but Simon reaches out and holds you down, burying his face deeper. You feel your underwear dampen with his efforts; he feels it too and slowly pushes the lace aside with the tip of his finger.  You shut your eyes tightly. It’s different. He is different.

You feel his hand glide up and down the slit between your thighs, just before he thrusts two of his fingers into you. You jump and let out a high pitched yelp. Your eyes burst open and you take one more look down at the man you let between your legs. Simon isn’t there. The smell of your father’s after shave fills your nostrils. The soft pink of your Barbie pajamas catches your eye as he pushes them off the bed. You feel weightless as he pulls your tiny body towards him. He erects himself, towering over you, casting a long shadow across your face.

“It’s okay sweetheart, Daddy’s going to make you feel good.”

© Copyright 2018 Senora Jane. All rights reserved.

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