Date: Sat, 26 Oct 2002 03:05:19 +0100 From: Mary Cook <r.cook2@ukonline.co.uk> Subject: Hard and Soft Hard and Soft by Mary Cook http://www.dieselfemale.com "You really like hard music, don't you? I mean, most of the femmes I've been out with like Tori Amos and Madonna and stuff," she said. "I like soft music as well." We were driving through a deserted city, everyone else asleep in their beds. She drove quickly, maybe eager to get to my house. We arrived and she asked if she could come in (for a nightcap). I considered resisting, considered telling her I was tired. But once she had reached over to me, once she had drawn me towards her and touched my face, I couldn't help myself. We got out of the car, she let me lock it and then led me by my hips to the front door. As we went inside her mouth was on my neck, making me push back against her, my breathing soft then hard. She took me upstairs and then I lead her along the landing into my bedroom. We sat on the edge of the bed and shyness welled up in me. But I revelled in it, luxuriated in the way it accentuated my surrender as she kissed my neck, her fingers pressed coaxingly into my spine. Mustering all my courage, I whispered very, very quietly into her ear "I want you to fuck me." Her mouth became still and then she drew away from my neck to look at me. Her hand shakily touched the corner of my eye. She slipped the strap of my dress off my shoulder, kissed the white line that was left in my flesh. Her hands stroked up and down my sides, and then gently tugged down the top of my dress. I opened my eyes, seeing the handsome curve of her cheek, then let her lay me back onto the bed. She moved to lie beside me, her thigh between mine. As she kissed me, I could feel she was restraining herself, her lips drifting down my neck, to my breast, but then always returning to my mouth. But then at last she began drawing my dress down further. Her lips went to my bare stomach, then my hip (making me shiver), then my smooth calves. My body twisted on the sheet, terribly exposed. She put her hand between my thighs, gently pressed me and I sighed into her ear. I moved against her hand, aching for her. Her fingers slipped inside the waistband of my briefs, moved them down over my knees and off. She looked into my face and then slid her fingers inside me. I tensed and gasped, my breath fluttering in and out. She began moving her hand strong and slow, her mouth on my breastbone. I touched her back, traced up over her shoulder-blade and then down her upper arm, felt her muscle flex. She slid her other arm beneath my back, cradling my neck in her hand, and lifted my mouth to her's. I quaked as we kissed, squeezing her arm in time with the movements of her hand. My breaths quickened, and then I stopped breathing altogether and gripped her arm so tightly, utterly helpless. *** I woke up and it was light outside. I moved an exploratory leg over to the centre of my bed, found nothing. Rolling over, I saw that she was gone. I looked on the bedside table, but there was no phone number. I got up and went downstairs to make a cup of tea, then sat at the table as the kitchen slowly got lighter. At about nine I went upstairs to put on some tracksuit trousers and a t-shirt, then left the house and walked down to the corner shop to buy some milk. I tried to remember whether I had any bread at home. Wished I could see her again. When I got home, I made porridge and ate it at the table. I considered going for a walk, but couldn't think where to go. The sky was overcast and everything outside was flat and colourless. I picked up a novel I'd been neglecting and began reading, lost myself in the plot. But when I put it down, I was still as apathetic as ever. During the night, I'd thought about what she and I would do today, but with her gone, all my plans were useless. Finally, I went upstairs and got dressed. *** I took off all my clothes, then put on some briefs. Next came my favourite pair of baggy jeans. I have narrow hips, so I needed to loop a thick belt through my jeans to hold them up. I found my bandages and stood in front of the mirror to wrap them around my chest, then fastened the trailing end with a safety pin. Next came a sleeveless black t-shirt and my beaten up gray jacket. I put on some sneakers and looked in the mirror, liking my boyish reflection. I left the house and went to my lectures, then ate lunch with some buddies in the Student Union. Afterwards we went to the pub, held doors open for women, high-fived, played pool. I got slapped on the back, received firm handshakes, bar staff called me Mate. In the evening I left them and went to the cinema. Seeing films in solitude is wonderfully satisfying. My reaction is mine alone, unchanged by other people. I sat anonymous in the corner of the theatre. And the tightness around my chest felt good. *** I suppose what it comes down to is this: my favourite skirt hangs right next to my bandages in the wardrobe. But my skirts always smell of my lovers, whereas my bandages smell of me.