santianna

Phone booth

It was a sickly cold night, the sort of weather that besieges the darkness after a full day of rain in Autumn time. The air stood stale all around, consuming flickering street lights that lacked motivation to carry on burning. The street was empty, save a couple of cars that streaked by silently, not wanting to bother with anyone elses businesses.
The buildings on the right of the street sleepily gazed down at the park across it, red faces lusting after a field of green. And there was not a single soul to bother their inebriation as yellow windows winked at feeble nighttime choirs, their chants resonating in the still air.

A door slammed, and from one of the many tiny mouths of the ordered apartments across the street, a man stepped out. The tee-shirt he wore was screened with the icons of a country he had once visited, a long time ago. They were now all faded and pale, their images diffused, like his ability to recollect that particular part of his life. He had long since stopped trying to remember; there was no point. He had a new sort of a lack of life, now. One in which each day was gotten thought with the ardent belief that his sole responsibility was no longer owed unto himself.
The dinner tonight had been comforting, and Clare had gone to the trouble of procuring some very good wine and acceptable sentimental music. He loved her, but oh! Women and their damned memories. She wanted to move on, dared not, but for some reason he could identify with but dared not admit. It made him feel guilty that he allowed her try so hard, and attempt to reenact the past.

But he didnt know what he was to do either.
They had been sitting on the couch, staring at a contrite illustration on the wall-hanging above the fireplace. For an hour; two, perhaps. It got too much for him after awhile, and he left the apartment without saying a word. This time, Clare didnt ask, and in his haste, hed forgotten to grab his coat before he left. He regretted it mildly as he stepped out of the building and felt the cold air bite him.

All the world was indoors at this ungodly hour, and he stood alone on the street, not knowing anything better to do. He was outside because he needed to be, and that was all the reason he thought necessary to warrant the freezing off of his arms.
There was a little glass phone booth in front of the row of apartments. It stood as a lone protrusion upon slab-stoned pavement, the yellow glow of the dying street lamp beside it illuminating its biology: A ratty old phone with its handset well-behaved in its cradle, a phone book hanging off its rack, and a sticker that had emergency numbers on it, along with a few international calling codes.

He went into it without knowing why, and half sat, half leaned against the railing that was nailed into the ground in an inverted U. He picked up the handset and placed it against the side of his face, and dialed a random number hed recalled from memory. A number from a very long time ago.

It didnt work of course, he was sure it was a one in hell chance that he would ever get the numbers in their correct sequence. Much less be able to differentiate country code from area code and all that jazz.

Hey, I missed you. A female voice said, on the other line. Its been a long time, I heard you got married. Is her hair bouncy and black, like in the Vidal Sassoon adverts, and does she wear striking red dresses all the time?

Do you have children? I cant seem to have any, its tragic. But maybe its better this way. I never grew up into enough compassion to take care of another living thing really. I hate dogs. The only one I had returned the favour so much she got dog-napped and hasnt returned, despite me paying a rather acceptable ransom. She carried on.

The ransom, ah I paid the price with my breasts, and my cunt, and my lips. Oh yes, lots and lots of lip service. She added on, almost as a side thought, but tainted heavily with the tenor of greed.

School was all right today. She babbled on. My father got called in for me showing too much cleavage on stage during the annual college fund-raiser. I had been singing You Owe me Nothing, in Return, by Morissette. I dont know if you remember it, it was released a few months ago, although it says it was published in 2002 on the CD case.

I had a 23 inch waist in 2002. Its 25 now, but I hope you dont mind. Sometimes its 26 when I eat too much, but you know how much the jelly with the donut inside means to me.

The girl on the line laughed. It was a laugh that was purely happy and purely sad all at once. No, no, no. Its your donut with the jelly inside that I truly love.

He tried to say something, but every time his lips managed to break apart, his mind could only cause them to utter two words. I remember. And he hated himself for it. He remembered too much, and everything he remembered had been recalled, again and again. And each time, it was modified, polished into perfection, until the reminiscences were so perfect it hurt to bring them out. And so hed left them, like ornaments procured from a distant land, on a tour of the senses, a visit to satisfy the need for escape. Hed left them in a place of honour on a shelf he never touched. They were beautiful, but he didnt have a clue as to what was to be done about them.

There was someone knocking furiously on the glass door of the booth, hed just realized it, and turned his head to look. It had started raining outside, but he hadnt noticed. It was an odd sort of shower. The grains of water fell perfectly straight down to the ground, splattered upon the transparent walls of the booth perfectly perpendicular to the pavement.

The person continued banging on the glass door. It was a young girl who looked about fourteen, wearing a thick, black woolen shawl that was steadily getting soaked by the rain. He opened the door for her and she dashed in.

Hey, you done with your call? Im so sorry to disturb you. I hate inconveniencing people, but Id catch pneumonia if I got soaked in this weather!

He stared at her, half dazed, not knowing what she was going on about.
Your call, silly. She said, gesturing to the handset that was now hanging off wired metal coils, stretching them out in an attempt to touch the ground.

He bent down to pick it up, and returned it gently into its place.

You didnt say goodbye. She pointed out. Thats not very nice of you. Was she your lover? You should have said goodbye darling or something like that, I would have liked it very much.

I mean, not me, as in Me, but if I had been her. But I would like it on my part personally to have a lot of endearing labels whispered into my ears, as many as I possibly can have. Maybe you should call her up and apologize, but its really none of my business. Um

She sighed and hoisted herself up on the railing, her feet hanging off a couple of inches above the ground, allowing her enough room to swing them lightly, letting the heels bump gently against the wall the railing was set beside. She leaned against the wall, and let her head tilt downwards a little, her slender neck sinking a little into her chest.

The faced each other in silence for a few moments, with only the pattering rhythm of the rain and the regular tempo of her heels against the glass for percussion.

Dunk. Dunk. Dunk. Dunk.

He squatted down and took her feet into his hands, stopping the noise.

Oh, you should have told me if it irritated you. I did say I so dislike inconveniencing people and

Hed started to remove her little heels. They were red, with yellow flowers on them, and the socks that were bared were thick and black, made from layers upon layers of fine lace. He thought it odd that a girl her age should want to dress so exquisitely, especially around these parts. They were all terribly middle class, and anyway, no one really wore the sort of socks she was wearing any longer.

He held a foot in his hand and stroked its sole, running his index finger in a circle around its circumference, and down the middle. She responded by twitching her toes slightly and raising her leg a little. He pulled off the sock and started massaging the foot, all the while brining it closer and closer to him, widening the angle at the bend of her knee.

He looked up at her, and saw that she was gazing down intently at him, right into his eyes. There was no registration of shock or surprise, nor of desire, or the childish curiosity he had expected. It wasnt indifference either. She was looking at him like she wanted it to carry on, because she simply wanted it to. Because that was how these things went, cumulating eventually into a sort of blind, pointless passion. Pointless, if you negated the fact that there was a point in pleasure in itself.

She pulled her foot away from his hand and placed both feet against his shoulders, scrunching her toes so that they pinched his flesh through the flimsy cotton of the tee-shirt. Her feet slid further up, running against his neck before pressing themselves against his cheek, then resting their heels once again upon his shoulders.

I like my feet. Theyre tiny, and perfect, and a size 4.5. Hold them again. I want to see how small they are. She said, looking intently into him.

Her eyes gave away the fact that she knew. That she knew what he wanted, she knew everything, because they looked all at once sad, and lusty, and filled with a melancholic desire. They reflected his so much that he started wondering if he was simply imagining this particular facet of her. What would such a young girl know about pain anyway, about feeling despondent, when she had precisely lived too little yet to feel a lack of hope.

She made him notice how his palms were as big as her feet, and laughed light- heartedly at the fact.

You make me think of my daddy, and the time I was four, or five, or six, or just much younger. Before he decided that it wasnt appropriate to touch me any more. Because I had started developing these. She said, raising her feet from his hands, to place on his chest.

The rain had started pouring even harder now, but it was still in that unnatural fashion. Its strength undiffused by wind and slamming in full force against the ceiling of the booth. They were in complete privacy from the inside, their reflections the only thing that surrounded them. It didnt matter if someone looked out and saw through the glass walls that were in reality less the opaque, he didnt care.

His attention had been directed to her breasts, and he found the gentle risings against the thick shawl that covered all her upper-body most erotic. More because he found them fascinating, then because he loved chests that looked like how hers did.

Theyre coloured like the colour of your milked-tea, in case your wondering. She said, giving him a little smile.

Do stand up. She asked of him.

He stood up.

She tilted her head to look up at him even as she wrapped her legs around his waist, placing her heels against the curve of his bottom, pushing up against it, slipping a foot between his thighs and gently starting to nudge his balls. She pulled him towards her in this fashion, with her legs, and slipped her arms under his, holding him like how a knapsack would when worn in front. She was so small, and it was so wrong to feel the way he did about her, but he couldnt help it. It was an odd mix of protection and predation. He wanted to stroke her hair gently, and kiss her forehead, lick her ears, run his tongue down the sides of her neck. But his hand were grabbing her breasts from under her shawl, mercilessly. He was embracing her so tightly she couldnt move, and he heard his breathing through her ears. A heavy, breathless, lust. A lust that came from frustration and from memory.

It was all so long ago; She was all so long ago. She might disappear any moment, like all those damned elusive memories, memories he tried so hard to remember they either evaded him or evolved, in his need to have them complete.

She was crying out softly now; his hand, one squeezing her breasts painfully together, the other massaging her crotch like he would break her pelvic bone. She was wearing tight little cotton panties, and he could feel them dampening as he continued ravaging her body.

Her hand had found their way under his shirt, and she was biting her nails into his back. He slipped his hand under her panties and pushed a finger inside. Wet, Hot, Throbbing. He moved it, pumped it in and out of her, and went in a circular motion within, feeling and hearing the wetness. Sharp, soft, wet pussy sounds that pleased him to hear.

Her hands had managed to fumble open the fly of his pants, and shed reached in and pulled his dick out. Shed grabbed it in a particular way he particularly liked. Like she was holding a particularly slippery ice lolly without a stick. Shed grabbed it like it might fall away from her any moment, and she didnt want it to.

Her thumb toyed with the bottom of the head as she shook it violently, erratically, sometimes pausing to squeeze it hard. He felt a trickle of liquid flowing out, and shed squeezed it from him, lubricating her hands as she did so.

She played with it viciously, as brutally as he had been with her. Shed grabbed his waist with her hands and pushed him back a little, and holding onto him, she bent down and slipped his dick into her mouth.

He looked at her and thought about how much of a slut she really did seem, which was incredibly much, and it turned him on in every possible way, and oddly, made him feel endearment. She looked so pathetic, so enslaved to her aches and hunger, her insanity, and his cock. Her feet were both upon the railing, with her arms between them, spreading them apart as they held onto his waist. One socked foot and one naked one; wet black panties, her skirt flipped up well past her knees, her head bobbing up and down over his dick. He stroked her hair and sighed with pleasure.

She was his hopeless little slut. A morally destitute little thing, dying for approval, dying for it, nearly, (just nearly!) almost as much as he was.

She made a noise that sounded like needy. It was half a whine, half a moan.

Ughn.

Fuck me. Come fuck me already. She begged.

She had lifted up her head and was pulling him to her. Shed place his penis at the entrance of her and said push it in. And he did. And shed not stop saying it.

Yes, push it in, deeper, deeper, oh it cant be deep enough. And every time hed pull it out and push it in again, shed repeat the phrase. Over and over again. And he jammed her standing up, holding her back against his palm and keeping her still as he forced his way into her each time.

Her pussy was strangling him, suffocating his dick. She was so unnaturally tight it felt like he was carving a tunnel inside her every time he entered, and she felt like she was being broken up inside. That her womb was being invaded and was in a particularly slow process of explosion. Her legs were numb beyond feeling, but her pussy was insatiable.

She was latched onto him again, like a parasite, thrusting herself against him, fervently, feverishly. She was grabbing onto him so hard, forcing herself with such power that she drove herself to tears.

Im tearing myself apart. She said, between sobs and between thrusts.

Youre killing me. Youre really killing me.

He didnt care if he was. He forced his hardness into her, knew she was in an incredible amount of pain, knew he was far too big for her, but he couldnt care. And something in him said that she loved it. It was a faint memory, or a desire from long ago that had over the years turned from what he wished was, to what Was.

Hold my stomach. Hold it, please! I really hurt. It feels so good, and I dont want it to stop, but oh. Hold me there, Damnit!
He grabbed the lower half of her stomach, and she made him press his thumbs deep into her flesh. He used her like a toy, holding her there and moving her entire body against his dick. Moving it with such ferocity she had to stifle her screams so hard by biting her lip till it bled.

Come, please come. I want to hear to say it. Say your gonna come. Say it. She demanded between sharp cries of pleasure and within the tears.

Say it like your absolutely vulnerable, like you had needed me so badly, more then anything in the world, like you risked everything, like its the weakest point.

He whispered, violently and nearly incoherently. Im gonna come.

He made a final thrust, deep, piercing her utterly and absolutely, then he pulled out, and came all over her legs. Shed watch the white liquid flow out a throbbing entrance, let it run down her thighs, squeezed the head to force it all out.
Who are you? He asked, finally, as he drew her into a gently firm embrace. She held onto him with an exhausted resolve, and buried her face in his chest. He stroked her hair gently, and kissed her forehead. He wished he could put her into his briefcase and keep her, forever. She was so perfect to love and so perfect to use.

He lifted up his head for the kiss and looked outside. It was pouring more heavily then ever, and there was a flash of lightning that illuminated the surrounding, allowing him to see what was outside, for the first time since the girl had entered the booth and it had started to pour.

Clare was standing at the door with a man in a policeman and another person he couldnt make out.

He realized he was sitting on the floor, the hand set of the phone hanging limply beside his face. And he was crying and feeling drunk on depression, and wishing so hard, oh so hard, to be able to reach into the depths of the past and draw out something that was real. Draw out the one thing he desired greatly, because it was the singular want he had made into perfection, but couldnt get.

He knew who that girl was.

Hed created every facet of her, after all.