Drabble: "Foretold By the Bard"
Shakespeare, of course, was right. The Bard knew a thing or two about love, or, in our case, dangerous obsession.
It began with magic, passion, and desire. Our courtship was swift and sudden, the decision to live together equally as impulsive. We sparked, we sizzled, we seethed - and inevitably combusted, our passionate love-making giving way to passionate combat, explosions that left our home and my heart in shambles.
It would never be long before we returned to repair, restore, and revive what had been broken. Apologies, sweet words, tender caresses or fervent sex - these all inevitably led to a laying down of arms. But not this time.
I was bowed over the edge of his large desk, still trembling from the force of my climax, his seed dripping slowly down my leg. Tears stained my face as I observed the wreckage around us: papers littering the floor, books tumbled about, a chair over-turned, a vase in pieces. My wrists throbbed from where he had pinned me down, and I knew within hours fresh bruises would attest to the violence of our coupling. Normally I would have relished them, but today they filled me with shame.
There was a long silence, broken at last by his heavy sigh and the perfunctory snap of his fly. Pushing the hair out of my face, I straightened at last and met his gaze.
“I need to get back to the office.” There was no apology in his green eyes, nor a hint of softness in that rough-hewn face. Once I might have reached out to run my fingers through his tousled blond hair, or slid a palm over his impressive abdomen, caressing the washboard stomach that had once turned my knees to jelly. Today, however, I faced him mutely, smoothing down my rumpled dress before fisting my hands at my sides. With an impatient noise, he turned to leave, grabbing his jacket from where it had been tossed to the ground. It was only when he had his hand on the doorknob that I spoke.
“I won’t be here when you come back.” My voice was hoarse from the screaming that had come before the sex and the shrieking that had followed, my throat raw and sore.
He hesitated at my words, fingers clenching the knob so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. Still, he never once glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he snapped. With that, he stormed out the door, slamming it shut behind him. It was only when the last reverberation of the noise died away that I dropped into the desk chair, buried my face in my hands, and wept.
It began with magic, passion, and desire. Our courtship was swift and sudden, the decision to live together equally as impulsive. We sparked, we sizzled, we seethed - and inevitably combusted, our passionate love-making giving way to passionate combat, explosions that left our home and my heart in shambles.
It would never be long before we returned to repair, restore, and revive what had been broken. Apologies, sweet words, tender caresses or fervent sex - these all inevitably led to a laying down of arms. But not this time.
I was bowed over the edge of his large desk, still trembling from the force of my climax, his seed dripping slowly down my leg. Tears stained my face as I observed the wreckage around us: papers littering the floor, books tumbled about, a chair over-turned, a vase in pieces. My wrists throbbed from where he had pinned me down, and I knew within hours fresh bruises would attest to the violence of our coupling. Normally I would have relished them, but today they filled me with shame.
There was a long silence, broken at last by his heavy sigh and the perfunctory snap of his fly. Pushing the hair out of my face, I straightened at last and met his gaze.
“I need to get back to the office.” There was no apology in his green eyes, nor a hint of softness in that rough-hewn face. Once I might have reached out to run my fingers through his tousled blond hair, or slid a palm over his impressive abdomen, caressing the washboard stomach that had once turned my knees to jelly. Today, however, I faced him mutely, smoothing down my rumpled dress before fisting my hands at my sides. With an impatient noise, he turned to leave, grabbing his jacket from where it had been tossed to the ground. It was only when he had his hand on the doorknob that I spoke.
“I won’t be here when you come back.” My voice was hoarse from the screaming that had come before the sex and the shrieking that had followed, my throat raw and sore.
He hesitated at my words, fingers clenching the knob so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. Still, he never once glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he snapped. With that, he stormed out the door, slamming it shut behind him. It was only when the last reverberation of the noise died away that I dropped into the desk chair, buried my face in my hands, and wept.