storyflirting

Phoenix @wilhelminaimage

Late one night, the East River far below and the overbuilt goliath beneath their feet, they fucked on the Brooklyn Bridge to say goodbye. She left one way and he the other, a kiss still wet on their lips as they pulled out their phones to delete numbers.

Early one morning they climbed from her roof up the ladder, through the hatch, and into the old water tower which had for years been dry. He lay on his back, propped up in the dark by things he couldn’t make out as she straddled him. It took her long moments of whispering dirty things for him to get hard, but when she finally took him inside her the sounds echoed for hours, shaking the walls and rattling the stairs.

It was only with strangers that she was unafraid. She led the last one down beneath the arch and into the shadows with a finger on his lips. Central Park made only the sounds of pigeons fighting over a half finished pretzel. His rough hands lifted her skirt, and when she turned and bent forward he was inside her in seconds. Silent men were the only safe ones.

The music was far too loud, so they slipped out onto the street, leaving the pounding rhythm behind them. Two scratchy faces found each other on the corner quickly, but kissing here was different than hidden in the whirling crowd. Two shy eyes looked down, and one strong hand was tentative. Fingers caressed hardening skin through tight jeans, and someone laughed in relief.

Every friday evening she finds herself sitting at his desk after he leaves for the country. She closes the door and looks out the window onto the streets far below wondering what it would be like to sit there every day. Dreaming of a new apartment, a new wardrobe, and a new friends, she lifts her skirt with one hand as the other falls between her thighs. She closes her eyes.

When he needs to come he imagines it’s him and not her kneeling on the floor. The sting is on his cheek, the marks on his ass, and the longing to please and to give slips from his mouth in well practiced words. He reaches down and touches her hair gently, waking from his dream. Good girl, he whispers with a sigh.

The only thing left in the apartment is the bed, and they fuck on it for hours. For the first time in five years they don’t worry about the neighbors or the dents the frame is making on the wall with each strong thrust. They scream and they laugh, wondering why it took so much work to get back to such a simple place.

-gny