Cathexis by Josie Clay

home”.
     
    “When?”
     
    “Tonight ...it's not working Todor and I ...we fight all the time and I don't want to spoil it for the children any more than I have already”.
     
    “I shouldn't say brilliant should I?” I said. “But brilliant!”.
     
    “Yes, it was my plan. I have done this on purpose ...to come back to you”.
     
    I felt myself shape-shift to accommodate this calculating creature. She wouldn't be back till gone midnight , so I left bread, milk, cheese and ham and a bottle of Champagne. As I lay on the mouldy futon, I imagined her face, illuminated in the fridge light, her lips moving in thanks. Me a phantom child beside her, hungry and empty.
     
    I came to her each morning and evening. She would throw a bag or package at me and march from the room, it was her way of giving me presents, which I found hilarious. One day, however, she sat down beside me and earnestly placed a small, black velvet box on my knee. “For you” she said, pushing a hank of curls behind her ear. A Russian wedding ring, three interlinked bands of white, red and yellow gold. It was her grandmother's.
     
    “Nancy, it's beautiful but it's too much. I can't take this, it should stay in your family”.
     
    She placed her finger on my lips.
     
    “Don't protest, I want you to have it”. Withdrawing her finger.
     
    “But...”. She quickly replaced it, raising her eyebrows in reprimand.
     
    “Ssss” she said. “I love you, take it”.
     
    The following evening I came to her dog-tired. It was our last before the family regrouped and I prostrated myself on the living room floor, weeping with exhaustion and resentment, head roaring with fatigue and aching in every way.
     
    Taking me by the hand, she led me to the bedroom. While the water thundered in the en suite she peeled off my stiff clothes and examined me closely, turning my hands in hers, inspecting my palms and kissing the calluses, steering me around, kissing every contusion and scrape she could find. There were many and I sat on the bed while her lips found the bruises on my shins, her hair brushing my feet. I remembered the first time she'd examined me, surprised that I shaved my legs, believing all lesbians were politically hairy.
     
    Climbing into the bath behind me, she washed my hair and soaped my body. I leant back on her, it must have been uncomfortable but she held me until I awoke with a jolt, slapping the water with my hand. Then I was in a huge towel, my hands and crevices dried diligently. She shook out a fresh towel on the bed and I collapsed on my front. The whisk of her hands rubbing together, she pushed almond scented oil into my skin, massaging and manipulating each part of me with equal attention, probing and dimpling with finger tips, before her big hands grabbed my buttocks and squeezed and kneaded, spreading them and squashing them together.
     
    “Amazing” I groaned, dribbling onto the pillow. Her oily thumb grazing my anus and I turned my head to the side, where I could see our tableau in the floor to ceiling wardrobe mirror. Her hair tumbled forward, obscuring her face, leaving just the edge of her profile. Kneeling between my legs, rocking as if in prayer, holding my buttocks apart, I could tell she had decided to do something surprising. Her tongue traced the length of my arse crack as she rubbed my sphincter with her thumb.
     
    Not normally a fan of bottom stuff, but her worshipping reflection impaled me with a galvanised horn. She inserted her tongue. God she was dirty
,
but all I felt was a disquieting urge to poo. The image though, captivated me. I blinked slowly like a camera shutter to retain it forever.
     
    “Do you like that?” she breathed into my crack.
     
    “I'd prefer it if your attentions were redirected”.
     
    “But I love to do it” she purred.
     
    “Perv lady” I sighed. She giggled and proceeded to fuck me from behind in the more traditional hole and so unequivocally that I, usually silent in sex,