count.
He liked her twisted and tied up. The rosary he had given
her at the beginning of the night—a lifetime ago—ended around her wrists, a
thin tether that she could have broken easily, and yet she didn't. She let him
lay her down and tie her up and plow her body, wringing pain and pleasure from
her in equal measure. His mouth spilled profane prayers against her skin as he
fucked her, and she cried and sighed with each thrust of his hips. Outside the
snow fell, obscuring sound and sight, hiding them from the world as they broke
his vows again and again until at last they were spent and fell asleep, his
cock still inside her.
In the early morning hours she woke to find him kissing her,
his fingers in her pussy, and she dozed as he roamed her body with his hands,
sleepily responding to encourage him.
He spent his seed inside her over and over. It would have
been a sin to spill it.
"Kiss me," she murmured in the dark, the cold of
the snow filled night lapping at the small, hot universe they created together.
"Love me."
"I do," he whispered back, and together they came
apart in the darkness.
*
Morning hit, cold and bleak. She'd slept little, but when
she opened her eyes, Tara knew it was over. Next to her, Michael slept, his
face peaceful in repose, sweet and beloved. His hair fell over his forehead,
soft and inviting, and his lips were slack and plump.
She wanted to lean over and kiss him awake, but she feared
what would happen if she did. Would he yell? Would he cry? Would he weep with
regret and anger? She couldn't stand the thought.
Slowly, carefully, she slipped out from between the sheets.
Chill air hit her, and she shivered as she gathered her clothes, her heart in
turmoil as she retreated from the room and dressed hastily. The whole apartment
spoke of a man who lived alone, sparse and sad, and she wished she could tidy
it up, give it a few soft touches. That was impossible, though, and she knew it
was. Between her legs, she felt the soreness left behind by their frantic
couplings. She wished she could stay. She wished she never had to leave. But it
was better if she did.
He would hate her when he woke up. Guilt would come between
them, and she couldn't stand that. There should be no guilt for what they had
done—shame should only be for those things that harmed, not those that brought
only pleasure.
Don't look at him, she thought. It was the only way
she could go.
Moving to the door, Tara let herself out. Outside the world
was shrouded in snow, and the sky hung heavy and gray above her.
In silence, she walked back to the church, then climbed into
her car and drove home.
*
They said when God closes a door, he opens a window, but it
didn't feel like that at all. Instead, she was trapped, darkness around, the
air stifling. The door slammed shut, and no window opened for her.
Tara became a sleep walker. She moved from class to class,
dreaming. The snow receded, then came again, and when she slept at night, she
dreamed of Michael, the memories of their bodies straining in time to the beat
of their hearts obliterating the nightmares that plagued her. Again and again,
they came together in her dreams, and when she woke the reality that she
couldn't see him again hit her anew.
Why did she go back to the church? Why did she think seeing
him again would help her break with her past? Why did she think sleeping with
him would satisfy her hunger? One night... it wasn't enough for a lifetime. Not
nearly enough.
*
Her dorm phone was ringing and Tara blinked, realizing she
had been lost in thought, again. Danielle, her roommate, sighed as she slipped
out of bed and crossed the room to the telephone, which was only a few feet
away from Tara.
"Hello?" she said. She listened for a second, then
held the phone out to Tara. "For you," she said.
Licking her lips, Tara took the receiver from Danielle and
pressed it to her ear. "Yes?" she asked.
"There's a visitor for you in the lobby,"
He liked her twisted and tied up. The rosary he had given
her at the beginning of the night—a lifetime ago—ended around her wrists, a
thin tether that she could have broken easily, and yet she didn't. She let him
lay her down and tie her up and plow her body, wringing pain and pleasure from
her in equal measure. His mouth spilled profane prayers against her skin as he
fucked her, and she cried and sighed with each thrust of his hips. Outside the
snow fell, obscuring sound and sight, hiding them from the world as they broke
his vows again and again until at last they were spent and fell asleep, his
cock still inside her.
In the early morning hours she woke to find him kissing her,
his fingers in her pussy, and she dozed as he roamed her body with his hands,
sleepily responding to encourage him.
He spent his seed inside her over and over. It would have
been a sin to spill it.
"Kiss me," she murmured in the dark, the cold of
the snow filled night lapping at the small, hot universe they created together.
"Love me."
"I do," he whispered back, and together they came
apart in the darkness.
*
Morning hit, cold and bleak. She'd slept little, but when
she opened her eyes, Tara knew it was over. Next to her, Michael slept, his
face peaceful in repose, sweet and beloved. His hair fell over his forehead,
soft and inviting, and his lips were slack and plump.
She wanted to lean over and kiss him awake, but she feared
what would happen if she did. Would he yell? Would he cry? Would he weep with
regret and anger? She couldn't stand the thought.
Slowly, carefully, she slipped out from between the sheets.
Chill air hit her, and she shivered as she gathered her clothes, her heart in
turmoil as she retreated from the room and dressed hastily. The whole apartment
spoke of a man who lived alone, sparse and sad, and she wished she could tidy
it up, give it a few soft touches. That was impossible, though, and she knew it
was. Between her legs, she felt the soreness left behind by their frantic
couplings. She wished she could stay. She wished she never had to leave. But it
was better if she did.
He would hate her when he woke up. Guilt would come between
them, and she couldn't stand that. There should be no guilt for what they had
done—shame should only be for those things that harmed, not those that brought
only pleasure.
Don't look at him, she thought. It was the only way
she could go.
Moving to the door, Tara let herself out. Outside the world
was shrouded in snow, and the sky hung heavy and gray above her.
In silence, she walked back to the church, then climbed into
her car and drove home.
*
They said when God closes a door, he opens a window, but it
didn't feel like that at all. Instead, she was trapped, darkness around, the
air stifling. The door slammed shut, and no window opened for her.
Tara became a sleep walker. She moved from class to class,
dreaming. The snow receded, then came again, and when she slept at night, she
dreamed of Michael, the memories of their bodies straining in time to the beat
of their hearts obliterating the nightmares that plagued her. Again and again,
they came together in her dreams, and when she woke the reality that she
couldn't see him again hit her anew.
Why did she go back to the church? Why did she think seeing
him again would help her break with her past? Why did she think sleeping with
him would satisfy her hunger? One night... it wasn't enough for a lifetime. Not
nearly enough.
*
Her dorm phone was ringing and Tara blinked, realizing she
had been lost in thought, again. Danielle, her roommate, sighed as she slipped
out of bed and crossed the room to the telephone, which was only a few feet
away from Tara.
"Hello?" she said. She listened for a second, then
held the phone out to Tara. "For you," she said.
Licking her lips, Tara took the receiver from Danielle and
pressed it to her ear. "Yes?" she asked.
"There's a visitor for you in the lobby,"
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