First And Lonesome Pt 01

Hello! I promise not to leave this story incomplete and that I have written far ahead of what I am posting, today. I hope you enjoy it, and please, leave me a comment. It brings me great pleasure to read them!

-SB

*

-One-

"Shit hole." I mumble to myself, looking around as the equally shitty bus moans away, stirring the dust from the dry silt underfoot, and blowing my hair full of retched plumes of hot, gray exhaust.

I look around, my eyes squinting to see in the darkness, my small suitcase in one hand, my briefcase in the other. I'm not planning on staying long. At least the motel is just across the street, I won't have to get my new black, heeled boots too dusty, although, after the long bus ride with the 'pillars of society', I feel filthy anyway. Crying babies and their frustrated mothers; groaning, farting and belching drunks echo in my aching head as I stare across the street at my destination- sleep and a hot shower.

The flight from San Francisco wasn't noteworthy, but the day had been hell since then. The rental car company had locked doors upon my arrival, only a handwritten note on the door to explain why-

'It's a boy!'

was written there, as if I'm supposed to care about that- I needed a vehicle to get to this redneck crap-heap, and looking around, its quaint charm doesn't amuse me. I suppose they don't even have a rental car agency, which means I'll be back on the bus after I seal my deal.

Oh well, I'll worry about that later. Right now, I just hope the beds are clean.

The motel is pretty much what one would expect by looking at it from the outside. There's a moronic-looking, glutton of a man at the front desk whose nametag reads 'Matt', but he looks more like a Tucker, Bucky or Trapper to me.

At any rate, the room appears clean enough, although it is terribly outdated with a brown and orange quilt covering the slightly sagging mattress- brown shag carpeting and dark counter-tops in the adjoining bathroom. There is a fireplace, however, which I'm always a sucker for.

Walking into the bathroom, I flip the switch on the wall, a single, bare bulb popping on to illuminate the small space. I pull open the plastic shower curtain, the metal rings scratching along the rusty chrome bar, and turn on the spigots. When it feels hot enough to cook potatoes, I remove my clothing, letting each piece pool onto the floor at my feet, and step in. Heaven.

What seems like an inordinate amount of time later, I pull the quilt off the bed and toss it to the floor in the corner of the room. God knows what that thing has seen and

touched

. I open my laptop and place a quick entry in my journal, as is my usual evening routine.

January 13, 2017

I've made it here okay. This little town is about what I expected it to be- no real surprises thus far. I'm exhausted from the trip.

I love you dad. I'll make you proud.

-end

My eyes are heavy. So is my heart.

I must have passed out from exhaustion, because the weight of a big body coming down over mine awakens me. In the near total blackness of the room, his eyes are darker still, like lipid pools of shinning crude oil capturing mine and I am unable to look away- Don't want to look away. I want to drown in their depths forever. I strain to see his face, but I cannot make out the details. It is only his eyes that capture mine and hold them prisoner.

The bed creaks a protest as he bends at the elbows to lean into me, breathing in the scent of my neck and hair, humming what sounds like an approval. His nose runs up and down, from under my ear to my collarbone and back again, over and over, a light stubble rasping over my cheek and jaw line. I can't speak. I can't fight, not that I want to, but shouldn't I? This stranger in this bed, coming to me in the middle of the night, waking me from sound slumber, but I am in a near trance-like state, comfortable as if with someone that I have shared a bed with for many years, even as my body heats and becomes aroused with the promise of more.

Somewhere deep within my psyche I know that I should be afraid, should be terrified, should be fighting for my life, but the thought feels like a distant dream upon waking. Where you can only recall the echo of a feeling.

He licks my neck- I moan. I want more. He seems to know, somehow. His hand slides down my stomach, over my pubis mound, then to my inner thigh. Teasing. A shivered chill rings through me. I want him to touch me. Moreover, I want him to

want

to touch me. I moan a protest at his near miss, my eyes pleading for his touch, craving more of his warmth, his scent, his body.