The night passes, and she sleeps wrapped in his arms for the remainder of the night. Disturbing fragments of last night's events, all mixed up with incoherent chards of horrific, vividly sexual and graphic dreams of endless, agonizing orgasms, eternal moans of pleasure and despair, and long entangling, woodlike limbs grasping for her, flashed before her.
She wouldn't exactly say she was well rested, but nevertheless, she had indeed been fucked like never before, or even though she would. Her body felt a tad sore, but she found herself in a shimmering state of complete satisfaction.
Eventually she decided to get up, and managed to unravel herself out of his grip without waking him up before making it out to the kitchen. She needed coffee now, strong black coffee to start her day. She always thought the coffee maker was making such a soothing sound, and the sheer smell of fresh coffee made her brain begin to wake up.
She poured herself an extra large cup and sat down by the window facing the outside street. Ever so slowly, the city had started to come to life.
A lonely car passing by, with a frosty windshield and a tiny cloud of white smoke coming out of its exhaust.
A man wrapping his jacket around him as he crosses the street.
"It seems to be a cold day," she thought to herself as she kept drinking her coffee.
Everything seemed so weirdly normal, as if everything was just the way it used to be.
People outside going on with their daily, day-by-day business, the refrigerator started its cooling-all-your-groceries sound, the clock on the wall was tirelessly trying to hypnotize her, and a sex-crazed pumpkin man was laying passed out over her bed.
She giggled to herself. She was actually happy.
She really needed a shower.
On her way to the bathroom she stopped by the door to the bedroom. The pumpkin man was still sleeping, or whatever pumpkin men do when they are not pounding the brains out of innocent, unsuspecting and ill prepared damsels in distress.
That last part made her giggle. Perhaps she wasn't all that innocent after all, ill prepared, yes for sure. But unsuspecting? Hardly. She admitted she had been hoping for something, but now she wasn't sure about what.
The hot flow of water refreshingly washed over her naked body, rebooting the rest of her. She soaped herself thoroughly with a nice, flowery shower gel and she used way too much shampoo. She loved being completely covered by that rich, fragrant foam, before she let it all wash it away. The room filled up with a mist of hot steam, causing condensation on walls and mirrors. Yes she had more than one mirror.
As she stepped out of the shower, she virtually couldn't see anything and it took several minutes before the steam cleared and her reflection stared back at her in the mirror.
She opened her towel and glanced at her body. She had always liked her breasts, at least as far back as she had any. She kept watching herself in the mirror as she grabbed them, lifted them, squeezed them together. Yes, she indeed enjoyed having them.
She began putting on makeup. Most of the time she didn't use it, unless there was a special occasion. But if she now had become the queen for the pumpkin king, she might very well do it. Make herself beautiful for him. Make herself presentable in his presence.
Suddenly she was interrupted by a loud, wrecking noise from inside the apartment, as if furniture had started swapping places, objects falling to the floor, and wailing grunts.
When she carefully opens the door, she sees Mr Pumpkin has fallen over a chair in the kitchen, and was lying motionless on the floor. However, not for long, as he soon got up again. His wobbly legs kept stumbling around the kitchen, constantly walking into things as if he couldn't see where he was going.
Didn't he? Was he in fact blind? She thought to herself.
Disappointed, she realized that he in fact must be blind. She felt stupid. After all her efforts to look her best for him, he actually was blind. He wasn't able to see her at all, so what difference would it make if she put on two pounds of makeup? She might as well have painted a clown face on herself and it wouldn't have made a difference.
She shuddered at the thought. Perhaps that wouldn't be so misplaced after all. Clowns were in fact one of those things she hated the most--
She kept watching him stumble around, and after a while she started to feel sorry for him. He probably had woken up, all horny again and she was nowhere to be found. The thought of him... Actually them, as she was most in on it too--
The thought of the two of them tumbling around in bed, that hot, steamy morning after encore, that all day of passionate love making--
She corrected herself. Make no mistake, this was fucking. Wild, untamed, unbridled fucking. This was probably as far away from love making as she could possibly imagine.
