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| Articles: The Wilting Flower |
Posted by
RavensSoul on Friday, June 11, 2004 - 04:01 AM PST
I was fourteen when I met him, and there were a lot of things I thought I knew. Sitting alone in the back of that venue, I thought I knew the difference between love and lust.
He wasn’t gorgeous by any means, but he was very attractive. His long hair danced around his face in soft waves and the little tuft of hair growing from his chin were the essence of his masculinity. In the dark venue, I could barely see his catlike green eyes that seemed to glow with a carnal radiance. To me, he seemed a forbidden beast, and that only made me want him.
I watched him with sly eyes between band sets, careful to not let him catch my gaze, careful to not miss a single movement. His large build kept him from having the smooth, catlike movements to match his animal magnetism. His appearance was somewhat awkward and hinted he was still borderline the change between being a teenager and a man. It wasn’t really his body or his face that had made me feel like I was falling for him, but rather the air of endless spirit that seemed to encompass him.
At the time I didn’t know, but he had been watching me too. I later learned that when my eyes would fall back on the stage to whichever band was playing, his eyes would be taking in the dark mass of hair that fell to my waist and the look of interest laced with indifference that consumed my face as the bands played on. At the end of the third or fourth set I scanned the room to find him. I caught him looking at me, as if trying to take in every detail of my being in order to form a perfect picture in his mind, and that’s when our eyes locked.
I wasn’t prepared for the chills that raced through my body as he gazed at my eyes. I wanted to look away from him, but I couldn’t bring myself to move. He stared intently, lips parted in surprise and then curling into a sincere smile.
I looked him over a minute longer and then smiled back. My smile must have pushed aside any uncertainties he had had about me because he was walking towards me now. He kneeled beside me at the table and leaned in close to my face. I could feel his warm breath on my ear as he asked me to come up to floor in front of the stage because his band was playing next.
I could feel his presence all over my body as he leaned in close to me, awaiting my response. It was like a sticky heat covering every inch of me, and it felt damn good. Pushing a few strands of silky brown hair behind his ear, I told him I would. The contact between my finger tips and the skin of his ear must have sent thrilling impulses through him because he sucked in a quick breath and looked at me like I’d just given him the most obscene pleasure.
He walked away from me and out the venue door as I made my way through the metal heads and punks to perch myself in a doorway near the stage. He carried in heavy equipment to make his band sound better... guitars and parts of drums came next. And I watched him as his muscles bulged with the weight of the objects, letting thoughts of those strong, well muscled arms wrapping around my waist and pulling me close dance through my mind. Every once in a while, he’d look my way and give me a smile or a playful wink and I would return the gesture, trying to maintain my usual indifference, just trying to pretend that I wasn’t the young, eager teenager that I actually was.
His band was ready now, and I must say, that man had the spirit of a lion when he took the stage, microphone in hand. His cat eyes glowed as the lights dimmed, marking the shows beginning. The locks of hair that fell in waves past his shoulders turned in a mane as he positively beamed with a leonine radiance.
His eyes never left mine as he sang the set of four songs. Every lyric he sang and each death metal growl was for me. That night, his soulful words that poured from his heart whenever he sat to write the poetry that was his music were mine and only mine.
Things went quickly after that first time we met. There wasn’t a day that went by that we didn’t talk in secrecy or sneak away to see one another. He was six years my senior, but I had a mind and body to match his age. Those were the two things he loved about me... At fourteen I was intelligent enough to hold a conversation with him, he, who had been educated at one of the finer schools. And at fourteen, I had all the right curves in all the right places.
My innocence excited him. Before the first night that I ventured to the venue, I had been a very sheltered child. I had never experienced a mans touch... I had never even felt a mans lips pressed against mine in the simplest act of affection. My virgin skin seemed to beckon him, seemed to fill him with desires that could make a street whore blush. He was to be my corruption, the willing teacher to the unknowing student. I was his untouched canvas, soon to be the living picture of any mans fantasy, skilled in all ways of giving and receiving pleasure.
Several months passed and the things he said he would teach me were still mere words sliding off his tongue in each pant and groan that hinted at his want for me. In public, he was afraid to touch me... afraid of who would see and who could possibly find out. We’d shared our first kiss in his red jeep. His hand would linger and slip down to caress my leg or arm, but would never do anything more. Fear kept him from turning me into his living dream. My fear stalled any progress he would make with his own concerns.
Then one day, my parents went out on one of their many dates to keep their romance alive, and he showed up at my door. He’d said he saw their car leave as he was driving by, and decided to pay me a visit. I was alone in the house and he knew this.
I opened the door and let him come in. He was empty handed as usual, no flowers or tokens of affection, but then again, I wasn’t a flower kind of girl. He sat down of the very feminine couch my mother had picked out and I leaned against the door, watching him. He patted the sofa next to him and called me to sit and I obeyed him. I began to tremble, nervous at what would come next. Sitting in my living room, he seemed so much bigger than me, and he was. Six foot three and over 200 pounds of muscle, he made me look like nothing.
He pet my hair and stroked my face with the utmost affection. He pulled me close and kissed me gently. Slowly, he pushed on me so that I was leaning against the back of the couch. His fingers that had been sliding through my hair found the skin of my arm and next slid down to cup my breast. He let his hand slip down and slide along my stomach until he reached my legs. With a strange look of defiance, he pressed his hand between my legs and began moving his fingers, causing the fabric of my pants to rub me.
This intimacy, the contact that he and I now shared was what we had both been longing for, but he smelled of alcohol and the look in his eyes was daring me to tell him no. I was suddenly afraid of him, this man I thought I loved... The man who, a few days before, had gotten down on one knee and told me he wanted to marry me once I turned eighteen.
He pulled my pants down and touched my soft, pink flesh. He licked me and pushed his fingers into me, and I was too afraid of what would happen if I told him to stop. I made all the right noises when he was expecting them. I looked into his eyes and tried to portray a mood of lust and desire. He would sigh a little or tell me how beautiful I was when I made a sound he liked. The slur of his voice told me he was drunk. Each time he pushed a long finger into me, he would comment on how wet or how soft I was.
Desire consumed him, and he couldn’t resist any longer. He stood and picked me up, strong arms encircling my waist, and carried me back to my room. He threw me onto my bed and climbed on top of me, relentlessly covering my face in kisses and fondling my stomach and breasts so hard that I could already feel the bruises forming.
He unzipped and unbuttoned his pants and let them fall. He grabbed my hand and had me play with the hard, throbbing muscle his arousal had produced. With him on top of me now, the smell of alcohol was unyielding. I stroked his cock and let it slide in and out of my fist. I spit in my hand to make it feel better for him. The wetness must have given him ideas because he now held my head in both of his hands and was ordering me to suck his dick. “Put it in your mouth,” he said, squeezing my head to show he was not asking.
I looked at him with pleading eyes and pulled away just enough to shake my head no. His response was to pull me down by my shoulders, and press my mouth against his penis. I licked and suckled it a little, then let my teeth rake down the length of it. The thought had occurred to me that, if I didn’t make the effort to stop him, it would go farther and it would become my fault instead of his.
He pushed me away from him, knocking me off my bed and onto the floor. I scuttled away to crouch in the corner behind my door and apologized repeatedly for hurting him. Until that moment, I had never felt so low. I was pantsless and cowering on my floor from that giant man. He had finished nursing his ‘wound’ and was walking towards me, each step deliberately slow. When he got to me, he reached down and pulled me up by the wrist. He only needed one arm to move me. I was flung back onto the bed with him on top of me again. One of his hands held down both of my arms, his massive legs had mine pinned at the shin.
I was twisting and squirming trying to get free of his grip. His free hand stroked my naked stomach and hip. He let his hand roam to find that tight, wet spot between my legs and pushed his finger into me again. This time he wasn’t careful to keep his fingernails from scratching into my tender flesh and he pushed into me harder than before. I had stopped struggling. I just lay there now, shaking and breathing in and out softly. Minute after minute passed and my silence brought him back to who he was. He let my arm go and abandoned his attempt at fingering me. He sat back on his heels to observe the bruises that now spotted the pale skin of my stomach and breasts.
This time, he asked me if it was ok if he continued to ‘pleasure’ me. He wanted to put his dick in me to see how I felt inside. He was crying now, his alcohol induced stupor was wearing off and he could clearly see what he had done to me. I told him no, and scooted away from him, sitting up and pulling my legs up so that I could rest my chin on my knees.
He got off of my bed and put his pants back on. For some reason, he felt the need to pick me up, twisting and struggling, and carry me back to the living room. I retrieved my pants from the floor and slipped back into them, and sat down on the sofa in the exact same spot where all of this had begun. He looked sad and solemn as he took my head in his hands one final time and kissed my forehead. He said goodbye, and then walked out the door.
And that was the last time I ever saw him
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Average Rating : 5.0
Total ratings : 4
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| The Wilting Flower | Login/Create an account | 4 Comments |
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Re: The Wilting Flower
by angel_of_death (blackbird_164@hotmail.com)
on Jun 11, 2004 - 04:33 PM
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that was...real. it makes me sad to think how many young girls have gotton themselves into situations they cant control, me being one of them.
i dont know if its a true story or not but, i think its brilliant.
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Re: The Wilting Flower
by gothicmorman (litty_klj@hotmail.com)
on Jun 16, 2004 - 05:15 AM
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wow, very moving, heartwrenching even. *huge hugs* that's never a good thing to happen to anyone, even for him because if he was drunk then it made his actions less inhibited and he prolly feels really bad as well. 14 is so young, especially to be dating someone six years older. makes one really think about the world...
the ruthless
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