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Authors: Andersen Prunty
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her. She ripped his shirt off and bit his chest. He moved one hand under her ass and the other behind her head, moving it around to the neckline of her dress, yanking it down and kneading her breasts. Lasting only a few short minutes, he experienced everything—heard the wet grind of their skin, the soft and rhythmic rasps in her throat, felt the pumping of her blood around him. He shivered to a climax and rolled off beside her.
They lay there for a few moments, breathing heavily.
“Would you follow me anywhere?” Magdalena asked.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Will you follow me inside?”
“Yes.”
But maybe dreams were just starting to mix with reality because he didn’t really remember saying anything at all and after they had this exchange they both still lay there. He felt too heavy to move. It felt like he was sinking into the soft mat of grass and he couldn’t imagine her house, however accommodating it looked, being more comfortable than that patch of grass under that moon with that thick night air washing over his skin.
Then he watched as Magdalena stood up and sloughed off the scrap of green dress. She reached down for him from somewhere impossibly far away and he felt his hand in hers and his body slowly rising to its feet. She kept her arm behind her, leading him along. He looked at her exposed backside, the red marks from his rough hands smudged along her back and buttocks.
She led him back to their original spread. Her hands were all over him, pressing one of his arms down to his side and crossing his other arm between his chest and his stomach. Magdalena got down on her knees before him and closed her mouth around his cock. He looked down at her and she returned his stare. Her eyes were green and vibrant. Was that the first time he had noticed her eyes were green?
She took her mouth away and said, “I love to taste myself,” before going back to her suckling. He felt his sex stiffen again. He looked up at the sky and then back down. She held a cup, wine remnants sloshing around the bottom, and pulled her mouth away just before he came into the liquid.
Magdalena stood up and held the cup to his mouth. “Would you like to taste yourself?” she whispered into his ear, her hot breath running down his spine.
He wanted to object, knock the cup away or something, but he couldn’t move. She put the cup to his lips and tilted it up. He felt the warm liquid slide down his throat and hit his stomach and then felt like he had to be sleeping because he couldn’t move and everything was black.
Slowly, the blackness of night gave way to the gray dawn. A cacophony of birds unleashed itself upon the garden. He thought he must have gone to sleep out there and tried to roll over, half-expecting to see Magdalena still sleeping beside him, but he couldn’t move. He looked around the garden, verdant and dripping with life. He looked at the statues, the well-built men and women, dark gray with the night’s dew. They were full of life, too, weren’t they? he asked himself. A sickening dread hardened the inside of his body when he realized his fate.
Time was not a factor. For days, weeks maybe, he drifted in and out of consciousness. Every now and then Magdalena came into the garden, sometimes to sketch, sometimes just to take her morning coffee, sometimes to take a lover and drink wine, the last thing Hutchens had tasted, mingled with the last bit of life he had. Other times, she brought patrons out to the garden, told them lies about the statues. Sometimes the patrons offered her vulgar amounts of money for them. Smirking with the knowledge that she had things people wanted, Magdalena sent them away disappointed. Sometimes she would stand in front of the statues, staring up at them. It was at these times he wanted to be free, but only so he could once again feel Magdalena’s skin in his hands and lose himself in that whiplike smile and those clover eyes.
The Smoke of Samuel
Decayed leaves dropping
They lay there for a few moments, breathing heavily.
“Would you follow me anywhere?” Magdalena asked.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Will you follow me inside?”
“Yes.”
But maybe dreams were just starting to mix with reality because he didn’t really remember saying anything at all and after they had this exchange they both still lay there. He felt too heavy to move. It felt like he was sinking into the soft mat of grass and he couldn’t imagine her house, however accommodating it looked, being more comfortable than that patch of grass under that moon with that thick night air washing over his skin.
Then he watched as Magdalena stood up and sloughed off the scrap of green dress. She reached down for him from somewhere impossibly far away and he felt his hand in hers and his body slowly rising to its feet. She kept her arm behind her, leading him along. He looked at her exposed backside, the red marks from his rough hands smudged along her back and buttocks.
She led him back to their original spread. Her hands were all over him, pressing one of his arms down to his side and crossing his other arm between his chest and his stomach. Magdalena got down on her knees before him and closed her mouth around his cock. He looked down at her and she returned his stare. Her eyes were green and vibrant. Was that the first time he had noticed her eyes were green?
She took her mouth away and said, “I love to taste myself,” before going back to her suckling. He felt his sex stiffen again. He looked up at the sky and then back down. She held a cup, wine remnants sloshing around the bottom, and pulled her mouth away just before he came into the liquid.
Magdalena stood up and held the cup to his mouth. “Would you like to taste yourself?” she whispered into his ear, her hot breath running down his spine.
He wanted to object, knock the cup away or something, but he couldn’t move. She put the cup to his lips and tilted it up. He felt the warm liquid slide down his throat and hit his stomach and then felt like he had to be sleeping because he couldn’t move and everything was black.
Slowly, the blackness of night gave way to the gray dawn. A cacophony of birds unleashed itself upon the garden. He thought he must have gone to sleep out there and tried to roll over, half-expecting to see Magdalena still sleeping beside him, but he couldn’t move. He looked around the garden, verdant and dripping with life. He looked at the statues, the well-built men and women, dark gray with the night’s dew. They were full of life, too, weren’t they? he asked himself. A sickening dread hardened the inside of his body when he realized his fate.
Time was not a factor. For days, weeks maybe, he drifted in and out of consciousness. Every now and then Magdalena came into the garden, sometimes to sketch, sometimes just to take her morning coffee, sometimes to take a lover and drink wine, the last thing Hutchens had tasted, mingled with the last bit of life he had. Other times, she brought patrons out to the garden, told them lies about the statues. Sometimes the patrons offered her vulgar amounts of money for them. Smirking with the knowledge that she had things people wanted, Magdalena sent them away disappointed. Sometimes she would stand in front of the statues, staring up at them. It was at these times he wanted to be free, but only so he could once again feel Magdalena’s skin in his hands and lose himself in that whiplike smile and those clover eyes.
The Smoke of Samuel
Decayed leaves dropping
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