Hinged Eggs Break Easy

I came in the middle of the credits. We were sweating by then, and I clasped and unclasped my lips, pressing them against her neck. She sat on top of me with me still inside her for a while, letting the credits roll in their entirety until we were back to the blu-ray menu. Her body burned into mine, and all I could think of was what number I was on her list of "friends".

She sucked me off before we did it one last time on the floor, where we lay together with her smiling lips whispering stupid jokes next to my ear.

I found it harder to laugh than usual.

The next morning came along, and it was just like the morning after our first night together. Normal, no mention of the sex, nothing out of the ordinary. She still treated me like the Taft from junior year of high school, and I was expected to oblige and treat her as You. Just You.

So I did. By the third day, I realized this was the reality of it all. I was just her friend. Nothing had changed from high school other than the fact that we were fucking. She was still the exuberant friendly girl who would listen to all of my problems, all of my thoughts, and I was still the overly talkative guy who would offer her everything except how I really felt about her.

That nagging tension started winding up again after that night of the cooler. It was worse this time. I couldn't stop thinking about her, I began to wonder what she was up to while I was at work, wondered if there were any other guys she talked to on the phone, invited over to her apartment. During nights when she didn't invite me over, I'd sometimes press my ear against my wall, trying to listen intently for another set of footsteps or a baritone voice. When I was alone I'd jack off furiously, her goddamn face plastering my mindscape.

It was obvious now what that nagging, festering was in my chest. I had fallen for her. Again. And the fact that she was so forthright and casual about sex made it worse.

The arrangement we had was as frustrating as it was liberating. After days and days of dealing with the façade that I felt for her how she felt for me, she would come over to "watch Netflix" or invite me to her apartment for my "opinion" on her latest dress. In those heated hours of her skin on mine, her legs opening up for me, I could revel under the illusion that we were making love. But it was obvious to me all You wanted was to fuck.

So I kept obliging her this way. I let her use me any way she see fit, while I projected fantasy onto the curvy reality of her body.

The number of days between each rendezvous began to lessen. And my ability to try to adopt and mimic You's mindset on our intimacy was beginning to weaken.

It began to bleed over to our times when we would hang out, blissfully ignorant. My jokes were less lighthearted, and my conversation less goofy. The clawing sensation in my chest festered and roiled like a wettened finger against a hot iron, but I had to keep it in. I didn't want to break our arrangement, I didn't want to seem like a kid.

This was what sex and love was like in the real world. We were fucking adults now; it's not like I didn't have one-night stands, sex with strangers to give myself a boost when existence was just a little more of a burden than usual. What right had I to be mad at her? What right did I have to feel jealous or anxious or concerned at how You coped with herself?

Platitudes, all of them. I kept repeating them over and over in my head whenever I looked at her, indexing the mental image of how her hair framed her face when she would make a dangling braid against her cheek. She was the only thing I worshipped. But I wanted her to worship me too.

I didn't want anyone else's hand on that cheek. I sure as fuck didn't want anyone else's hand choking the anchor on her hip. And I didn't want anyone else to drink in the blue sparkle of her eyes. I wanted to tell her these things, I was compelled to.

But I didn't. I didn't see the need.

I had chances, like one night after my shift, hanging out with her as she worked. I sipped a Coors on her couch as she sketched away at a revisional design in the corner of the living room next to her TV. There was some game show hosted by Ty Pennington, but my interest withered as soon as my gaze wandered to You; from then on, I couldn't keep my eyes off of her.

She had her hair bunched up with two scrunchies above the nape of her neck, a few strands softly lilting and swaying against the frame of her glasses. Her brow furrowed in concentration, and I was mesmerized at how her lips fell open with her breaths. The singular bulb of her desklamp cast an inviting glow on the skin of her arms, the tip of the nose that I loved pressing against mine.

A few minutes in and she looked up at me. A soft smile spread across her lips and she put her pencil down, resting her head against her arm.

"What is it?" she asked, coyly. I let out a breath. I could tell her now. I should tell her now, how I wanted nights like this every night, how I wanted nobody else to share them with her.

Instead,

"Nothing," I said with a smile. "You're just cute."

She rolled her eyes.

"Is that your idea of flirting? No seriously, tell me."

She could sense how unusually warm my gaze was on her skin. She was giving me a chance to tell her why. I should have done it, probably.

"There's nothing, seriously." I shook my head and took another sip of beer. "Shouldn't you be working?"

You rolled her eyes again, but I saw her give me a sideways glance as if telling me this was my last chance.

I didn't take it.

I chugged the rest of my Coors. I drank four more.

An hour later and her work station was cleared to the floor, and I roughly tugged off her shorts and her panties in one grab, throwing them onto the papers and sketches she had penciled. She squealed and complained about how I was wrinkling her work before she was giggling, mirthful as my lips rubbed against her snatch, and my tongue made quick work of her tense nerves as I ate her out.

I fucked her on that desk not long after. The only thing I wanted to say to her then was how much I wanted to fuck her pretty face until she choked.

I was angry, bitter at myself and the feelings I reserved. Loose ends that would remain frayed until You Watanabe was out of my life completely. I channeled that into the sex. She enjoyed it, let me take her harder, take her anytime we were together, use her like I let her use me.

We spilled an entire pitcher of OJ onto her counter one morning after she suggestively ran her finger down my blazer before I tugged her panties down her thighs and fucked her while standing. She sucked me off in the parking lot of the White Castle down the street, and we steamed up all the windows of her Kia. We went to a matinee of some kid's movie we knew nobody was going to watch, and she rode me in the back row near the projector room, and I made sure her moans were as loud as the drivel onscreen.

I made her wear an old barista outfit she had in her closet because I wanted to see how cute she looked in it...but she went the whole nine yards and actually brewed me a coffee. I took only a few sips before her coy teasing and roleplay ("Would you like some cream with that, sir...?) had me pinning her against her fridge.

I buried my feelings with so much fucking that they were better off dead.

black sabbath.

This arrangement of ours continued on for more than a month. We would meet up every day, have sex about three times a week...until it just turned into sex every single day, period; the Trojan Man was a frequent third-wheel.

I was getting used to it. I couldn't get enough of her body, she couldn't get enough of my company. A knock at my door, a Messenger notification, a text, all of them meant the same thing.

But then, I stopped getting them. Nothing out of the usual romps and rendezvous had happened. She hadn't seemed to be in a sour mood when we last parted, nothing. She just stopped texting me and stopped coming over.

When I came to her door and knocked, she wouldn't answer. I looked out over the railing of the walkway; her car was parked, that meant she was inside. I would ring the doorbell too, but no dice. Maybe she was asleep or probably busy with her work, because as it stood, there was no getting into her apartment without breaking in.

A few days into the radio silence and I was tempted to do just that. Like clockwork I'd get up for work, knock her door, ring her bell, check for her car. Still, no text, no answer, no nothing.

I began to grow restless. Had I said something wrong? Was I too aggressive with my lust for her? Wasn't that what she wanted? I tried to take my mind off things by focusing on work, but that was hard as shit when all my job description asked of me was to just sit and watch the door. I found myself anticipating for her to pay me a visit.

Then, one night, her Kia was gone. I noticed as soon as I walked into the apartment complex property. It was around seven; I had gone and eaten at the Wendy's across the street after work. An hour later, and I was still watching the empty space, waiting for her to come rolling in to park. She must have gone out for groceries or something, she'd eventually come back. I set up a chair in front of that window by the door, I ate my dinner there, I hauled out a six-pack and began to drink.

At 3AM I knew she wasn't coming back. And my mind went wild. My stomach churned and I felt like I was going to vomit. The whole night I stayed there, and I began to pace. My six-pack didn't last me long, and I resorted to my bottle of Jack's. 6AM. She still hadn't come back. I emptied that motherfucker by 10AM, and I smashed the empty bottle against the wall. I knew where she had gone. I knew that it was over between us and there was nothing I could do. In her eyes there was probably nothing between us in the first place, so who was I to get angry and confront her with it.

She rolled in around noon, and by then I was blackout drunk. With dead eyes I saw her exit her Kia, strutting on her high-heeled boots and a pencil skirt and a tight sweater. She went round back to her trunk and took out a duffle bag. I assumed they were clothes that were ruined by some bastard the night before. Then, she locked her car, went up the stairwell, and I heard her boots clack on the walkway, the jangle of her keys, her door, the duffle bag hitting the floor.

I stared at the remnants of my bottle of Jack's on the floor. They twinkled like dying stars, and for a moment I tried to replace her blue sparkles with their lustre; they didn't even come close. I sat there, red eyes, drooling onto myself, a mess, a stain on the floor of my apartment, and waited.

Still, no text.

I cleaned out my kitchen of my remaining liquor, and I blacked out for the rest of the day. I called off work for the next three or four days, and I started the process of moving on, waiting for the moment where I could muster up the willpower to shove You Watanabe out of my head.

That moment never came. And I found myself in a mess of Vaseline and cum and tissues, crying, crying, crying...

What had I lost?

It was on the Sunday when I groggily woke up to the sound of my phone buzzing irritatingly against the wood of my nightstand. Over and over, it buzzed. I reached over, and instantly I felt my bloodshot eyes sort of pop out of my head when I saw dozens of notifications. They were all from her.

hey, come over.

wake up! It's easter!!

hey

hey

u awake yet??

come over, i've got something to show you

taft!!!!!

And so on and so forth, bookended by,

9 Missed Calls

I was in the shower before I realized it. My heart was pounding and for the first time since the all-nighter I felt alive again; despite myself, excitement began to pump through me.

I wanted to see her again, I needed to.

The archive of snapshotted moments flew through my mind, and I wondered how her skin would feel beneath my touch. It almost felt like I had forgotten.

Then, the image of a tall dark stranger clutching her skin, kissing the ivory tower of her neck, face nestled in between the heat of her thighs...

I toweled myself off, and I looked in the mirror.

I was grimacing, a look of disgust and frustration plastered across my face. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the countertop and my excitement turned into begrudging apprehension. I was suddenly worried that I'd see her smile differently, that her beauty would turn into traitorous wiles. I didn't want that.

But then the phone buzzed again on my nightstand, and in less than a minute I was out the door.

My chest racked with the jackhammering of my pulse. I made the familiar stride over to her apartment. Before my knuckles could rap against the steel, a shred of sketching paper was taped over the peephole, scrawled with her handwriting.

It's open

Sure enough the door swung open without the resistance of a deadbolt. I ripped the note off the door and locked it behind me. I took a step into her apartment before a plastic clatter made me stop dead in my tracks. I shifted my other foot, and there was a cellophane crackle.

I had kicked away a plastic egg, and stepped on some plastic grass. I took my shoes off and stepped further into the apartment. More eggs, more grass, some Hershey kisses, a Cadbury egg here and there. They were all scattered on the floor of her apartment, and it didn't take much effort to realize it was a small trail. Bemused but also a little amused at You's little game, I played along. I followed the winding trail deeper and deeper into the apartment, careful not to mess up the tufts of plastic and chocolate. Eventually it was pretty obvious where the trail led, and I felt the apprehension return in full-force when I took a tentative step into her bedroom.

I froze again once my eyes followed the rest of the trail to its destination: an elaborate Easter display was splayed out on You's bed, dozens of tufts of plastic eggs were nestled in green cellophane nests, fluffy stuffed rabbits keeping sentry on small mounds of multi-colored Jelly Bellies, Starbursts, Jolly Ranchers, scattered across the white canvas of her sheets, bright, fresh tulips lying like palm leaves for a sacred homecoming.

But the combined color of all these things grossly paled in comparison to the main centerpiece of You's special Easter surprise: her. She casually leaned back against a large carrot pillow, nibbling on a Peep. In her languid display, no curve of her body was left to the imagination. White lace of lingerie hugged her curves tight: her breasts pushed out, supple and full against her bra, the natural downward curve of her chest drawing my eyes to the neat little sky-blue bow nestled in the center; flesh of her hips spilled over her panties, drawing a neat barrier across the smooth nook beneath her belly button-another bow matched the one in the center of her breasts, placed almost exactly where the navy blue anchor on the opposite hip would be.

I let my eyes wander down further, traversing the smoothness of her smooth legs, watching as she casually shifted them about; she was wearing white heels, one of them dangled playfully off her toe until she gave one small flick of her ankle and it clattered to the floor. And to top it all off?

Fluffy white bunny ears adorned the top of her head. They quivered in sweet little shudders as she chewed. I watched her take the last few bites of the yellow Peep passing her lips, seeing how her mouth encompassed the marshmallow before that same mouth wetted its pinkness with her tongue. She turned her head towards me as if she just noticed me standing there, enraptured, subsequently hard.

The result of her display poked to the left inside my joggers.

You bit her lip and tittered. It echoed through the rest of her skin, delicious little quakes of curves. I bit my own lip at the sight.

"It's almost noon...and you're not at mass?"

You tsked at me and gave a coy shake of her head. I broke out of my reverie. The apprehension from earlier faded...but was replaced by something else that pulsed. Something other than my dick.

I was angry.

A week and she acts as if nothing had happened. A week with no texts back, nothing to tell me where she's been, and she plays up this...this bullshit?

More than a month, and she invites me over for sex that isn't impromptu now?

You kept looking through my grimace without breaking that coy little smile of hers. I practically ripped off my shirt as I walked towards that bed, towards that teasing smirk that I wanted to stuff full of my fucking cock.

"And?" I said. Demanded.

You giggled again, and I couldn't wait to hear her choke instead.

"Good little boy like you should be at church."

That was when she turned over, and revealing a fluffy white tail sprouting between her full, round asscheeks. Her panties were pulled down to make way for it, and she positioned herself on all fours, looking back over her shoulder with that fucking smile again. She kicked off her other heel. It hit the floor the same time my joggers did. I didn't bother making myself look presentable; my boxers were on the floor and I stepped over them.

Throbbing, naked, and furious, I made a beeline towards You and my salvation, my sweet, sweet transgression.

"Take me there."

She just giggled and giggled and wiggled her ass. My knuckles were white.

I knelt at the altar of her bed, and my adoring hands immediately tugged her panties down her skin, letting my face crash in between the cheeks of her ass. My tongue lashed out and did what it did best: sin.

Her soft skin smothered my face, the fur of her puffy butt plug tickled my forehead. I dove in deeper and my hands greedily gripped her ass with a vise grip. My nails dug into her flesh to bring her closer, closer to my mouth. She was slick and hot already, just as I expected.

I licked up all of the juices that dribbled between those thighs, drinking her in and breathing in primal huffs through my nostrils. She tasted like everything that I missed, everything I supposedly loved. My fingers clutched and unclutched, groping; I couldn't get enough of how supple her flesh felt under my touch, just as I couldn't get enough of how much of her essence leaked and leaked onto my tongue and down my accepting throat.

You's body shuddered and I could feel the reverberations of her squirming under my palms. I raised my hands, bringing them down in a soft smack, and I reveled in how she shivered. I heard her call my name and I smacked her again. A spurt of her quim shot into my mouth. I buried myself into her ass as deep as I could, my nose squished between the enclosing fleshy gates of her rump until my tongue was going wild in her tight, tight snatch.

My lips have grown familiar with the intricacies between her legs at this point, but after more than a week I was more than eager to reacquaint myself. She tasted so hot, felt so sticky. My dribble spilled from my lips in clear strings onto her panties. I slurped and wriggled and drew out words inside of her. More of her quim jetted in heated streams down my throat. I swallowed everything she had to offer, I grew drunk and more excited while her pussy pulsed as I throbbed.

I withdrew my tongue from those pink lower lips, strings and strings of her juices and my spit staining her scrunched-up panties. I pressed it flatly against her skin, feeling her shiver in anticipation, tasting every inch of her that I stained until my lips spread open wetly across her left asscheek, and my teeth bit down, hard, on that warm, supple fruit.

She whimpered my name, and I wanted to hear her again, louder. With my tongue slathering the marks of my teeth, my right hand slipped down her ass, and without any warning, I bite down again, just as I shoved that hand between her legs. Two of my fingers felt her slick heat. I let their tips slide and push against her. I felt her squirm. I pressed my teeth against her, as if warning her of the consequences if she dare escape my grasp. One more back and forth of my fingers against her vulva, and I plunged inside.