She Only Wanted Me To Warm Her Feet
She Only Wanted Me To Warm Her Feet
She used me. She fucking used me.
We met in her favourite shop. She was trawling through the racks, looking for the perfect piece of clothing to match her flowing red locks. I watched her the whole time, carefully holding up garments to her body, examining herself in the mirrors lining the shop wall. She was beautiful. The kind of beauty that gets over looked in the ruthlessness of high school. The kind of beauty that exists only in those who are comfortable in their own skin. A modest kind of beauty.
She walked like a ballerina, gracefully touching her toes to the ground before her heels followed suit. Her legs were long and slender, tanned slightly to a impeccable shade of light golden brown. The legs of a gymnast, perhaps, or a dancer. Her feet were perfect, small and delicate, the kind that wouldn’t make a sound, even when walking across the squeakiest floorboards.
Her presence changed the atmosphere in the room, like everyone and everything were holding their collective breath, awaiting her next movement.
Needless to say, I was shocked when her gaze fell upon me, staying there for an unbearable long moment. A smile slowly dawned on her lips, and she came marching, or rather, floating, over to where I was. She brushed her fingers against me, and in a barely audible whisper, said one thing and one thing only.
‘I must have you.’
The moments following were a blur, and the next thing I knew, I was back at her house, sitting on her bed. I watched her change into her pyjamas, her almost forgetting I was there. She occasionally threw a casual glance my way, trying to hide a smile as she quickly looked away again each time.
This quiet charade of stolen looks continued for what seemed like an age, until finally, without warning, we made contact. It had happened so suddenly I barely had time to fully register the change. Her touch was electrifying and I slipped across her skin with ease. We were one.
That night was a dream. We never left each other’s touch, as her scent soaked into me. I had moulded to her shape. We were perfect.
But now here I was, tumbling around inside the cold, sterile interior of the washing machine, the cold water washing her out of me. I couldn’t believe it, couldn’t she see that dirty socks do it better? I let myself fall into her heavenly aura, I let her use me, and now here was the water, crushing me against these metal walls, mimicking my emotions exactly.
She only wanted me to warm her feet.
We met in her favourite shop. She was trawling through the racks, looking for the perfect piece of clothing to match her flowing red locks. I watched her the whole time, carefully holding up garments to her body, examining herself in the mirrors lining the shop wall. She was beautiful. The kind of beauty that gets over looked in the ruthlessness of high school. The kind of beauty that exists only in those who are comfortable in their own skin. A modest kind of beauty.
She walked like a ballerina, gracefully touching her toes to the ground before her heels followed suit. Her legs were long and slender, tanned slightly to a impeccable shade of light golden brown. The legs of a gymnast, perhaps, or a dancer. Her feet were perfect, small and delicate, the kind that wouldn’t make a sound, even when walking across the squeakiest floorboards.
Her presence changed the atmosphere in the room, like everyone and everything were holding their collective breath, awaiting her next movement.
Needless to say, I was shocked when her gaze fell upon me, staying there for an unbearable long moment. A smile slowly dawned on her lips, and she came marching, or rather, floating, over to where I was. She brushed her fingers against me, and in a barely audible whisper, said one thing and one thing only.
‘I must have you.’
The moments following were a blur, and the next thing I knew, I was back at her house, sitting on her bed. I watched her change into her pyjamas, her almost forgetting I was there. She occasionally threw a casual glance my way, trying to hide a smile as she quickly looked away again each time.
This quiet charade of stolen looks continued for what seemed like an age, until finally, without warning, we made contact. It had happened so suddenly I barely had time to fully register the change. Her touch was electrifying and I slipped across her skin with ease. We were one.
That night was a dream. We never left each other’s touch, as her scent soaked into me. I had moulded to her shape. We were perfect.
But now here I was, tumbling around inside the cold, sterile interior of the washing machine, the cold water washing her out of me. I couldn’t believe it, couldn’t she see that dirty socks do it better? I let myself fall into her heavenly aura, I let her use me, and now here was the water, crushing me against these metal walls, mimicking my emotions exactly.
She only wanted me to warm her feet.