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Thu, Feb. 8th, 2007, 01:52 pm
Creative Act, 2/8

Thank you all so much for your suggestions! After much thought, I’ve decided to go with “love and sex” as the theme, since it’s Valentine’s Day this week. I’ll be trying a different challenge every day.

Today’s challenge was an erotic vignette about comic books, written for Brand & Mo. It’s not enormously explicit, but you probably wouldn’t want to share it with your boss or with small children.

(I think next week’s theme will be something game-related, by the way, so keep watching this space!)

Rescue

It’s Tuesday night and I’m hanging by my fingers from the rooftop ledge of my friend’s sister’s apartment building, waiting for my date to show up. There’s a wind blowing up from the street, and I wish I hadn’t worn my brand-new leather mini. Or that I’d worn panties. Either one.

I have no idea if it’s been one minute or ten, but my fingers are cramping and the slick wetness between my thighs won’t do me much good if I’m splattered all over the sidewalk, and where the hell is he? This rescue thing is hot, sure, but what if there was a fire cross-town, or an alien invasion, or he just forgot about me?

That’s when I feel my breath catch in my throat and I start to panic. I try to bring my legs up, looking for a ledge or a railing or something, anything, and my damn stupid heel breaks. I kick the shoe off, and then the other. A minute later (hell, it feels like a whole minute) I hear them thump into the alley. One, then two. I wonder if I’d make two thumps like that – body, head, or the other way around – or just one, and then suddenly I’m crying. Weeping, really. Okay, bawling like a little baby.

And that’s when he arrives.

I guess if I’d been calmer I would have smelled him first. He’s got that latex-and-baby-powder scent, like they mostly do. But what with the panic and the tears, the first I know he’s there is when he slips his arms around my waist and murmurs, “Can I help you, ma’am?” in that impossibly Middle America accent of his.

I can feel his muscles through the spandex. And his cock. It’s hard for me to remember what I’m supposed to say. “I was looking at the stars, and I just, I just fell, and –”

He kisses the back of my neck. “It’s a good thing I heard your cries for help.” His fingers are lifting my skirt in the back, spreading my thighs. I’m still ready for him and he knows it, likes it. His voice goes husky, just like it always does. “It’s not every day I get to rescue a pretty lady like yourself.”

And I just have time to think that it’s not the rescue he likes, it’s the fear that comes before it, and then he’s inside me and I’m not thinking at all, tasting my own sweat and its mix of terror and musk, feeling my breasts pressed against the brick wall, flattening with the rhythm of his thrusts behind me. My legs are kicking and flapping, my toes curling, I think I’ve lost some buttons, he’s panting in my ear and I’m clawing the wall, breaking my nails, gasping and screaming his name (no, not his real name – even in the throes of passion I’m not that dumb), and I remember why I keep coming back to him, back to this, over and over again, because, oh, god, he’s strong and sure and it’s never this good with anyone else, never, never.

I might have blacked out for a while, at the end. When I wake up, I’m on the rooftop. There’s gravel stuck to my ass and big smears of brick-dust across my breasts and he’s nowhere to be seen. It’s not like you can do much cuddling when you mostly fuck up against walls, while falling from airplanes, in burning buildings or on the subway tracks, but I’m still disappointed.

Then I see it, a flicker of motion far off on the eastern horizon. I squint as hard as I can, but I can’t quite make it out. No, I tell myself, it’s not him. It’s only a bird. Maybe a low-flying plane.

And I head down to the alley to find my shoes.