Tag Archives: chapter six part three

Plaster of Paris; chapter six, part three

“It’s your turn to go in, Rayne,” Mrs. Jenson says softly.

I struggle to my feet and stagger into Paris’s room.  He hasn’t changed from the last time I saw him.  The officer guarding him must be getting used to the sight of me because he doesn’t bother to poke his head in, just angles his chair so he can see me if he needs to.  I sit in the chair by Paris’s bed and don’t say anything; I just watch him as his chest rises and falls.  Periodically, I touch him gently to let him know I’m there.  There are so many things I want to say, but can’t.  It all sounds so trite compared to what is happening to him.  Thanks for being my best friend, Paris.  Thanks for always being there.  Thanks for being there for me when my father died and for countless other times since when I would have been in deep trouble without you.  Thanks for helping me through the difficult last two months, and I’d do the same for you.  Thanks for the unconditional love.  How can I say any of that without sounding stupid?

I shift in my seat, trying not to notice how pale and terribly still Paris is.  I wish he would wake up so we could get him out of this room; I hate the thought of him being alone.  Paris is such a people person.  He detests being by himself except for the rare occasion when he needs to recharge his batteries.  It happens about once a month.  If I’m home, he’ll put a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on his door that he stole from a hotel, then lock himself in.  He’s always more centered and at peace when he emerges hours later, so I let him be.  He never talks about what he does when he’s in self-imposed solitude, but I assume it is some kind of mediation.  Even though Paris is not religious like his mother, he is highly spiritual.  I draw strength from him, and I am at a loss how to be the strong one now that he needs me.

“Paris, you have to wake up,” I whisper, my eyes filling with tears.  “You can’t leave me.  I don’t want to wake up to a world without you in it.”  I stop, not wanting to lay a guilt trip on Paris, though I want him to know how much he’ll be missed if he dies.  “Remember how devastated I was when my father died?  I can’t go through that again.”  I am clutching the edge of the bed as well as his hand.  “I’m going to find out who did this to you, Paris, but it would sure help if you gave me a sign.”  I wait, but nothing.  Not even an involuntary twitch.  I close my eyes as the tears slip down my face.  I know it doesn’t help to cry, but I can’t stop.  I must be more tired than I think because I fall asleep.

Paris is smiling at me, and he’s whole.  Nothing is bruised, battered or broken.  He’s my beautiful boy as he always was.  Except for the gaping hole where his heart should be.  At first I don’t notice it because I’m drinking in the sight of him radiant.  When my eyes are drawn to the hole, I can’t stop staring.  We are outside, and there is greenery showing through that hole.  Suddenly, a face pops up behind the hole.  I can’t tell if it’s a man or woman, but s/he is grinning at me, though s/he’s missing an eye due to a bullet wound.  S/he waves at me before slowly crumpling to the ground.  To my horror, a gun drops from my hand to the ground as the hole in Paris’s heart shrinks until it’s completely gone.  Once that’s complete, he turns and walks away.  There is nothing behind him.

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Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter six, part four

“Ok, baby,” I say, touching his cheek.  “I’ll do my best.”  Paris leans forward and touches my lips with his.  He presses his body against mine, and I can feel his hard cock digging insistently into my thigh.  It would be so easy to have sex with Paris, and it would feel so good.  That’s precisely why I gently push him away.

“Come on, Rayne,” he mumbles into my hair, not letting me go.  “You know you want to.  It would comfort me a great deal.”  He slips a hand down my back and rests it just above my ass.  It has been a long time since I’ve had sex, and I can feel my body responding.  Paris is the best lover I’ve had, beyond compare.  I bury my face into his shoulder as Paris starts to slowly massage my back.  It takes the last ounce of strength I have to push him away, not as gently this time.

“Paris, you know you’ll regret this in the morning.”  I quickly stand up to put some distance between us.  Paris stands up, too, and gives me the puppy-dog eyes.  I feel my resolve begin to crumble as he starts stroking my arm.  Because he’s Paris, he knows that a slow, sensual stroking of my arm is the quickest way to arouse me.  “I think, oh God, I am going to my room.  You are not following.”  Before he can stop me, I race into my room and shut the door.  I feel guilty for turning him down, but this is not the way I want him.  I don’t want the manifestation of his grief to be the driving force of him falling into my bed.

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Blogging My Murder; chapter six, part three

Chapter Six; Part Three

“Hey, Megan. How’re you doing?”

“fine. well, no, not really. i left work early today because i couldn’t stand being there.” I fill him in on my day, and he’s properly sympathetic to my woes. He tells me about the house shoot he did today and how his client was a pain in the ass. Mrs. Decker made him move a lamp five times before ordering him to put it back where it first was. Then, she was unhappy with his prices, even though she had agreed to them before he’d even started. Then, she tried to seduce him in lieu of payment, and he had a difficult time getting her to take no for an answer. As she’s in her sixties, gaunt, and wouldn’t know a smile if it hit her in the face, he wanted nothing to do with her.

“have you ever slept with a client?” I ask curiously. “no judgement—just wondering.”

“I did. Once. It did not end well.” With that, Rembrandt tells me the story.

 

“So, you’re a photographer.” The curvy brunette placed a red-tipped talon on Rembrandt’s arm and trails it down to his hand. She pressed her boobs against his arm while snaking her arm around his waist. Rembrandt was glad he worked from home because he wouldn’t want to have to deal with this in an office full of people. “I’m getting married in two months, and I’m interviewing photographers.”

“Is this part of the interview process?” Rembrandt asked, arching his eyebrow at her.

“For you, yes it is.” The brunette planted a kiss on Rembrandt’s lips, slipping her tongue into his mouth.

 

“Wait a minute. She hit on you while asking you to be her wedding photographer?” We’ve switched to phone, which makes talking about the story much easier.

“Yup.”

 

“What are you doing?” Rembrandt’s voice was ragged, and his cock was rock hard.

“I’m trying to get in your pants. Is it working?” Kimberly—by now he knew her name—asked, her voice husky. “You’re going to be my last fling before my wedding. I think I’ve earned it.”

“Kimberly, I don’t think this is a good idea.” Rembrandt pulled back, but not completely. He had recently broken up with his girlfriend, and he hadn’t felt a tit in two months.

“I know it’s not, but I don’t care,” Kimberly said bluntly. She grabbed Rembrandt’s hand and placed it on her tit under her tank top. Rembrandt swallowed hard at the warm flesh under his fingers. It was not augmented, which was just how he liked it. He instinctively squeezed, and he shivered when her nipple tightened under his touch.

“Fuck it.” Rembrandt grabbed her face in both his hands and kissed her hard.

“Meow?” Ginger rubbed against Rembrandt’s legs while simultaneously glaring at Kimberly.

“Not now, Ginger.” Rembrandt brushed Ginger aside and returned to kissing Kimberly. He guided her towards his bedroom, closing the door on Ginger’s face. “Come here.” Rembrandt gently pushed Kimberly on the bed and climbed on top of her.

“Fuck me,” Kimberly gasped, pulling Rembrandt down hard. After they kissed for several minutes, Rembrandt rolled off Kimberly so she could sit up and pull off her top. Her tits bounced out, and Rembrandt was all over them in a hot second. He sucked one into his mouth and was gratified to hear Kimberly’s moans. “Oh, god. I need this so bad.” They both quickly disrobed before continuing to make out. Rembrandt went down on Kimberly, eating her out until she came. She returned the favor, but he stopped her before he came because he knew he would be one and done. “Do you have any condoms?”

“Yes.” Rembrandt opened the drawer in his nightstand and pulled out a condom. He rolled it on his cock, which was harder than it had been in quite some time. Kimberly lay back on the bed and spread her legs. Rembrandt was between them and in her in a flash.

 

“So this was less than a year ago?” I ask, cutting into his recitation. I’m having a hard time keeping the timeline straight, so I need to clarify the details.

“Yeah. It was about six months ago.” Rembrandt’s voice is filled with guilt, and he continues his story.

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