Warped Romanticism

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A painting from Lynn Noelle Rushton's Lover Series. http://www.dallasartsrevue.com

She was beautiful, and as he watched her lying there in the sofa, with her head resting on the plush armrests and her black hair draped across the red and white fabric of the chair, his loins stiffened. He tried to tear his eyes away from her and pulled them towards the television but his eyes caught sight of the creamy skin that was the top of her breasts, round and firm and he felt an urge, a real urge to reach out and hold them. He turned away and got up to walk to the balcony.

No one had looked at her that way for a very long time, it made her feel sexy, beautiful and so she enjoyed it, and basked in it. She felt his eyes on her, and saw him looking at her breasts. She knew he was hungry. Hungry with a deep longing. He was always hungry, especially since the void his recent failed marriage had left him. Being wanted by him though, was an achievement, every girl wanted to be wanted by him, and now, she was wanted by him. She felt beautiful, powerful. 

He walked towards his seat, but restless, he got up again and went to the kitchen. He slowly poured himself a cup of water. The more he tried to turn himself away, the more his eyes found its way back to her body. The top buttons on her white silk blouse remained unbuttoned, and he could see her bra, dark-beige, that was almost the colour of her skin. He scanned the outline of the body that was lying reading on the sofa. Her red pencil skirt hugged her hips comfortably and he felt blood rush to certain parts of his body. His hands began to sweat. 

She looked behind her towards the kitchen and slyly stole a look at him. He was well built. Something about him always made her heart skip a beat. He had the stature of a man, a real man, tall, confident, strong and she wondered what it would be like to be held in his arms. Her mind raced at the thought. She caught his eyes and he turned to look away. She turned back to her book and smiled. She was beautiful enough for him. She shifted and crossed her legs  in a way that caused the slit at the front of her skirt to split open, revealing her right thigh.

He glanced at her legs and then her thighs, and could not help but let his mind run wild, imagining what it would be like to touch that skin. He put down the glass of water and walked towards the kitchen windows out of her sight. He drew a breath. Beauty should be consumed, whole, he thought. And her beauty, it was unbearable. Every time he looked at her he felt a deep deep need to possess her, to have her, to consume her and to reach deep within her and take, take everything that was her and draw it into within himself. To possess her. So swiftly he moved, to draw the curtains. And he turned to look at her.

She looked at him, coyly at first before he came at her and wrapped his arms around her waist. Sniffing her hair he ran his nose down her cheeks, her neck and stopped at her breasts. She watched as he hungrily kissed, nibbled, and sucked at her breasts. He ran his right hand up and down her thigh before gripping her upper thigh tightly. She felt the fingers of his left hand under her skirt and her white cotton briefs, before resting it warmly between her legs. She pulled up her skirt and spread her legs open, for him.

The many minutes after passed quickly. He kissed, she kissed and he thrust as far as he could, to reach within the deepest part of her. She moaned a deep moan and in that moment they abandoned the world for one another as he moved slowly, deliberately allowing their bare skin to touch. With each thrust he dived deeper and deeper into the depth of her beauty. He plunged in and allowed her beauty to flow fluidly around him, to wrap around him and he had her all to himself. His motions took on a vigorous urgency and he threw himself into her, deeper and deeper, until he finally let out a victorious laugh and lay to rest on her, still and almost breathless. She lay beneath him, coloured and consumed.

The door opened. And they looked up from where they were scrambling helplessly from the sofa. 

His heart dropped and the fear of what was to come washed over the intense passion and deep want that had overwhelmed him just an hour ago. He looked up to face the face he had betrayed and a sharp pain shot through his stomach. He knew his relationship with his brother would never be the same again. He looked down at his brother’s bride and closed his eyes to brace himself for what was to come.

The smile fell from the man’s face immediately as the scene before his eyes injected a rush of horror into him. He looked at the face of the man lying on his wife and his heart hardened. A deep regret welled up within her, why, she thought immediately, had she done it. A stupid thing. She had just been wed, a couple of days back, and although she found him endearing, their passion was nothing like what she had just experienced.

Anger gripped him tightly on the inside. His fists clenched and jaws gritted in anger. He looked at the figures on the sofa and suddenly felt a deep pain. He looked at her face, and hot tears sprung from his eyes. Energy drained from him and he turned his face away. He walked out, helpless and hopeless. He knew his own brother would betray him one day.

She stared at the empty space that held the man for that whole minute and immediately a sense of embarrassment filled her. The beauty of that rush of passion that just was stepped aside to give way to a deep regret. She regretted firstly for not reigning herself, but when she searched her mind her heart sank. Her regret was not for doing what she had done but it was for doing it right there, in the living room, for being found out.

She jerked a little. Her heart was clear to her, she was not embarrassed for being used and consumed. In fact she felt like she saved him. She felt like she was his salvation, the one who fed his deep hunger and satisfied him. His satisfaction gave her a deep sense of pleasure she should not be proud of. She felt like a powerful giver, goddess. And she loathed herself for thinking just the whore she judged. Used and consumed. 

Her heart was a little hollow and pleasure for her came from being pursued. She never loved him. She paused and stared at the face of the man that just came upon her. She would never love him either, he would never give her the same pleasure she yearns for the second time around. She felt a sad sadness at the next thought that came to mind. She had never loved, and she may never be able to love. And then she got up, smoothed down her skirt and buttoned her shirt, ready to begin her pursuit of that fleeting feeling that rushes over her each time she seduces a new lover.

And he, who was the other man, and a brother, he dressed and walked out of the house knowing nobody will ever do to him what he just did to his brother because deep inside, he was empty with no heart for anyone to ever break. Funny though, he thought, although all his life he had aimed to become heartless, he hardly felt any satisfaction, in fact he hardly felt anything. Probably because without a heart, he is unable to feel.

And then it hit him, without a heart, he would always be hungry, for he will never ever be satisfied.

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