0 comments/ 16863 views/ 0 favorites For She's a Jolly Good Fellow By: Cal Y. Pygia The first lash of the cane upon Gail's bare ass was astonishingly painful, as was the second and the third, which followed fast upon it. The slender, petite, young woman gasped, gritting her teeth, as tears sprang to her tightly closed eyes. Behind her, Gail's husband, Kevin--they had been married for three years now, to this very day, having wed when Gail was eighteen and he was nineteen--studied the angry pink lines that the rattan cane had created across the sleek expanses of his target's arched mounds. His cock twitched and stirred, as it always did when he contemplated the effects of his handiwork. His wife had a lovely bottom. The cheeks were round and firm, the furrow between them deep, and the flesh covering them both smooth and pale--except, of course, where the blood had risen, to form the three parallel stripes across her buttocks and where it would rise again--and again--to form others of a brighter and deeper hue. Naked, except for the stiletto heels that both tightened and elevated her buttocks and made standing more difficult for her, especially when her bottom was being ruthlessly caned, Gail was draped over a special sawhorse-like frame, over a folded child's-size mattress. Her arms and legs were secured to the legs of the frame, in Velcro-fastened cuffs, to restrict her movements and prohibit any attempt on her part to escape. The uncomfortable position, the fetters, and her nudity increased both her sense of vulnerability and her humiliation, demonstrating, as it were, her utter helplessness and loss of dignity. She knew, when she assumed this awkward and uncomfortable position, that she was utterly at Kevin's mercy, just as she knew that he was unmerciful and that he would spank--or beat--her mercilessly. He raised his arm high overhead, the cane, cutting through the air, making a frightful whooshing sound, and aimed the instrument at his wife's beautiful buttocks, intending to cut another narrow stripe between the last two lines he'd laid with the brutal cane. The cane streaked forward, and, landing exactly on target, caused a deep, wide furrow in Gail's tight bottom. Although restrained by the bench over which she was draped and to which she was cuffed, Gail managed to jostle her bottom, and her agonized cheeks shook most piteously and agreeably, signaling, as did her startled and anguished cry, her distress. A second and a third stroke of the cane landed, as viciously as the first lash of this second series, and Gail's head rose sharply as she screamed, loudly and long, venting the anguish that consumed her red-and-purple backside. Kevin had a gag among his disciplinarian's instruments, but he seldom employed it, for his young wife's anguished cries were as music to his ears, offering, as they did, additional evidence, along with her bruised and battered bottom, of her pain and helplessness and his own power over, and dominance of, his passive and submissive bride. For the same reason--to take pleasure in his wife's pain--Kevin had installed a large mirror before the spanking bench, so that he might see, reflected in the polished glass, Gail's frantic eyes, her contorted grimaces, and her distorted facial features, twisted with the agony that he inflicted upon her in an ecstasy of dominance, power, and control that clearly and decisively demonstrated both his own superiority and mastery of her and her own inferiority and insignificance. Although the severe angle at which she was bent over the frame restricted her ability to react to the thrashings of her buttocks, instinct, combined with involuntary muscle contractions, ensured that she made the effort to do so, for it was virtually the only way that she could attempt, however vainly, to evade the fiery lashes that ignited her bottom and enflamed her loins. Therefore, from his vantage point, standing behind her, Kevin was able to see and enjoy the knitting of his wife's brow, the furrowing of her forehead, the squeezing shut of her eyes, the gaping of her mouth, and the look of desperation mingled with pain that each of his powerful strokes caused as the whistling cane cut deeply into her bruised and tattered bottom. Tears spilled from Gail's eyes, coursing down her cheeks, and the sight of them in the mirror further enflamed Kevin's lust for his young wife's blood. His cock was fully erect now, straining against the front of his trousers, making of the fine fabric a tented "V" that, for Kevin, was another illustration of his own power and dominance, for was not a thick, hard cock, raised and ready, meant for penetration, occupation, and possession? To give a sound spanking, Kevin believed, one had himself to have received such a thrashing, and to humiliate another person properly, one must himself have been properly mortified. To this end, before he had begun to spank and shame Gail, he had, without her knowledge, submitted himself to the dominance and mastery of a brutal, powerful man, a German sadist named Heinrich, who had not only caned Kevin's ass until it was a raw, bloody mess, but had also required his victim both to suck his master's prick and to take his Aryan cock up his ass. Heinrich had fucked Kevin fast, deep, and hard, and, ever since, Kevin had returned the favor, along with the canings and humiliation he had received at the German's hands (and cock), to his faithful, loving, and ever-more-obedient wife. He often thought of Heinrich and what the sadistic bastard had done to him--what he had put him through, for no other reason than the German's own pleasure in Kevin's pain--when Kevin administered his own canings of Gail's helpless ass. She would never know the source of Kevin's rage, or suspect that it had a homoerotic origin, but she would endure the effects of his rage all the rest of her days, for, three years ago, she had become his victim, as he himself had once been Heinrich's injured party. Kevin swooshed the cane, raising and lashing it back and forth several times in front of him, to let Gail hear the instrument's cruel sound as it cut the air, just as, in a moment, it would cut her flesh. She had hung her head, in fear and disgrace, but the impact of the cane would cause her to jerk her head erect--or as erect as she might, restrained as she was--and allow him another sight of her distorted and distressed features as she cried out, her bottom afire and her soul in torment. Each time he raised the cane, each time it smote Gail's buttocks, and each time she screamed, he would remember Heinrich doing the same to him, or Heinrich ordering him to suck his cock, or Heinrich commanding him to take his massive member up his impaled ass. In rapid succession, his hand and the cane it held a blur, Kevin delivered the third series of strokes to his compliant wife's buttocks, watching with great satisfaction as her quivering, jerking bottom received the strokes that drew red lines across its smooth, but bruised and battered, surface. Gail howled, her whole body tensing with the agony she felt in her enflamed ass, the cheeks of which continued to tremble and clench even after the last of the strokes had cut her bottom, forming, almost in an instant, another wicked red welt among the other long ridges. Gail cried, screamed, and whimpered. Her face was smeared with tears and mucus. Her mascara had run in dark streaks, along with her tears, down her red cheeks. She looked a mess, just the way Kevin liked to see her. She had not yet begun to beg, though, which meant that she had not, even naked and bent over a spanking bench, with her ass blossoming like a ripe, beautiful flower, lost all dignity and composure. Kevin smiled, knowing that she would, and soon. He almost regretted stripping away the last shreds of her self-respect, because, then, the caning of her ass would be more physical than emotional; at the moment, it was both, which made her howls of anguish doubly joyful. Still, reducing her beyond tears, to begging, was always his ultimate goal, for, when the spanking reached that point--and only when it had reached that point, and she was begging and pleading for his mercy--would he have attained his objective. Of course, her pleas did not mean that he would respond the way she hoped and put an end to her suffering, not at all. The caning would continue until the predetermined number of strokes had been delivered, no matter Gail's state of mind or the condition of her ass. The cane flashed, landing a resounding whack across both cheeks of Gail's highly decorated ass, and she shrieked, her face a mask of unadulterated anguish. She staggered upon her high heels and would have doubtlessly toppled had it not been for the cuffs that restrained her. Her buttocks flexed, then trembled, and she gasped as the full measure of the cane's most recent lash blossomed in her badly bruised (and now -lacerated) cheeks. Grinning, Kevin smote her derriere again, even harder, the impact of the cane furrowing her battered bottom, and, as before, Gail screamed, the sound of her agony sweet in her husband's ears. Without pause, he raised the cruel instrument and swung it downward, in an arc, fiercely, against her enflamed fanny, and his wife howled again, as he completed he fourth set of three strokes. Normally, he paused between each trio of blows, but, this time, having delivered twelve strokes of the cane, he continued, slashing the cane down, fast and hard, into her ravaged bottom, delighting in her screams, her squeals, and her shrieks as the red lines seeped blood and red welts rose, in lines, across her buttocks. He paused only after he had added the fifth set of three strokes, bringing the running total to fifteen strikes. Blood continued to ooze from the angry red welts that the cane had etched in the sleek flesh of Gail's round, arched bottom, careening over the silken globes and down the backs of her firm, shapely thighs and calves. Gail had been reduced to tears at the completion of his previous strokes, and she whimpered openly now, through the film of saliva, mucus, tears, and running mascara that made her face a glistening, horrid mess. At last, her dignity as tattered as her tush, she begged her husband to cease and desist in his punishing of her bottom. "Please, stop," she murmured. "I can't take any more." "I have no doubt but that you would like me to stop," he replied sternly, "but I have not yet reached the predetermined number of strokes, and I would be amiss in my husbandly responsibilities if I were to spare you the rod prematurely." He ran the cane over the curve of her bottom in a loving and caressing manner that, he knew, she would find intimidating in the extreme, promising, as the gesture did, further punishment to follow. "Please," she repeated, her tone soft but desperate, "don't strike me again." The cane, hard but smooth, continued to sweep up and down, over the rotundity of her buttocks, lightly tickling her flesh. Involuntarily, she flinched, in fear of the cruel instrument. Visually, Kevin examined her bruised bottom. Her ass cheeks were purple where they were not red, and fifteen red stripes, some oozing blood, like liquid rubies, stretched, parallel to one another, across her battered buttocks. He found the sight of her bloody, bruised, and lacerated behind as beautiful as a blossom in full flower and, despite her buttocks' bruises and lacerations, he knew that her bottom could, in fact, endure many more lashes of the cane, should he wish to subject her to additional blows, although not, perhaps, without doing somewhat serious injury to the muscles and maybe scarifying her flesh permanently. Still, he decided, he would be able to complete the predetermined number of strokes without doing lasting injury to Gail's buttocks. Other women had endured far worse punishment than Gail would receive this day--as, indeed, had Kevin himself, at Heinrich's hands--and Gail would not, therefore, be afforded any consideration or mercy. He rubbed the cane gently over her ass, letting its length sweep tenderly up and down, over the battered flesh. Then, with a flash, the cane rose and fell, striking hard across his wife's backside, and Gail screamed, gasping and crying as pain exploded in her buttocks. Her ass flexed and quivered as, again and again, she shrieked and howled. When she was able to speak, she pleaded again for mercy, despite her knowledge that no mercy would be give to her. Tears spilled in a steady stream from her eyes. Mucus ran from her nose. Saliva drooled from her mouth. Mascara coursed down her cheeks. Blood spilled down her buttocks and thighs. "Please, Kevin, please don't hit me again. Please--" The answer to her heartfelt plea interrupted her entreaty, the vicious, brutal blow of the rattan taking her breath away, as it stole her words, and she gave vent to the horrific anguish that filled her backside with a truly pathetic, reverberating series of screams. Kevin's already stiff cock became more rigid still, and he longed to make use of his fleshly instrument. First, however, he must complete the employment of the rattan cane, and he raised it again, high, striking with all the force he could muster. The implement smote his wife's bottom with tremendous force, deeply furrowing the muscles of her posterior. She screamed, writhing in place, her buttocks afire with anguish. "Please," she pleaded, her voice weak and her tone more hopeless than hopeful, "please, please don't--" Again, the cutting stroke of the cane interrupted her plea, and she teetered upon her stiletto heels as she gasped and shrieked and moaned and whimpered. He had delivered eighteen strokes, but he was not through yet with the task he'd set himself. He tapped lightly at her bottom, as if to determine his aim. Twice, he tapped, and then tapped again, a third time. He repeated the tap-tap-tapping of the cane against her bottom, so that Gail was not sure after which of these taps the strike would come and, anticipating the blow after each of the pats, became increasingly anxious that the strike must surely follow the next rap. When the slashing strike did fall, it nevertheless took her by surprise, filling her with as much astonishment and pain as the first blow had that her husband had delivered to her bottom. An image arose in Kevin's mind--an image of himself, but younger, and naked, bent over at the waist and clutching his ankles, the gigantic German, Heinrich, behind him, a stout and supple cane in hand. Before him, he saw his wife's derriere, beaten, bruised, and bloody, but, in his fantasy, her ass was his own, the victim of Heinrich's homophobic self-loathing, directed at Kevin, rather than at himself. The mental picture changed, and Kevin saw Heinrich standing before him, his massive member erect and pointed into his victim's face. "Suck my cock, bitch!" the German commanded, and Kevin parted his lips, sliding them down, around the thick, hard prick, taking the man's manhood into the warm-soft-wetness of his mouth. "Suck it, faggot!" he heard his tormentor cry. Before him, his wife's beautiful, bare, but bloody and battered, bottom awaited his pleasure. He raised the cane, and it shot down, with tremendous force. His wife yelped, lunging against the mattress folded over the spanking bench. Her bleeding buttocks quivered. He heard her whimper and groan. Kevin was positioned upon his elbows and knees, his buttocks high in the air. Heinrich knelt behind him. Something smooth but rigid poked between Kevin's buttocks, and he felt the German's prick penetrate him, parting his anus as the massive organ slid past his sphincter, deep into his rectum. Kevin smote his wife's ass with all his force and strength, and the rattan cane, loud as a gunshot, furrowed the flesh and muscle of her derriere, another red line appearing in the round, arched cheeks of her ass as she cried out, fiercely and passionately, her cunt a river of juices. She trembled, but with as much ecstasy, this time, as agony, and, at last, the predetermined number of strokes having been duly administered, Kevin tossed the rattan implement aside. Gail's screams were his own, as the German, ejaculating, spewed his semen over Kevin's buttocks, back, and thighs. Her moans were his groans, her whimpering his whining, her pain his anguish. The German's hated face dissolved, and only Gail was with him, draped over the spanking bench, her battered and beleaguered ass a beautiful blossoming of blood and bruises. Kevin gave her bottom a hard pinch, "an inch to grow on," as the saying went, and Gail cried out. "Happy birthday," he told her. For She's a Jolly Good Fellow "And, students, that is why," Duncan slurred, "Why Women Leave redefined the field of evolutionary psychology." From the middle row, Britta Perry rolled her eyes as hard as she could, fuming silently. Duncan had shown signs of having fallen off the wagon for a while now, but it was indisputable at this point. And he was wasting her god damn fucking time with this shit. Her last fume may have been less silent than she thought, because Duncan whirled on her suddenly. "What?!" he demanded, red-faced. "Do you disagree with my analysis of the fairer sex, Ms. Perry?" He was slightly cross-eyed as he stared at her. "No!" she objected. "I mean... yes! But that's not why I'm pissed off at you right now. I'm pissed off because you're drunk in the middle of class! This is supposed to be a psych lab and we haven't done any experiments in two weeks!" There was a murmur of agreement from the rest of the class. In the corner, Garret raised his hand. Duncan ignored him. "Oh, and suddenly that's such a crime, is it?" he asked. "Funny, I don't remember you complaining about it when I was instructing you in Anthropolgy!" "Well, I actually want to fucking do this you fucking jag!" she said, her voice rising now. "I want to be a therapist, and you rambling on about how much your Mommy didn't love you isn't fucking helping!" Duncan stared at her for a moment. "Everyone else, out. Out! Class ended ten minutes anyone, you dunces!" No one moved for a moment. "GET OUT!" he shouted, scattering them and sending them packing for the exits. Britta tried not to let on how uncomfortable she suddenly felt. "So..." he asked, slowly. "If you 'actually want to do this', I imagine you want to get into graduate school, yes?" "Uh..." Britta said slowly, not trusting him. "Yes?" "Well.." the Professor of Psychology said, sitting at his desk and putting his feet up and smiling drunkenly. "I might be able to help there..." "Okay," she said, holding up hand. "I am not sleeping with you to get into grad school. Full stop." "Wha-" he sputtered. "No! First off, who said anything about getting you in? What I am offering you is a very rare, very valuable, letter of recommendation from one Ian Duncan. And as much as you poo poo my journal articles-," she snorted, but he just continued on, louder, "-they make me a very influential member of the academic community. And my opinion, as a result, will carry a lot of weight." "Still not fucking you," Britta said. "All I want," he said, ignoring her, "is a little look-see at the patient notes for the very mentally-ill friend you've been treating." "How did you-" she caught herself, too late. "I don't know what you're talking about." "Yes you do," he said, confidently. "Abed Nadir. He would make an excellent case subject for a paper I'm writing about the infanticidal impulse in women." "I think Lars von Trier beat you to that subject a while ago, Duncan," Britta said, standing and grabbing her backpack. "And if I did have a patient, there is zero chance I would share any information about him with you. You are the most unethical, repugnant, cowardly-" "Ah, young Oedipus joins us!" Duncan interrupted her, looking past her to the doorway of the classroom. "Welcome!" Britta turned. Troy was standing there, grinning confusedly. "Uh?" he asked. "Don't call him that, jackass!" she objected. Duncan had been giving her shit about her relationship ever since he'd spied them kissing in the cafeteria. She walked over, grabbing his hand. "Come on, Troy." # "What'd he call me?" Troy asked, once they'd made their way out into the hall. "Don't worry about it," Britta said, "He's just being an asshole." "Is he hitting on you again?" "God I wish," Britta muttered under her breath. "Uh, what?" Troy laughed, grinning. "I wish it was that simple!" she corrected quickly. She felt heat rush into her face; annoyance flare up inside her gut. "Now you're being an asshole!" "Hey, come on," Troy said, putting an arm around her. "I didn't mean it like that. You're the one who's always teasing me when I do that with Abed. What d'ya call them again? Fraudulent slips?" "Freudian," she corrected, smiling a little now. It was true; she did do that a lot. You're not mad at him, she reminded herself. She wasn't really even mad at Duncan, really. Alright, she was, actually, but she knew that he wasn't the reason behind her short temper. Troy pushed the double doors that lead out to the quad open. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you." He squeezed her tighter. "Don't worry about it. You feeling okay? You seem down." She worked herself a little bit closer, under his arm. "I'm... a little on edge today, that's all." "Oh," Troy said. "Is it..." he made a circular motion in front of his crotch. "Lady business?" "'Lady business?'" she asked, incredulous. "No, the lady's pantsuits and shoulder pads are hanging up safely in the closet today, thank you very much." She considered, briefly, telling him why it was important that her cycle had actually started earlier that week. But she didn't. Better to leave that till later... till they were alone. "It's just..." "Hey, Troy!" a voice called from behind them. Turning, Britta saw a blond haired young man waving to at them from behind a folding metal table. He looked... familiar. And not in a good way. Draped over the front of his table was a banner that read: THE A/V DEPARTMENT PRESENTS: STUDENT FILM FEST 2012 "Oh... hey Mark..." Troy said without a lot of enthusiasm. "How's it going?" "Great!" He said, his excitement much more genuine. Britta was slightly confused by Troy's hesitation. Usually he was the more sociable of the two of them. "Just promoting the film festival. Are you gonna come? You can bring, uh-" he turned to her, blank faced. "Britta," she said, offering him her hand. "That's right!" he said, shaking it. "You were doing fundraising for the BP oil spill right? Mark Millot." Right. That's how she knew him. He'd been one of those pervs throwing money at her and Annie when they'd had that stupid fight over Jeff. "Well... we're late for class... so..." Britta said, lamely. Troy just stood there being unhelpful. "Right, right," Mark said, his tone apologetic. He handed her a flier. "Well, like I said, you guys should stop by. Some kid's working a documentary about fracking that you might find interesting." "That sounds great!" she said, pulling on Troy's hand and tugging him towards Boechester Hall, where their class met. "Well, uh, see you around?" "Yeah, see ya!" he said, waving after them. "That guy's a fucking asshole..." Troy muttered, after he was out of earshot. That surprised her, a little. Troy wasn't usually one to hold a grudge, and Mark seemed nice enough, putting aside what a pig she knew he was. "How do you know each other?" she asked. "He and Abed have been working on movies together a ton recently," he explained. Ah, she thought, that explains it. "I don't know how he can stand that dude. He's so pretentious. 'Ooh, my name rhymes with a wine. Ooh hoo, I'm so fancy!'" Troy paused. "Abed hasn't... mentioned him, has he?" "Troy..." Britta said, reaching up to massage the ridge of her nose. "What?" he asked, frowning. "Can we just... pretend you spent ten minutes badgering me about this before giving up? Because I really cannot handle it today, okay?" "I-" a look of guilt crossed his face. "Sorry..." And now she just felt bad. Sighing, she snaked an arm around his waist and into the pocket of his jeans, pulling him close. "Let's just forget about it. Let's not let Mark Millot ruin Creative Writing for us, 'kay?" # "I see a lot of new faces in the class today," Mrs. Estrada said. "This tends to happen as the deadline to add classes approaches. Rumors about so called 'blow-off' classes tend to spread quickly at Greendale, I've come to find." The idea to take a writing class had been Troy's, and so far it had turned out pretty well. Mrs. Estrada was a nice woman, and a good teacher, if a bit cloying at times. "Well, I am here to tell you the rumor's are true: all you have to do to pass this class are show up and write something. There are of course written assignments, but they are not graded beyond a pass/fail basis. Every other Wednesday, you will turn in whatever you have written to my desk at the front of the class there. There are two boxes. Place your assignment in the top one if you are alright with it being read aloud in class. Place it in the bottom one if you want for just me to read it. There are written instructions near the boxes, if you don't remember them." Britta rolled her eyes. Did she really think anyone would forget something that simple? "Throughout the week, we'll read some of your creative works out loud, anonymously. Community college brings swaths of people from different background together, but all too often we don't take the time to stop and listen to each other's stories. Changing that is one of the points of this class." Britta had thought this idea had been a little strange, when Mrs. Estrada had first introduced it, but by now she was a willing convert. The readings in this class were always interesting, and never in the same way. Sometimes they were sad. Sometimes they opened Britta's eyes to some part of Greendale that she'd never considered before. Sometimes, especially when Mrs. Estrada picked one of Troy's papers (and Britta had gotten pretty good at picking those out by now) they were funny. So far, none of them had been hers though, because she had always chickened out and put her papers into the top box, just like she'd done two days ago. "The rest of the time, we'll break into small groups to do peer review and talk about what we've read that day. So, I hope that is all perfectly clear. Right now, I'd like to introduce today's reader. Vicki, come up here, please," Vicki Cooper stood up, smiling shyly and making her way to the front of the class. "Vicki and I talked in my office hours this week, which you should all feel free to stop by during, and she expressed an interest in doing this weeks readings. And luckily enough, I received a very brave, very well written piece that I thought would be perfect for her to read." She handed the younger woman a typewritten piece of paper. "Thanks, Mrs. Estrada," Vicki said, blushing and glancing over at her boyfriend, who was seated in the front row. "Alright. So... I guess this paper doesn't have a title?" She cleared her throat, and began reading: "Her mother had bought her the cat when she turned six, which was five years ago now to the day," Vicki began. "It was another in a long line of attempts by her mother to try and impose a more traditionally feminine outlook on her only daughter." "Oh shit," Britta said to herself. She knew those lines. She'd written those lines. "What's wrong?" Troy asked, leaning across his desk to whisper to her. "Hey," Fat Neil said, turning around in his seat in the front row to glare at them. "Could you guys be quiet? Vicki's trying to read." Troy mumbled an apology, chastened. Britta said nothing. Vicki gave Neil a quick, grateful smile before continuing on. "And just like the Barbie doll she'd received for her fifth birthday that she'd ended up exploding in the back yard with a firecracker stolen from her oldest brother, this gift ended up backfiring. But neither of them had known that at the time. "He'd just been a kitten then, when she'd taken him out of her mother's hands and cradled him to her chest. Not the d-" Vicki stumbled for a moment, frowning, but quickly recovered. "Not the dead, limp thing, dried blood caked into its now matted white fur, that was lying in front of her now." Britta kept her eyes locked on the chalkboard at the front of the room, not daring to look around.. She'd been drunk and high out of her mind when she'd written this piece of shit. And yes, okay, maybe the aftereffects of that had something to do with her putting it in the wrong box. But why did Mrs. Estrada have to choose this story to read aloud? It was so... "He'd been missing for a day now. Her brother had left the door open, yet again, but this time she hadn't been there to stop the cat from getting out. She'd yelled at her father later, tears streaming down her cheeks, when he'd told her coldly that as a lifelong indoor cat, he was almost certainly already dead. She'd called him a liar, and told him that she hated him. "She could admit to herself that she'd been wrong about the first part, standing now in the field out behind her school. The cat had been dead for awhile, that was pretty obvious. Something had torn his throat out. Something with sharp, cruel teeth. She could picture it in her mind, scaly and inhuman, its eyes lit up by an unthinking, reptilian hunger. "She knew she should go find someone, a teacher, the principal, a janitor even. They could give him a little burial, a place to rest peacefully safe from the maggots and the flies. But she didn't. She moved on, continuing her journey back to her father's house. She didn't tell anyone what had happened to her that day." Vicki stopped, clearing her throat. "Uh, and that's the end of it, I guess." She turned to look at Mrs. Estrada. Don't move. Don't show any emotion. Nobody except you and the teacher knows you wrote it. It's fine. Keep your head down during the discussion and you should be able to get out of here with a minimum of- But then she heard a choked sobbing sound coming from her right, and as much as she wanted to continue to bore a hole into the "s" in Mrs. Estrada's name, she knew she couldn't. She turned. Troy sat there, one hand clapped over his mouth, tears just starting to stream down her face. God damn it, she thought, feeling her heart twist itself into a knot. She reached out, rubbing his shoulder. "Hey..." she whispered, the corners of her vision clouding with stinging, tickling tears. "It's okay." He turned, then, to look at her, and she watched as his eyes widened, his face contort even more sharply. He sobbed again, louder, and pushed his chair back, standing and blurting to the class, "Sorry. Sorry. I have to go- bathroom-" "That's- that's alright Mr. Barnes," Mrs. Estrada said, coming back to the front of the class, but he was already half-way out the door. "Now, does anyone have any thoughts to share about that piece? Ms. Perry, are you-" Britta didn't stop to answer her. She pushed the door to the classroom open and followed Troy out into the hall. # He was still crying when she found him, standing next to a locker near the men's bathroom. She approached him slowly, unsure of what to say. She felt a strange mixture of emotions. Guilt at hurting him like this (as she tended to do), definitely. But also... a kind of closeness. Kind of like what she felt back when she thought he'd been... when she thought they'd shared the same pain. Luckily, he took the decision out of her hands when he saw her. He quickly closed the distance between them and threw his arms around her, burying his face in the crook of her neck. She held him, rubbing his back while she made sympathetic noises. "What was his name?" he managed to choke out finally. She tensed, confused, thinking for a moment that he'd managed to guess at the deeper meaning behind that stupid story. "The cat, I mean." "Oh," she said. "That story was... it wasn't really about... what it was about..." She winced at how lame that sounded. "I mean, I had a cat when I was a kid and I'm pretty sure my Mom really did expect it to help me be less of a tomboy but..." Britta heard a door open behind her and the click-clack-click of someone in heels walking down the hall towards them. Troy let go of her quickly, and she turned to see Mrs. Estrada, a concerned look on her face. "Are the two of you alright?" she asked. "Yeah," Troy said, sniffling a little. "Sorry about running out and everything it's just..." "Don't apologize Mr. Barnes, it's quite alright." She turned to Britta. "I take it, Ms. Perry, that you uh, did not intend for that to be read aloud?" "Um... not really no. I guess I must have put it in the wrong box." Britta felt her cheeks redden. I am such a fucking dumbass. "I'm sorry about that, then. Maybe I need to come up with a better system..." Mrs. Estrada shook her head, quickly. "Never mind about that now, though. Why don't you two take the rest of class off? Go be young and in love. Only... Ms. Perry?" "Yeah...?" Britta asked, hesitantly. Mrs. Estrada put a hand on her arm. "Did you really never tell anyone about what happened to you that day? Do you need... someone to talk to about it with?" She glanced at Troy quickly. He looked confused by the question. "Oh, no," Britta said. "I mean... I appreciate it but it happened a long time ago and..." She swallowed, a sudden wave of emotion sweep over her. Why did this have to happen today? "I got help." Mrs. Estrada smiled, pulling her hand back. "Alright, I'm glad to hear that. Here. This is your original." She handed Britta a piece of paper covered in handwriting she recognized as her own. "I thought it was very powerful. And I really did think it was brave of you to write it, even if you didn't intend to share it in class." "I... thanks," Britta said, looking down at the floor. She felt Troy lay an arm over her shoulder. "Well, I've got to get back to class. Buenos tardes." She shot Britta one last, weak smile, then turned and walked away. "So," Troy asked, after Mrs. Estrada had re-entered the classroom. "I don't have any other classes today. What do you want to do? Go get some food? Catch a movie?" "Do you know what I really want to do right now?" Britta asked, stroking his face. He seemed to be better spirits now. He'd stopped crying, and even though his voice was still a little wavering he was smiling again. It made her happy. "What?" # She dug the blade of her knife into the flesh of the apple, cutting out the core and carving out a wide opening that went about halfway through the red fruit. There was a time, when she was younger, where she'd made a game out of what she could do this with: fruit, soda cans, plastic bottles. She'd gotten good at it too; it brought her a lot of respect with the stoner crowd in high school. As she got older, and pot became more and more of a solitary experience, she'd stopped bothering. But she liked to impress Troy, now. To show him he wasn't the only one who was good with his hands. "I was... nine. Maybe ten? I'm not sure. My neighbors had this dog, this old Cocker Spaniel named Peanut. He was really old, older than I was. And he got sick," Troy said as he watched her work. They were sitting in the back seat of her car, parked out behind the Gymnasium, back in the corner flanked on three sides by fence and bush and building. "They had to put him down." "I'm sorry," Britta said. She cut a much smaller hole out of the apple's side, making sure it connected with her first incision. Troy shrugged, frowning. "I mean, it happens to everything eventually, right? I didn't really get that at the time, though. I cried so hard, the day they took him to the vet. I was still at it by the time my Dad got home for work. He told me to man up, to stop acting like a baby about a dog that wasn't even mine." "Dads fucking suck," Britta observed as she cut a third hole, the carb, into the apple. "I hear that." "Hand me the grinder?" "Damn, you made that fast!" Troy said as he passed it to her. She knew that it really wasn't that big of a deal, that all she'd done was poke three holes in the thing. She blushed anyhow. She opened the grinder and tapped a generous amount of weed into the top of her newly crafted pipe. "Anyway... my Grandma, the one on my Mom's side, the one that wasn't evil, she was having health problems at the time so that's probably why I reacted the way I did. She uh... she died maybe half a year after that..." For She's a Jolly Good Fellow "Well, I'm sorry my dumb story reminded you of that." "Britta..." Troy said, sadly. "Don't do that. Don't undersell yourself. Mrs. Estrada was right; that was really good writing." She couldn't think of anything to say to that, so she brought the apple to her lips and torched the top of it with her lighter. She watched the fire consume the cannabis, watched the orange and red flames lick across it, blackening it and turning into ash. She released the carb, pulling the smoke in, feeling the familiar, tickling heat of it go down her throat and enter her lungs. She exhaled, blowing the cloud of smoke up towards the roof of her car, watching it twist and dance around itself in the afternoon light. "God I needed that." She could already feel the pressure that had been pressing against her eyeballs all day start to slacken, could hear the cacophony that was her brain finally start to relax into a soothing buzz. She passed the apple to Troy, then laid her head in his lap as she watched him imitate her. "I- I know I've been doing this a lot lately it's just that-" She closed her eyes. "I always get like this, around this time of year. Around today." "Today? What's so special about October 19th?" Troy asked after he'd exhaled. "It's..." she opened her eyes again, looking up at him, at his stupid beautiful face that was etched with concern as he gazed down at her. Why did she not want to tell him? "It's my birthday..." She took another toke, grateful for the excuse to stop talking. "Oh." He swallowed, taking the pipe back. "What?" she asked, gazing up at him. She frowned. He was getting sad again, and it was probably all her fault. She stroked his leg with the back of her hand. "I just... I've always known you must have had a hard childhood..." He swallowed again. "Just, you know... because of the way you always seem ready to be disappointed by people. The way you're always the first to cut yourself down. The way you get sad sometimes and you won't tell me why." Britta didn't say anything. "And... it's just... in that story...the one that wasn't about what it was about..." "Yeah..." "Well... it was the girl's birthday in that story, too..." "Yeah..." She felt tears start to well up, unbidden, in her eyes. But they didn't feel painful, now. "And... well... I don't want to pry... 'cause I can tell you don't really want to talk about it, but..." He looked back down at her. "I just... after Mrs. Estrada asked if you ever told anyone about what happened..." He swallowed again. "I remembered that lie I made up back in that Actor Inside class, about my uncle, you know, touching me..." "Troy..." Britta said, sitting up against him and cupping his face. She thought he might've guessed why after Mrs. Estrada had been so... concerned. She didn't think he'd connect it back to that day. "No," he said, grabbing her hand. "It makes me feel sick to my stomach to think about. About... about what you must have gone through when I did that... About how... about how I was just another one of those people who ended up disappointing you..." She wrapped both her hands around his, bringing it to her mouth. "Troy..." she repeated, quieter. He looked at her, his eyes round and wet, his forehead creased where his eyebrows knit together. "Just..." Britta buried her head into his chest. She screwed her eyes shut, felt the tears slip out of them anyhow. "Just hold me, okay?" He did. She sniffed as she felt his arms close in around her, pulling her up into his lap. She felt herself shaking, felt the carefully constructed control that'd been slipping out of her hands all day finally give up the ghost. She sobbed, crying for that 11 year old girl who's childhood was stolen from her in that depressing little diner; who had to learn, far too early, just how rapacious and uncaring the world really is. Troy laid his chin on the top of her head, squeezing her tighter. She nuzzled in closer, appreciating the solidity of him. The reassurance it brought, the knowledge that he was there for her even if all he could do was this. "It's okay..." he whispered, over and over again, as he rocked her gently back and forth in his arms. She wasn't sure how long they stayed like that for, how long it took for her sadness to exhaust itself. Eventually though, she pulled away from him, rubbing at her eyes. "Thanks..." she mumbled, not looking at him. He stroked her face. "There's nothing in the world that makes me happier than helping you feel better," he said, with complete earnestness. She felt heat rush into her face, felt her tongue tie itself up inside her mouth. She grabbed the pipe from where it had fallen on the floor of the car, unsure of what else to do. "I just wish I could've gotten you something for your birthday..." She smiled as she sprinkled more weed into the top of the apple. "Well... it's different for you I guess. You never got to celebrate birthdays growing up. My mom would always make a huge deal about mine even after... after what happened happened..." She coughed, clearing a little bit of phlegm out of her throat. "It's probably why I usually try and pretend that it doesn't exist." "I guess that makes sense..." he said as he watched her take another hit. "Still, maybe-" She never did find out whatever his plan to cheer her up was because he shut up when she brought her face close to his. His lips parted, and she lunged at him, kissing him, feeling the heat of his lips, the way he flinched away from her into his chair in surprise. She exhaled, pushing the smoke from her lungs into his as her tongue ravaged the inside of his mouth. She put her all into the kiss, wanting him to know how much she cared about him. How much he made her feel. By the time she pulled back, she was seeing spots in the corners of her vision. "Jesus..." he said, gasping. "You know..." she said, kissing at his neck. "I think you might be right... presents are always nice. I left myself a little present for today, actually. Do you know what it is?" "W-what?" he asked between moans as she worked a hand into his pants, gripping his hardness. "I started taking birth control this week..." she whispered, unzipping his jeans as she nibbled on his ear lobe. She pushed them down his hips, exposing his boxers. "Britta... wait..." he said, feebly. "Are you sure- are you sure you want to-" "Shut the fuck up, Troy," she said, without malice, pulling him down on top of her as she pulled her own pants off. "Shut up and fuck me." He stopped resisting after that. His hand reached under her shirt, massaging her right breast as he kissed her. After a bit of fumbling, both their lower bodies were naked and exposed. They didn't bother trying to disrobe further than that. It wasn't worth the effort and time it would have taken. He ran a hand through her pubic hair and she shuddered at the feeling of him pulling at her. Troy's thumb found her clit as his body pressed her into the cushions of the car seat. She whimpered, grabbing at his broad shoulders. "Don't stop," she gasped. "Never," he said, as he worked his fingers inside of her. "Never." She felt his erection, thick and hard, as he pawed at her. That irresistible, irrepressible heat was starting to build up inside of her, and she bucked under him, writhing. "Put your fucking cock in me," she breathed. He shifted, adjusting himself so his pelvis lined up with hers. She felt him press at her opening, the head of his shaft just start to part her pussy. She pulled at him, bringing his body forward, over hers, forcing him to thrust downwards so that his cock pushed into her clit as he penetrated her. She mewled, arching her back, reveling in the sensation of his bare skin against hers. In the way his cock pulled and pushed against her folds, the way he dragged the sensitive, velvety skin of her cunt along with him as he pulled out of her. How did she ever put up with condoms for so long? How did she resist the feel of him, naked, against her? She brought her legs together between his, squeezing his penis. She felt the pressure of him against her clitoris, felt the friction of their movements draw pleasure and ecstasy out of her. The heat of it, of their fucking, kept building. It started at her clit as it slid with exquisite, wet friction against the hard length of his dick before pressing into his pelvis. It crested and peaked, slowly building, spreading out until it had consumed her pelvis, her belly, her legs, blending with the scratchy feeling of her nipples against her bra as Troy's chest pressed against hers as he continued to thrust into her. She always got this, when she made love high. Always felt like the pleasure expanded and then reduced into a single, undeniable point of tension, over and over again. But here, now, she felt something blocking her. Something getting in the way, preventing her release. It got worse and worse the longer it went on, becoming more and more of a nuisance. She let out a long, whining noise, felt her throat undulate and contract as she tried to express the tumult that was eating away at her. Troy kissed along her neck, making the whole thing even more unbearable. "F-fucking God," she whined. Her voice sounded strange in her ears. He giggled, a little hysterically. "I-" she couldn't deny it anymore, the feeling that had been building inside her. For much, much longer than this rutting had been going on, for longer than this afternoon or even month. She stuck a hand in her mouth, gnawing on it. "I love you..." He stopped, suddenly, freezing. That was no good. She slapped him on the ass, hard enough to make her hand sting. He resumed driving down into her, faster and more urgently than before. He made a deep, grunting noise in his throat as he accelerated his pace. She caressed him where her hand had struck, rubbing at his cheeks in a slow, circular motion. "Say it again," he practically growled. "I love you!" she shouted again. "I love you so fucking much! I love the way your cock feels. I love the way you make me feel. I love the way you look at me. I love the way you can just hold me, and I think everything's going to actually work out. I love the way you feel inside me. I love the way-" His mouth found hers again, silencing her, his tongue capturing hers. She felt the walls of her cunny ripple against him, felt the pleasure spike deep inside herself. She cried out, in time with him, moaning into his mouth until their lips parted and she wailed, high and wordlessly. He pulled on her bottom lip, capturing it between his; sucking on it, stretching it taut. She clutched at his shoulders as another, stronger shiver ran down her spine. Her flesh contracted against his, and she felt his cock, every contour and jut of it. He pulled out, suddenly, shifting his weight, raising himself onto his knees and further over her body. He grabbed her just above the ankles, spreading her legs open and dragging her back across the fabric of the car seat, grabbing her hips and lifting her so her ass and lower back stuck out into the air and her upper back pressed into the cushions. It was quick and unexpected, and the friction of the move scraped prickly hot and cold against her skin, bunching her shirt up even higher, flattening her sensitive nipples as they strained tighter against her bra. Her legs were like jelly as he hooked his biceps behind the crook of her knees. She felt them tighten, felt her tendons stretch and pull as he pressed, slowly, deeply into her, bending over so his face was right up against hers. Gradually, torturously, his weight spread her thighs open, flattening them against her stomach, causing her pussy to stretch and tighten ahead of his prick. She could feel his cock twitching as he slowly parted her folds. When he stopped, buried to the hilt inside of her warm, wet sheath, her kneecaps grazed her collarbone. She rubbed the back of his thighs with her palms, squeezing her eyes shut. She remembered, idly, as she groaned at the deepness of his penetration, the time she'd shown him this position. It seemed so long ago. He'd been such a quick learner, all for her.She wanted to tell him how proud of him she was. She wanted to tell him about the ecstasy he was inflicting on her. To find the words to describe the way her walls strained against the sudden, thick push of his cock against them, the way the hard knob of his pubic bone pressed, deliciously, into her naked, sensitive clit, the way the burning feeling in her muscles and ligaments arced across her like a white hot fire, their paths burning out from her lower back and legs and shoulders and neck and coming together, coursing into her core, adding fuel to the hot, roasting furnace between her legs where she enveloped him. But the exertion and the pleasure and the heat of her body got in the way. All she could do was moan, helplessly, and try and shape the sounds coming out of her mouth into something that resembled "love... you..." "I love you too..." he breathed, slowly beginning to move gently back and forth inside her. "So much." She opened her eyes again. He was gazing at her rapturously, his eyes dancing across her face. "You're so beautiful." He brushed a strand of hair out of her face, cupping her cheek, smiling a smile so open and wide Britta thought she might fall into it and never find herself again. She smiled back, her hands wandering upwards to caress the smooth, pliable skin of his butt. He took a deep breath, slowly pulling his cock back. "F-faster..." she breathed, gasping, her hands squeezing into the flesh of his ass as she felt the length of him slide against and out of her. His face was twisted into an ecstatic grimace, and sweat beaded on his forehead. "Feel so... good..." he said as he bore down into her with the same slow, languorous pace, until their bodies were pressed together again. "Don't make me... spank you again..." she teased, ever-so-softly pressing her fingernails into his skin. He laughed, drawing out of her more quickly this time. He fucked her, over and over, faster and harder with each stroke. She flexed her wrists, pushing him more forcefully into her, pulling him more sharply out of her. The slap of his pelvis against hers grew louder and louder; the squelching of their sexes became more and more wet. She allowed the momentum of his thrusts to roll her further and further onto her back, and he penetrated her more and more deeply, pressed into her clit with more and more of his weight. The orgasm built even more quickly, now, devouring her up, causing her to spasm and shake uncontrollably as he pressed her harder and harder into the seat. She was still swearing in a hoarse, shrill voice when a second orgasm hit, the intensity of it reducing her voice to a slow, silent wail. She arched her back, pressing up into him, her grasping white-knuckled fingers pinching into Troy's ass. His voice was there, with her, hot and wet in her ear, telling her just how strongly and sharply and massively he felt for her, until her grip on him slackened. Her face felt hot. Her whole being felt hot. She ached. But the heat didn't lessen her need for the friction of his form against hers, and the pleasure she and Troy were building together settled into the knots and pinches and strains of her body, smoothing them out. Troy was panting deeply now, and Britta could feel the coiled tension that had built up in the muscles of his ass. He was unrelenting, gliding in and out of her, his jaw clenching in time with his thrusts. Time seemed, for a moment, to slip away, as she came under him again. She felt herself freeze there, right at the peak, at the moment where she surrendered herself over to the hot, white oblivion that opened up inside her. It seemed to go on forever, to absorb everything else into it. Her desperately in need of a tune up car. The parking lot. Greendale. Her past. All of it faded out, leaving just them, together, holding each other in that moment. But then Troy's cock pulsed inside her. She felt it spasm and contract as it sputtered, splashing the inside of her walls in something hot and wet and sticky. He lowered her gently back onto the cushions before collapsing onto his haunches, panting. He just sat there for a moment, watching her. She tried and failed to push herself up onto her elbows, her shaky arms unable to support her own weight. Moving was... difficult. And not worth it. So she gazed back at Troy, hoping her expression came close to reflecting the amount of adoration she saw in his eyes. She'd done this before: tried to shut down the pain and uncertainty and fear with sex. She'd done it a lot, actually, if she was honest with herself. And usually it worked, at least for the brief period of time when she rubbed her genitals, desperately, against another's. It was usually in the time after, in the quiet lull that came after they'd both come (if she was lucky), that those feelings would return with a vengeance. They'd bring their friends. They'd tell her she was a freak, a slut, a damaged little idiot who tried to make her world seem a little less bleak by fucking the closest, most emotionally damaged man she could find. She didn't feel that way now. She didn't feel that way with him. "Come... cuddle..." she finally got out, after gasping uselessly for a while. He crawled over, slowly, and collapsed next to her, one arm circling her hips. Britta shifted her head enough so that she could look at him, panting and pressing his forehead into the car seat next to her. "I love you..." she repeated again, whispering as she shut her eyes, a smile spreading across her face. She felt Troy's hand lightly brush against her sex. "So messy..." he murmured, his finger collecting a dollop of his cream from inside of her. She heard his lips smack and then it was back, digging into her folds again, squelching in and out of her. "That's... that's biology for you..." Britta said, sleepily, her eyes rolling back behind closed lids as she pressed herself into his hand, stretching out as much as she could in the confines of her backseat. "It tends to get pretty... messy..." "I feel like... I feel like I should do something about that..." he said, pushing her shirt up over her bra and kissing down her body. "Like I should... clean up after myself." She blinked her eyes back open and watched, blearily, as he pushed the front seats up as far as they would go and crawled down into the expanded legroom. It put his face on an even level with her well fucked cunt, but it looked like a tight fit. Britta thought about Duncan had said, earlier. She thought about Oedipus, and wombs. She giggled. He looked at her confusedly, grinning too. "Okay... just... go slow," she licked her lips, felt how thick and bruised they were. "I'm feeling really... sensitive..." He lifted her left leg and draped it over his shoulder, pulling her closer. Grumbling a little at having to move, she scooched towards him, shifting into a half reclining position, resting her shoulders against the door's armrest. He laughed, his hands caressing up and down her inner thighs. "I love how cute you get when you're sleepy. " She whined at him, loving and hating that he was torturing her like this. He kissed, slowly, up the inside of her leg, his arms snaking behind her and circling her ass, hugging it closer to him as he pressed his nose into the thick nest of her pubic hair, just above her engorged clit. He breathed deep, the rushing air tickling at her bud as he pulled it in through his flaring nostrils, desperate, as if it wasn't oxygen that sustained him but instead her scent. Britta could smell it too. The air around them was thick with the smell of it, of her musk. And his. And their's together, mingling; twirling and curling around each other in the confines of this small metal chassis, just like the faint wisps of smoke that still hovered around the roof of the car. For She's a Jolly Good Fellow "I love the way you smell," Britta offered, her voice high and lilting. She darted a hand down past his face and curled two fingers up into her juicy lips, swirling them around gently, gathering a collection of their mixed fluids. He lifted his chin and watched, kissing her lazily just above her opening as she brought her fingers just under her nose and sniffed them, the thickness of the smell filling her nostrils, spreading and blending across her senses. She could taste it in the back of her tongue, almost. Deciding that wasn't enough, she plopped the digits into her mouth, licking the product of their lovemaking off them, feeling it slide down her throat as she swallowed. "I love the way you taste." "Keep doing that," he said, his voice pleading. He was giving her those god damned eyes again, the big 'aw shucks, I don't know why you're making such a big deal out of little 'ol me' ones, the ones that made him look like a little lone puppy pushing its paws up against the glass and thumping its tail against its display case as hard as it could. "Keep telling me why..." His tongue was slow, meticulous, as it delved inside of her. She'd been right about feeling sensitive; she was extremely tender and gave a little half cry at his entrance. She grabbed his hand, intertwining her fingers with his, squeezing hard when it became too much for her. She could feel him carefully and gently lap up his cum as it slid slowly down the inside of her walls, pushed by gravity down into his mouth. "I love how gentle you are," she said as his tongue darted out again. He kept the pressure easy and light, and retreated quickly at the slightest sign of pain or discomfort. "How safe -mmmhmmm- you can make me feel." She couldn't do it. Words weren't enough. "Get... get back up here..." she moaned as he licked along her slit, stopping just short of her clitoris. She reached down, grabbing his shoulders and pulling at him awkwardly. He clambered up to her and she kissed him, tasting their taste again on his lips. He was hard again and she stroked him with her hand as their tongues met, lazily. "C'mere..." she whispered, pushing herself up into a half-sitting position, the back of her head resting against the door. She grabbed his ass again, pulling him until he was straddling her with his knees at her sides, his dick flopping in front of her face. "Hey Little Buddy," she cooed, before sliding it into her mouth. Troy groaned, his voice thick. She relaxed her throat and bobbed, working more and more of him past her lips as she breathed through her nose, her eyes closing. Her tongue ran up and down the smooth, velvety skin of his cock, tracing little figure eights around and around it's circumference. She played with his balls, cupping them in her palm and rubbing them gently as her fingers massaged the smooth skin of his taint. "Fuck..." Troy muttered, his hand working into her hair. "You're so fucking good at that..." She smiled, looking up into his eyes. Then she started humming, ever so lightly, her lips and throat vibrating against him. His knees bucked and he cried out, but her hand gripped his ass more tightly, holding him steady. His eyes screwed shut. She knew he wouldn't last that much longer. She darted a finger inside of her snatch, wriggling it around and covering it in a thick coat of lubricant. Then she lowered herself as far onto Troy's cock as she could manage, her nose inches from his pelvis, and worked the finger into his asshole. Their was resistance, but she pushed through it, feeling him contract around her digit just like her throat was contracting around him. "B-britta-!" Troy's voice was hoarse, his tone worshipful. She found the round, thick bulb she knew was his prostate and gently rubbed it in small, concentric circles. That pushed him over the edge. He gave one, great, powerful spasm inside of her mouth, and she swallowed, feeling the muscles of her throat work against his cockhead. She kept swallowing, squeezing his member, milking it over and over until it shriveled and shrank away. She pulled back, gasping, a line of saliva running from her lips to his rapidly deflating penis. He bent over her, kissing her again, pressing his body into hers, shifting his weight onto the elbows that dug into the car seat at either side of her. It was a slow, tired, sleepy kiss. Britta loved it. She loved him. She told him so again, once they'd broke apart, as they lay on their sides facing each other. She repeated it, over and over, as she kissed every part of his face she could get her lips around. His chin. His cute, flat little nose. His cheeks. The skin of his eyelids. His lips. She said it until her voice finally gave out and she stopped, content to just hold him, to feel the rise and fall of his chest against hers. She fell asleep like that, a little while later.