Let's Just Touch The Sky For A Bit. The Sequel.

She woke up without opening her eyes.

The streaming light played on her eyelids. Softly. She felt her legs twitch. Her thighs, itch. Still, eyes closed, she turned her eyes away from the steady flow of light, not expecting to see him lying beside her. She smiled silently as she remembered last night. The ache in her thighs seemed to reach her temples, as the pounding in her head seemed to lessen with the intensity of the rising sun. Little rivulets of moisture escaped her eyes as she tried to open her eyes and get up from the bed. She wondered where he was.

Her own thoughts seemed to clash and confuse her. Squinting, she stood up, picked out a hooded top with the words “PUNK” emblazoned across the chest and rolled up. She needed to calm down. She thought of wearing shorts but decided against it.

He sauntered into the room with a cup of steaming whatever in his hand. Obviously amused by her appearance, he smiled a weak smile.

“You shouldn’t smoke so much.”

Her fingers stilled over her blunt for a moment, measuring the right things to say so as not to offend. The truth was always hard to swallow. She felt blind sided, but the truth remained. There was no truth to be made known. Was he just one of them? She raised her feet from the floor, shivered, folded her legs and sat up on the bed resting her jaw against her knees. She tried to respond.

“I don’t –“,

“It wasn’t a question”. He interjected from his standing poise against the door.

He walked towards her. His gait was slow and steady, unsure in it's approach, yet familiar and confident in the same sense. He had been here before, she knew his type, she had grown up fucking his type, yet this history within the arena didn't enable them to see what she wanted to do, it only blinded them in a sense. He was a different person; he drank from a different well. But she knew him all too well, had always known him, so no matter how brightly his light shone, he was still only a light. One of the many.

She watched him, curiosity had built up this moment to be greater than it needed to be, he had confirmed her original prognosis of his character, and the satisfaction left a tingling sensation down her back. It might've been the liquor laced with Mary Jane lindy hopping in her cranium creating those physical impressions, but she felt it's power all the same.

She had rolled up. Lighted and started smoking.

He sat facing her, in the path of the smoke and she continued to watch him, she remained quiet as her intoxication deepened. Creating peace within her being, the magic moved through her fingers, as she watched and relayed thought. He was still a man.

A man. A simple fuck.

She was in essence unpredictable. But at the same time ever so simple, she did what she did to please only herself, she wore what she wore because it was what she was comfortable in. This was her favorite hoodie, her breast's playing peek a boo with the slight darkness of the morning, noticing this she simply covered it, at the same time wishing she wasn't wearing clothes at all.

He wore only briefs, which were worn the other way round, with a black crucifix hanging from his neck. A knowing smile playing on his face. Where would she place this guy in her “list”? She had fucked them all. The tall one, the short one, the spoilt one, the nice one, the liar, the faker, the player, the chooser, the winner, the loser, the proud fuck. But, was she just fucking this one? Or was he the one fucking her? She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, running her free hand across her scalp. Nonchalance would win this battle, other men were hilarious in their predictability, and that was the only true power she had over all. But was this a battle? Why did it have to be a battle? Was it her penchant for pulling things apart and putting them together again? Was it time to let things just work? She murmured, eyes low, peering at her brown skin, remembering kisses running up and down them. A smile accompanied the nostalgia.

His lips were moving, but she hadn't heard a word he had said, he looked at her expectantly as if awaiting a reply.

“I'm sorry love, I wasn't listening”

“Are you fucked up?” She smiled at his humorous tone.

“Blissfully so”.

He took the blunt away from her, and replaced it with his cup of sugarless Lipton Tea. She stared blankly at him while sipping the almost bitter liquid. The blunt looked mighty cool in his fingers. He wore a string of black beads on his wrist. He stepped into the bathroom, leaving a trail of smoke in his wake. She followed him, and met his staring at his reflection in the wash hand mirror. She looked at his eyes in the mirror.

Light kisses replaced words. Clutching at the wash hand basins edge, she felt the blood rush to the tips of her fingers. As he worked his magic up her torso, she threw her head back and thought, this was not a battle. She would run. She caught her breath as his warm tongue caressed her already erect nipple. She made a mental note to remember to ask him his name. He gently laid her on the floor. He looked into her eyes, and ran his hands through her hair. Unblinking, he brought his lips down to hers, paused and kissed her fully in the mouth. He had a tongue ring. He played with her left ear, grinding his waist unto her already liquid middle. She parted her legs and wrapped them around his back. His already stiff maleness brushed against her sex.

She shivered. With this man, it was time to give herself a name.

The Helpless?