Saturday, 3 August 2013

Story Corner #29

This posting is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY.
It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers.

These are parts of stories that are still being written. And therefore haven’t had a BETA read, let alone a editing from me.

Okay, so this is, ‘cause I don’t actually have a sex scene waiting to go. I’ve been a little lax in that department, so instead, here’s the beginning of one of the stories that I’m writing

[This is just the jotted down story that I have so far. It’s most likely going to be striped and changed around, but this is the basses of the backstory. It’s not completely want I wanted, but it’s what Greg was saying]

What Pride

This is the tale of Greg falling in love with Jai. A ‘kid’ who has been crushing on Greg since he started working for him four years ago.
But more so, to me, this story is about finding out who you really are, maybe too late, in life and the mess that surrounds the awakening.


“Are you?”
     “Am I what?” Greg asked, he felt heavy.
     “Is she right, are you fucking gay Greg?” Marie nearly screamed, it wasn’t quite one though it was something Greg had become use to, the woman yelling at him without the rest of the world—without the kids, hearing a word of it.
     “’Course not,” Greg snapped shaking his head. Of course not.
     It was defiantly a question though.
     “You sure about that?”
     “’Course I’m fucking sure!”
     He was sure, wasn’t he?
     Marie huffed, it was a sign.
     “I’m fucking sure, I don’t like cock. Your just trying to use this. To grab hold of some fucking reason why this isn’t your fault. That it’s all ‘cause of me, not the fact that you opened your legs to that kid. Now if you’ll excuse me I’m going to the shed.” And off he stormed. his head full of hate, his heart full of hurt, his inside screaming for something he wasn’t going to give it. ‘cause if he did he’d end up like his old man, or worse, sitting in a jail cell ‘cause he’d killed the arsehole—the fucking kid—who’d fucked his wife.
     He’s shed was first built for him to fix his car. It wasn’t much, but back then they didn’t have much so it didn’t matter. Four walls that would house his tools so some punk wouldn’t steal them and they be out of the missus hair. Of late, though the walls were all the same, it had become his refuge from the woman that seemed to hate his guts, and Greg couldn’t figure out why?
     The slam of the door had Greg knowing that it had opened back up again, but the slight cool air would be good for him, and really, he just couldn’t be arsed to turn back and close it. What was the point, he wouldn’t be able to. Not really, his head was so full of anger that all he wanted was to beat the shit out of something. Luckily for him, a red punching bag hung on black steal from the roof.
     Fist bare, he hit the bag, jabbing at it with anger, making the slam of leather sink deep into his bones. He shouldn’t be doing this way, he was too old to be hitting it bare fisted, but the pain will be welcomed. He tried he’s hardest not to picture anyone as he punched, he wasn’t sure whose face would come up first: the bitch who betrayed him, fucking some dude for no good fucking reason. Hell, they had been in counselling for nearly a month now for all the good it was doing them, he wasn’t even sure why they were bothering, he knew she didn’t want to be with him anymore, she just didn’t want to have to deal with the ramification of what she’d have to do if they got divorced.
     The little cunt who had fucked his wife. The punch arsed kid next door that thought he couldn’t do any better than his middle aged wife, who had let herself go over the years. It wasn’t really he’s fault. The kid was just being what he was, a kid, ruled by his dick and using the ‘neglected’—her words—wife as she sat at home keeping house—huh what a fucking laugh, he did more of the housework when he got home, simply because he wanted to live in a clean fucking house and not the dumb his bitch of a wife couldn’t be bother getting up to clean it herself.
     Or the pasty arse shrink that had, on actually, been seeing his wife more than him, more than them. And seemed to want to put him in the bad guy roll of this whole procedure where it was completely his fault for letting their sex life go down the drain. God forbid he have to work double shifts just so he could pay the bills, house and whatever the bitch spent all the money on. Hell, Christmas was coming up and his kids wanted something that was going to be putting him back and hundred grand.
     It wasn’t his fault that it took him a little longer to get it up ‘cause when he was tired and the woman wasn’t anything of what she used to be and he didn’t find her as attractive as he once did. but he could when needed, and he fucked her whenever she was willing enough to climb into bed so that he could cop his feel before he passed out, which wasn’t something she was inclined to do.
     Her bitch was that she didn’t want to go to sleep at 10pm that it was his fault for not trying to fuck her on the lounge where she’d fucked the kid but not wanted a bar of it when he had tried that.
     “Mate. Greg, mate, you need to stop,” hands pulled him back from the bag, gripping him tight, not letting his go as he struggled with the suddenness of the attack.
     “Let go,” Greg shoved trying to dislodge the man.
     “I will if you have ya mind back,” Tom said. It was Tom. Greg took in a deep breath.
     “Yeah, mate I’m good.”
     Walking off a little Greg realised he’d been hitting the bag a little too hard. Sweat had turned his blue shirt to near black, he’s hole body was hot and sticky, and he felt as if he needed to strip off just to get some measure of cool.
     Ripping off his shirt he used the useless material to get rid of the dripping sweat.
     “Here,” Tom said passing Greg a bottle of Gatorade from the mini-fridge Greg had installed.
     “Thanks,” he screwed the lid and drank down half the bottle before he noticed that Tom had a beer in his hand as he leant against the bench.
     “You wanna talk?”
     “Not really,” Greg sighed as he drank down the rest before throwing the bottle onto the bench. And taking the beer Tom held out for him. “They ganged up on me.”
     “How you mean?”
     “Asking why we never had sex—”
     “’Cause your woman’s a hippo.”
     Greg laughed, much harder and longer than the statement needed, but once he had started it all just tumbled out. The crap he had been going through all the time. The stress, the anger, all tumbled out of him in laugher that had him gripping his side in pain.
     “Why don’t ya just divorce her,” Tom asked when Greg had calmed down enough. This hadn’t been the first time Tom had asked him this. It probably wouldn’t be the last, but the man didn’t understand. Hell, Greg was started to forget his own reasoning.
     “I don’t know,” he said at last. And for the first time true confusion radiated from the words. Why was he still with her? It wasn’t like he didn’t have anywhere he could be? Not that he wanted to leave his home, and he assumed if he were to sign….that’s why.
     “If I ask, or file than I’ll have to leave the house to her until all this crap is sorted out, and I ain’t got anywhere else to go.”
     Tom shrugged, “You could always crash at mine. Not like I got any kids left at home.”
     “Yeah, and live next to the bitch, that’ll be fun.”
     There was a large pause. “kay, so I get your point, sorta. Does this mean that your just gonna wait it out ‘til her shrink tells your wife to cut the strings.”
     “Yeah, and then hope she doesn’t slap me a court order to kick me outta my own house. I’m starting to get a little worried ‘bout what she popping off to the lady. The way she spoke to me, the things she said…asked…”
     “Like what?”
     “It was like she thought that everything the bitch said about me must be true. It was like she thought, ‘no woman would cheat on her husband unless he did it first.’”
     “Maybe she told her you did.”
     “Well, let’s face it, mate, not like a honest things ever came outta that mouth of hers.”
     “She wasn’t always like this,” he muttered, but honestly he couldn’t remember it.
     Tom lifted his eyebrow, as he lent back on the bench, the cocky bastard. “Yeah, okay, so I can’t remember when that was, but there musta been one, right?”
     Tom shrugged, “I always figured you a smart man.”

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