Cupping the cheeks of her arse with her white-bound stockings as he pulled her close, her smooth skin dragging against the short soft hairs on his legs, Carey had been here before.
Erin hadn’t had too much to drink, like with some of the other women Carey had brought back to his apartment. She hadn’t been impressed by his menial employment, capable of being done by just about anybody. Any fuck straight out of school looking for some cash to set himself up. She hadn’t even found him all that funny, all that interesting, all that brimming with charm.
But she was there, the under-curve of her breasts resting on his chest. The small of her back pushed in, shoulders jutting out with her neck as she drew back breaths and gasps, and sometimes moans when Carey did things right. He did things wrong, he knew. He never got the swing of his fingers, of his thrusts. He didn’t have that rhythm, that motion. But she did moan, small and private, sometimes.
Her pearl-white dress sat crumpled on the chair in the corner of the room. The streetlight snuck in through the closed blinds in his apartment. It cast shadows of their tango on the walls in a greyscale kaleidoscope turn. Carey’s hands dug into Erin’s back, drew blood from the muscles in her waist and stained the tips of her feathers.
(illustration by James Jean)