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Message-ID: <37263asstr$1026321002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Souvie <souvien22@yahoo.com>
Reply-To: Souvie <femecrivain@netdot.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} "Games We Play" (MF, flash fic)
Date: Wed, 10 Jul 2002 13:10:02 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Comments welcome at femecrivain at netdot dot com - or
either via the handy form on my website:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Souvie/www

Please, no reposting without asking me first. It's "I
write, you read" not "I give, you take."
- - - - - 

"The Games We Play"
copyright June 2002
by Souvie

(A "flash" story in 280 words.)


I rolled over and looked at the clock: almost four.

I rolled back, my gaze lingering on the empty space beside me.

He had another night out, another late night, something to that
effect. After a while the excuses just seemed to run together.

I lay on my back staring at the ceiling and playing the "What
if?" game. What if he'd had a wreck, twisted metal holding him
like a vice, gasping his last breaths?  What if he'd passed out
in some gutter, easy prey for bums, thieves, or worse? What if
he'd been walking to the car and had been mugged, or his car
stolen? He could be wandering around some desolate area, no
money, no way to get help. What if he'd been kidnapped, was
being held for some who-knows-what reason, at the mercy of
sadistic men with no morals or scruples?

I lay there, hoping for the best, but anticipating the worst.

Around four-thirty or so I heard the key turn in the lock, his
quiet footsteps coming up the hall toward the bedroom. He
stopped in the bathroom and undressed, his clothes making a soft
thump on the tile floor. The door creaked open, and the mattress
dipped as it accepted his weight. 

He snuggled up to me, one hand caressing my waist, slow circles
on my hip and lower belly, edging to my crotch. His lips nibbled
at my earlobe.

He smelled of cigarette smoke and bourbon. And cheap perfume: a
scent I'd never worn in my life.

Figured. The one "What if?" I hadn't considered. He'd beaten me
at my own game, and he didn't even know it. Then again, maybe he
did.

THE END

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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