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[ stop thinking ]
Look at him. Just look at him. Smirking bastard. Smug, jackass, bucket head dick. What the fuck are you smirking at, huh? Huh? Fuck off.
I´m smirking because you seem to be feeble minded, he says, stepping forward and smirking right in my face. Right up close, that breath of his, still smelling of smoke, wafting all over me and staining my clothes. Have you forgotten I can read your mind?
Read my mind how the fuck
Look, you fucking-- I am you. Got it, dipshit? I *am* you. I know what you think, what you feel. He pauses, his eyes drifting over me slowly as his smirk turns into a leer. Fucking mind-boggling. Which hand you use to jerk off with. What gets you off. That little cleft just to the right of your left--
Hey! Come on, man, a little fucking discretion!
He laughs, reaching out and smacking my cheek lightly. Just you and me, sweetcheeks. Well, me and me. Or, you and you, depending on how you wanna think of it.
I want you gone. Gone. You can read my mind? Read this. Leave! Leave now! FUCK OFF!
He raises an eyebrow, shaking his head slowly. No can do, Pilgrim. You need me.
I don´t need you, you sick fuck. I don´t need anyone. So get-- the fuck-- out.
His laugh really is infuriating. Honestly, it´s giving me the heebie-jeebies. Every thing I say, he laughs at. I want to rip his fucking head off.
Ah, but it´s such a pretty head to be without, isn´t it, he asks, lifting a hand and running it slowly through his hair. Pretty enough for Amy before she got bored of us anyway.
I can´t even muster up any energy anymore. It´s been sucked dry. I´m sitting here on my couch, talking to my fucking reflection, and all I can do is sit listlessly by as he blows my mind. Fuck you, I whisper, feeling that familiar sting as I see Amy´s face in that hotel room. That fucking bastard
Not really, he says, sitting next to me and putting his hand on my thigh. It really is surreal, seeing my own hand like that, all backwards and through the looking glass. You´re the bastard, if you´re honest. Always have been, really. Never have owned up to that, have you?
I don´t even know why I bother to roll my eyes, it seems a knee jerk reaction these days. The more agitated I let him know he makes me, the harder he´ll try to perpetuate it. Fine.
Remember, you´re the one that pulled away.
Yeah, yeah. Shut the fuck up about it already.
Didn´t deserve what she did to you, though, he said, running his hand up my thigh just slightly.
Not again. Please-- last time was a mistake. Whatever.
She should have talked to you, should have broken it off before she went and fucked that rubberneckin´ hick.
Maybe if I close my eyes I can pretend
Shoulda tried harder. She should have told you it was as bad as it was. Made you see how after she lost the baby--
Shut up, I say, my eyes flying open and finger pointing at his chest. I´ve tried to hit him before, I know it does no good. It seems the only time he and I can come into contact is when he´s the one doing it. Instead I wag my finger in front of his face and pretend I think I can hurt him.
His smile is slow, and it almost makes me think he feels sorry for me. Almost actually makes me think he´s capable of compassion. How after she lost the baby, that you shut down. Should have taken into account that you were in pain, too. Instead she was selfish--
She was in pain, I say, faltering as I realize I have no name to call him. Disconcerting to say the least. Can´t call him Mort, can I? Maybe I can call him fuckhead. It´s fitting, anyway. Mindfucker that he is. Pain is inherently selfish. Inherently, and unconsciously.
You can pretty it up and call it poetry all you like, Mortimer, he says, fingers twisting into my hair as he smiles softly at me. Can´t get the cow to give back the milk though.
I would ask for clarification on that one, but honestly--
No, it didn´t make sense, don´t bother, he says, laughing. You´re the writer part of us, not me.
First part was good though, I say, finding myself smiling just the tiniest bit. Maybe something more like but manure´s still just another word for shit.´ Or something less cliché.
See, he says, and his voice has dropped and I knew this would happen again. That´s why I let you do the typing. I´m just the idea man, you´re the composer.
The hand in my hair brushes just the right way, just the way Amy used to, and there´s his other hand, resting on my thigh. My eyes close no matter how hard I tell them not to, and my head falls back as his lips rest on my neck. Stop, I say, and it really is pathetic the lack of conviction my voice holds.
Mmm, he rumbles, vibrating my neck as his hand lifts the edge of my robe. I should probably start wearing pants. Less easy access is key with this guy. You know I can make you come like no one else can, and God help me he´s right. Don´t deny it.
I want to. I want to deny it. I want to say that it´s wrong, and sick, and perverted. To say it´s incestuous--
Not incestuous, Mort, he whispers, his hand grazing over my boxers. Damnit, why aren´t boxers thicker? Masturbatorial.
He´s right, actually. If I am him and he is me--
No ifs, Pilgrim, he whispers, squeezing just hard enough for me to make a noise I wish to God I hadn´t. Fact.
It´s still wrong. It´s psychotic, really. Everyone masturbates, sure. But not everyone is masturbated by their reflection after having argued with them for the past hour. While loathing them, and yet lusting for them at the same time. Not common practice, I don´t think. Not really what romance stories are made of either
Romance is for suckers, Mort, you know that, he growls into my ear.
I don´t know how he manages to do this to me. I don´t understand how something nonexistant can touch me, and growl in my ear, and make me harder than-- well, just about anyone else.
You write mysteries, horror books. This is the shit that goes through your sick little brain day in and day out. This is what gets you hard. This is what you create, what you want. Mysteries. Horror. This Stephen King, M. Night Shyamalan shit. The whole shebang.
I want to jerk away. Every thing in my head tells me to run, to get up, to go away. Everything that knows right from wrong in me knows I should get up off of this couch right now. My body though, my body won´t listen to it. My cock is hard, and his fingers-- my fingers, I guess-- are brushing just lightly over it, and it´s perfect. It´s just the right touch. It´s just what I like.
He knows just how I like to progress. That I like to take my time. That I like to take it slow, and build it up till I can´t stand it anymore. That I start off with soft touches, just barely skin on skin, and then gradually work up to what gets me off. He knows what words I like to hear and say. He knows what mental pictures to paint for me.
He knows. Cause he´s me. And I´m him. He knows, because we´re the same.
Stop thinking, fuckstick, he says, and there´s amusement in his voice. The same amusement I used to feel with Amy when she´d start worrying about whether or not the iron was on when my hand would delve between her legs. Stop thinking about me, and who or what I am, and about Amy. Stop thinking about the fact that I can read your mind, and feel. Just fucking feel it, Mort.
And how can I not? His breath in my ear, whispered curses as his dick digs into my thigh. His fist pumping slightly, just slightly, faster now. Every thought I think he obeys. Every time my brain thinks no no, to the left´, he follows the directions. Tighter, harder,´ and it´s done. It´s fucking amazing. The most amazing thing I´ve ever experienced.
I´m tempted to reach over and do to him what he does to me, see if I can´t make him come just as hard, but I know it won´t work. He can´t feel me. I can´t touch him. I can only feel him touch me.
It´s the second time, but it feels like the millionth. It feels like he´s been doing this to me his whole life, and quite honestly I suppose he has. Just when I feel like I can´t take it anymore, he steps it up a notch. His teeth sink into my neck and my nails dig into the couch. I know the noises coming out of my mouth sound like an animal´s, but I just can´t manage to care. It just feels too fucking good.
After it´s all said and done, its taken going on a half an hour, and I can´t breathe properly for another ten minutes. I open my eyes and he´s gone. This perverse sadness starts to envelope me. This sick heavy weighing on my chest that reminds me that once again, I´m all alone.
Because I hate him. I hate him, and I want him gone. I want him completely out of my life.
Except he´s kind of all I have.