1. A Scarred Wonderland


    Date: 8/22/2015, Categories: Hardcore, Author: MadMartigan, Rating: 18, Source: LushStories

    neatly manicured bend in the driveway, my sweaty palms slip on the ivory steering wheel. The midnight sky slopes unfathomably low to the ground and a golden moon swings with pendulum grace from invisible threads, almost scraping the roof of the tinted glass house. It swings low enough that I want to reach out and pull it down, see if it tastes like cheese. Or just give it hard shake, like a snow globe, and see if a tiny man falls out. O/o\O My sandaled feet crush a bed of flowers into the paved cobbles when I slip from the truck, releasing an intoxicatingly sweet fragrance that sparks a familiar feeling in me, one that I can’t quite place. I bend down and bring a handful of white to my nose. I breathe deep and colors explode into blinding neon hues that blush across the white petals before firing out, drenching first the house, then the sky in kaleidoscopic rainbows. A word forms on my lips, something that has an inherent magic all its own. It tastes like strawberry wine at the tip of my tongue and rouses a faded memory of a story I can’t remember reading: a lost girl in a blue dress with a bow in her straw blonde hair. “Wonderland,” I whisper. The large trellis walkway stretching up to the patio is smothered in dark foliage so thick it creates a miniature forest canopy. Sheets of dark flowers in alien shades weave in and out of the latticework and wind around the cherry stained wood of the posts. As I walk toward the house, thin lines of moss branch out like circuitry ...
    through the interior of the trellis, carving an eerie path of electric blue through the inky black tunnel. I duck inside and push through the foliage and I’m assaulted by sensation. Impossible scents mingle like hot milk and cocoa with a touch of tongue tingling spice. It’s like being in a living garden bakery. No need for cooks, just larges vines that brush the skin like slippery, silken hands. Despite the strangeness of everything, I can’t contain the smile forcing its way across my lips. I want to believe this is his doing; that he’s even more than I think him to be. I vaguely remember that night in the club, under the heavy buzz of Tequila and great music. I don’t know why I said those words, only his response. ‘I’ll jump down that hole after you if I have to, kitten, even if it’s into the jaws of Monty Python’s rabbit.’ A terrible line really, but …I also remember his nimble fingers, wet with whiskey, pushing past my damp panties under a black marble staircase. Six months was a still a thing, right? Halfway to something is a kind of achievement. You’re halfway to fucking it up or halfway to making magic. I push the door open. My hopes depress faster an addict’s needle. For a pregnant moment, I try convincing myself of some magical gesture of romance, even the darkly comedic sort. Black humor and pranks are his style. “Hopeless delusion,” a voice whispers, so softly it doesn’t even register with me. O/o\O The house is chilly as I creep inside. The metallic flavors of smoke ...
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