1. Smack


    Date: 8/28/2015, Categories: Anal, Author: Lupus, Rating: , Source: LushStories

    grinding my teeth and scowling as I haul her higher, straightening her toes to a ballet pose. Slowly, she relaxes and her eyes close before she nods and sags in my hands. Zoey settles onto her heels and turns away from me, avoiding my eyes. She’s stooped over in front of me, holding and massaging her throat, head bowed. I’ve hurt her and I hate myself for it. I’m overcome with guilt and I suddenly need to hug the ridiculous woman in front of me. I want to comfort her and apologise, but I know it’s no use. ‘Why do you have to be so aggressive, Zoey? I don’t want to hurt you.’ Sighing, I place a hand on her shoulder, pulling her body to mine. I go against all instincts and give the meanest, roughest bitch I know a tender cuddle. Zoey stays hunched in her quiet moment of misery. Suddenly, she lurches up, batting away my arm, looking disdainful and sour. “Tough jail bird wants a cuddle, does he? Aww. Bless.” Zoey’s almost spitting it at me. It’s her twisted brand of self-defense. I watch as she paces around the room, determined not to look in my direction. She stops, looking at the TV cupboard. It’s home to a DVD player, a games console and various shit I don’t even recognise. “Huh. Might be worth having.” I try to change the mood, but she shrugs me away; still sore and wounded. She looks at the DVD player a little too long, but eventually faces me again, clearing her throat. Her cheeks are flushed, but her eyes hold that same tension - that determined scowl. “Huh. Maybe. Let’s ...
    see what else there is, if anything.” The atmosphere shifts with her mood, turning gloomy and heavy. The house is silent except for shuffled steps and low mumbles. Zoey’s manic personality is addictive – but destructive, too. Part of me loves to see her that way. It kills me to axe her spirit, even if she is wayward. ‘It’s the smack. It makes her violent. Fuck, if she could be rid of that evil shit...’ I know it’s hypocritical of me to judge Zoey for her addiction. Rolling up my tattered sleeve, I see my arm’s littered with puncture marks and track lines. I look like a notice board, but I know that Zoey looks a whole lot worse. I wish I could say her legs don’t look the same, but I know that’s not true. Watching her shuffle up the wooden stairs, weighed down by her unwilling body, I hate feeling helpless. My own addiction is stupidity. Just a few weeks ago, I was clean. A few years behind bars has a way of cleaning you up – or ruining you, actually - but the second I saw Zoey and she offered me her last precious needle, I was drawn in again. ‘Maybe one day we can both be clean. What would the pair of us look like, then…? We might actually resemble real, regular people.’ Lining the walls on the stairs are family photos. Beaming parents – and a small tribe of children – grin at the camera in those stolen moments, huddled together as one. To me, there seems to be a façade of happiness in every picture – an unrealistic portrayal of family life. Studying the array of phony faces ...
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