Is It Love?

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Adult Romance  |  House: Booksiesilk Classic Group

‘Is it Love you’re after…or just a good time? Tell me, Baby!’

Just a quickie - as they say in la-la land!

One click is all it takes, one click, we connect, she starts singing, switches on, like a download:

‘Is it Love you’re after…or just a good time? Tell me, Baby!’

This isn’t love. But I am her baby! I am captivated by her, entranced. I hear Gaby balling, try to mute her. Furtively glancing round. Tearing my thin grey thatch. Didn’t I close the door? It creaks open. Of course, it does! The door needs oiling. A suffocating grief well ups deep inside me: Toby, our little boy, left us in 2005. Since then, I’ve been searching for reasons. Get down now. Eat too much.

My heart’s up and running. My stomach growls at the sweet smoke, creeping upstairs. Gaby’s baking cookies! Any minute now she’ll breeze inside with a crumbly, chewy brace, a steaming mug of skinny Arabica coffee, four sugars. What if the screen freezes? I’m flustered, dripping sweat. She’ll see red when she finds me like this: severely compromised.

‘How long’ve you seen her,’ she’ll ask, stunned, “How long’ve you met her, lookin’ like this?’  

The screen’s frozen. Damn! I hear Gaby’s footsteps on the staircase. I start to twitch and shake.

‘I didn’t lift a finger,’ I’ll say, ‘Honestly, Gabs, twas an accident.’

‘Course, it was Adam,’ she’ll retort, ‘Like your last online lover an’ the ones before that.

The screen comes alive. Now, I’ll just click EXIT.

She’s reining me in, sending me strawberry mivvi kisses. I taste her nectar lips, all drippy, and sticky. My secret lover, melding her rouge ice cream lips to mine. The screen extrudes, stretch-blown glass, plasticizing around my petrified head, sucking me inside, sealing me in her body.

‘Is it Love you’re after…or just a good time? Tell me, Baby!’ she insists, hatching in my dream.

I embrace my fae in her new-born, bendy, ethereal state; her perma-plasmolysed, plasticated, embryonic baby. We pass Gabs on the landing, dropping her jaw at us, sowing all her cookies at once, as we flee into the gushing shower, our steam-jet sanctuary,

‘Can we start by having a good time, and work at it?’ I ask, snugly furling up inside her.


Submitted: October 22, 2021

© Copyright 2022 Harriet-Jacqui xx. All rights reserved.

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