A short story I wrote while cooking dinner tonight. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did my pesto.
I'm not competitive. Really I'm not.
Her nails sink into my shoulders, dragging down the feminine curves of my back, stopping above the pronounced and thick beginnings of my glutes.
Life isn't about winning or losing for me. As a matter of fact, in a perfect world we would all be winners right? It's what they teach in school anyway.
I whimper, but make sure it becomes a snarl. My body twitching in discomfort, as I yank the handfuls of blonde hair in my duel grips backwards. I can't take my eyes off her throat, the bulge of her stressed veins visible across her perfect porcelain skin.
No, I don't mind stepping aside and letting someone have their moment. The world doesn't revolve around me, I'm no more special than anyone else.
She's pushing me, using her supple body to crash mine into the wall behind me. Her fingers once hesitating at the swell of my round rips slide down, commiting to grabbing my thick ass. She's pinned me, even with her head peeled back, face a determined mask of agony.
The thing is however, even nice, average women like me? We have limits. We have our own moments. Where these limits are tested. Sometimes, tempers can get away from us, can make even the most calm, cool and collected lose themselves to selfish actions.
I snake my right leg across her left, hooking our calves. I'm already twisting in her grip, my body thrusting back. I release her sweat slick hair with one hand. It's looking for something else. I squeeze it between our bodies, crawling up her tense and firm abs. Supple skin gives way to iron as she fully flexes, trying to stop its advances. But I find my target amongst our compressed and deformed breast flesh. Her nipple is throbbing, I swear I can feel her pulse through it. Her entire body freezes at my violation, our eyes locking for the first time since we began.
Actions that those in polite society might frown on. Never before today would I have ever considered myself a fighter. I'm not competitive after all, I want all my sisters to win! But not everyone thinks like me. Some women, who shall remain nameless. Have issues with entitlement.
My left glute flinched, suddenly free of her warm, harassing grip and jarred by the cold, tiled wall. She grips my wrist, her breathing coming faster, mouth hanging open as she gulps down air as quickly as she can get it. Her sharp french nail job is piercing my skin, causing me to hiss out my discomfort through clenched teeth. Our plastered together nude forms are writhing more and more. Mine to escape and gain retribution. Hers to avoid the coming retaliation.
It was my moment. Well, my best friend's moment. It's not every day your closest friend since 6th grade gets married to her high school sweetheart. Honestly it could be a movie and I don't mean on Lifetime or Hallmark. Like a real movie. With Ryan Gosling. But yeah, today means something. And it should have meant just as much to her future sister in law. Who shall not be named.
I lean in, sinking my teeth into her chest, right above her clavicle. Enough to hurt. Enough for her to let my wrist go and cover the scream trying to leave her mouth. She tastes like coconut. Our trading of spite let me put her off balance, rolling us across the wall and changing positions. I feel her spread out under me, thighs bracing together breasts and arms tangling anew as our dynamic reversed. My entire body was hot. In temperature, to the touch. And it was made worse by her heat. How pleasant it was, how amazing it felt to be like this.
I didn't choose to be maid of honor. It's not something I'd even admit to being good at. I'm hardly the girly, flowery, epitome of femininity. As far as hobbies go anyway. Looks? I'm a total smoke show, babe on ice. Fucking right I'll admit to that, guilty as charged. But I was asked to do this. By someone I love and value, it was an honor. Literally. From day one, Erica made it known there were going to be problems between us. Oops, named her.
Her teeth were out now, desperate to hurt me back. I was pressing my face to hers, trying block what I knew was coming, what I knew was going to hurt like hell. Unable to get to my chest, she did what I hadn't even considered. My chin exploded in a red hot pain, her wet angry mouth latching on. I couldn't free a hand to stop it, a high pitched yelp escaping my punished mouth. It was wild, impossible even, but I could see her smile. Our hands stayed trapped between our bodies, pinching, scratching and molesting anything we could.
She was not picked. She was not the maid of honor. She was not the bride to be. This was not her moment. And she was making sure ours would be hell. We managed her catty outbursts. Attributed it to stress. To understandable and petty jealousy. Drinking a few times. But honestly, she was just a bitch. That was made clear tonight. Stacy was reduced to tears. Her moment, her walking down the aisle was barely two hours away! Her makeup was touched up countless times and still out of loyalty to him, she didn't kick his sister out.
I pull back, her mouth slipping off mine. I wonder for a moment, what she might have tasted in our contact. Cold air hits every inch of me, my nipples already hard from our body to body friction now painfully erect and exposed. I lock eyes with her again as I grip her face, my blood red nails threatening more severe damage. "We agreed, not the face bitch." I hiss, whispering harshly and feeling myself starting lose control. She begins thrashing without a word, shoving and grabbing at my own face.
We had a talk. We agreed our dresses were too expensive, even a few pieces of jewelry rented out. Yes, I was drunk this time, but you be a sober maid of honor, that shit is not for me. We agreed that things had gone on too long unaddressed. That talking in circles wasn't going to solve anything and we couldn't continue until things were solved. No marks on faces, anything below the neck was fair game. Whoever gave up first was leaving and whoever was left was the maid of honor.
I'm shoved off her finally, stumbling some steps backwards. "Promises are made to be broken right? Otherwise it would be ME in that fucking dress you ass kissing cxnt!" She says, tears forming in her eyes.
I'm not sure why, but tears sting my eyes as well. The gravity of this was settling on my abused and red chest. She wanted to take my moment away, for real. This wasn't some weird ritual to blow off steam or assert herself. She wanted what was mine. The alcohol suddenly turned into vapor, sobering me up instantly. My voice trembled, but I answered. "But it's not. Is it?" I started stalking towards her, not afraid, not hesitating like she had.
I reach out, slapping her across the face. Watching her hair whip out, golden blonde strands covering her features, hiding her pain. "It's me. I'm in the fucking dress, because Stacy picked me, over YOU." I swing out again, hitting her scalp more than anything and still she doesn't respond. I don't stop. Swinging again, anger building instead of washing away. My palm starts to sting, throbbing as it beat her again and again. I'm not sure how many I lash out with before I'm stopped.
A long, cold sob choked up and out of her. I don't know if it was me hitting her or the realization that she simply never would have been chosen over me. But she broke. Her whole body shook, smaller sobs and whimpers following the first. Rushing past me, grabbing the terry cloth robe she wore to meet me in. She didn't look back, never turned around. Just quickly covered herself and ran. And that was it.
Until about a week later. As we prepped for the honeymoon cruise we were all leaving on with the newlyweds. I got a text.
