A lot of people in my home town steer clear of me. They think I’m weird, or strange or just plain freaky – sometimes it’s even a combination of everything together. But I’m none of that stuff, not really.
Okay, maybe I have a touch of a morbid fascination with knives and have maybe once or twice been seen at a midnight showing of some horror film, but who hasn’t?
Most people, Amelia, most people.
Yeah, well . . . I don’t care.
Okay, I do care that’s why I tend to keep to myself a lot. Just keep my head down, my feet straight and my mind focused on my job.
I’m a hair stylist, or more precisely a colourist as I’m wicked with creating beautiful hues and tones that blend perfectly together. I get a few customers, mainly teens and stuff like me but that’s alright as stretching my wings occasionally is better than
doing it every single day.
I say that for purely selfish reason of course. If I had to dye people’s hair beautiful colours each day then it’d leave no time for me to do my own.
At the moment my hair is sort of firey. It’s mainly deep reddy brown but tones down into flame orange at the end.
I think it’s cool and matches my curls perfectly, but my mom and dad were less than impressed this morning. So, I’ve had to hide it. It couldn’t be completely hidden but I have my hair in a high bun so it just looks like I’m a red head.
Which isn’t so bad.
Maybe it is.
I don’t know.
If I spent most of my time worrying what they say or the people around me say, then I’d probably never get out of bed, nor would I let myself be who I am in his podonk little town.
I’m not completely me, you know there’s a piece missing and I have no idea what it is.
I’m not big on experiencing new things, so I haven’t tried a lot of stuff, like . . . kissing, theme parks, or stuff like that. The only things I do that are ‘new’ is my hair and my writing. Even then that’s not new.
Yeh, so I’ve never actually had a boyfriend. Not a real one anyway.
My parents think I’m a lesbian, my school people thought I was a combination of lesbian and asexual, and you know what? I haven’t denied or confirmed anything. I guess I should as I’m not a lesbian, nor am I asexual, I’m just . . . shy. Just shy.
There are boys at this party, technically it’s a wedding but I’ve just been looking at it as a giant party and have had my fair share of cocktails and cake.
Anyway, there are boys at this party and most of them are the pretty boy types that laugh at anything that isn’t the perfect ten in their books.
The perfect ten consists of . . . I don’t know what the perfect ten consists of. Do THEY even know what it consists of? I don’t think so.
So fuck them.
I don’t care about them, they can laugh and have as much fun as they like before I care about what they think of me or my pretty hair. All I care about is sitting with my little plate of food and talking to the ancient man next to me who’s repeatedly told me
he likes my hair.
He’s said it literally five times.
I’ve been trying to engage him in conversation but it’s kinda futile as he keeps either falling asleep, asking for his wife, *cough* who’s dead, or complimenting my hair.
However, no amount of cuteness will be able to stop him from being just that touch annoying. But that’s not his fault. So, I merely smile and turn my eyes from him to look around the entire white tent venue which is white everywhere.
I though white was a sign of purity? Of virginity? Humm, let me tell you, the bride whom is my olderrrrr sister, isn’t a virgin nor is she pure by any meaning of the word.
She a hoe!
Only joking. Or am?
We may never know. Unless you ask her bedroom walls.
Anywho, no more sister bashing as she’s now reformed and on her way to being a god fearing lady who’s new husband is a MINISTER! Yep. Hoe meet minister, minister gets hoe to join his church and become a minion . . . not a cute yellow minion either, a horrible
enslaved one that tries to drag people down into their depths of god loving worship to leave the rest of us fearing for our lives . . . HELP MEEEEE!
Yeh, I’m not religious. I respect religion as long as it’s not shoved down my throat or spoken about every second of every day.
Leave me be people’s.
But, ah, people don’t lot leave me, of course they don’t as my sister is giving me the stink eye – I haven’t even done anything! – the pretty boys are laughing in my general direction and some man is staring at me.
I do as I’m told and look away from the man, seeing my plate which is ohhh so interesting and still full of food.
Sandwich here I come.
Yummy sandwich which is making me feel a little queazy.
Fuck you little ham sandwich.
“How’s your FOOD, NORMAN?” I only remember halfway through my question that Norman, the ancient guy at my table, is half deaf. But he hears me, looks up at me, smiles and compliments my hair.
Awww. So sweet.
I give him a giggle before looking away. Looking back towards . . . ohh, he’s still looking at me.
‘Hello’, I whisper. Which is stupid because he’s half way across the tent and now I just feel like an idiot. An idiot who’s looking at the staring man.
I feel like I should do some ballsey, you know? Umm, wave, or flick my ha. . .okay I can’t flick my hair. Should I wave? Cuz he’s kinda still staring at me.
He’s sitting at the grooms family table, looking super smart in a suit and I think he has glasses on. It looks like he does. The only thing I know for sure it that he’s cuteeeee! Okay, not cute in a Norman way, but cute as in why is he still staring at me?
Does he have no shame?
I’m guessing not as he still looking at me. Like his eyes are boring into my brain and it has a unexpected whimper leaving my lips and my thighs clamping together.
Ohhh, THAT’S never happened before.
I have a bubble in my stomach, a little bubble that goes ‘bleeb’ to rise up inside of me. It almost feels like a burp but I know it’s not a burp as burps are more ‘burh’ inside of me.
So what the hell is a ‘bleeb’? Some new adult feeling that chooses now to rise up? But for WHAT purpose?
Humm, purpose? Anyone have a purpose I can use for this ‘bleeb’ and the mans eyes on me?
Maybe he knows seeing as he’s the one that given it to me.
If I had balls, of which I don’t, I would go and ask him and demand he release me from his ‘bleeb’ spell so I can eat my food in peace!
Oh wait. No, the food sucks. I can’t eat the food.
Humm, maybe the food has given me the ‘bleeb’? Must be. Rotten food equals a dodgy tummy.
Mans staring eyes do NOT equal a dodgy tummy.
I can not stop looking at the man.
Any moment I will stop looking at him.
After my eyes have searched his face, his beard, his hand holding his drink – lucky drink – and finally his eyesssssss. . . Pretty eyes. Pretty blue eyes. Pretty crystal clear blue eyes that have me whimpering and my tummy ‘bleebing’ again.
Ohhh, not food.
Mans eyes make my tummy ‘bleeb’.
WHAT THE FUCK IS A BLEEB?
The man is staring at me and I’m staring a him. But I need to get away, so I do. I force my stupid legs to move it or lose it alllll the way home.
No bleebs in my bedroom now, nothing but colourful walls, lots of pictures and ho-ly-shit on spaghetti. . . The-the-the man! He’s-he’s-he’s ON MY FUCKING WALL!
Not strung up or anything like that, but on a picture. A picture from a magazine, on my wall.
He’s on MY FUCKING WALL!
Oh my god.
Picture come with me.
I stare at the man, and the picture and everything while trying to remember where precisely I got the picture from.
Ummm, I-I-I can’t remember!
Pretty picture though.
Who the fudge is he?
I mean really?
Okay, be serious about this Amelia, he’s not from your side of the family so he must be . . . BINGO! He’s from my sisters husband side of the family.
Okay, but that doesn’t explain a lot and nothing explains anything cuz nothing makes sense and I’m just confused as to who he is.
But, ah, my confusion stays and only gets a thousand million times stronger as I go to work, pick up my broom and TADA blue eyed magazine man standing at my work station.
But my head tips like a puppy as I look alllll up and down him.
The man likes suit.
I wonder if I could lick his suit?
Errr, bad Amelia. Bad.
Who the fuck wants to lick a suit? I hear somebody ask and I raise my hand, inside of my head of course as I’m not so crazy as to actually believe the voices in my head are speaking out loud.
That would just be crazy.
I wonder where I could get a straightjacket from?
Wait, the man is speaking . . . “. . .be at Antonio’s at one. Do not be late.”
What the fucks an Antonios? Who is this man?
Ohhh, it’s not a man. It’s a shop. A tea shop with oh my god CAKES!
I want a cake.
Cake here I come.
I get my cake and sit down at a little table.
Mmm, but I don’t get to eat my delicious cake as the magazine man from earlier grabs my plate and walks away from me.
Nice, the guy just ignores me.
Oh my god what is happening to my brain?!
I’ve turned into a complete god damn moron.
A moron who’s going for her cake.
I follow the man, going to the other end of the rather busy shop to sit at a little table which already has cakes and tea and awww, cute little tea cups and saucers.
“Sit,” my ass does as it’s told and I sit down. I try to reach for my cake but the magazine man hands it to a passing waiter before sitting down opposite me.
I feel like I should run away at this point, I mean there is a little voice in my head telling me to run away, but for some reason I stare at the man and demand for my cake to be bought back.
The man doesn’t answer me, not with his words anyway, but with his hands sorting out the tea and stuff.
My butt can’t help but wiggle, I honestly can’t stop it’s wiggles, as I wait for tea while questioning myself about why I’m not questioning this man or even asking who the hell he is?
A more important question should be why am I doing as he tells me to do? A complete strange and I’m like a frog hopping for him.
That’s not healthy.
But screw healthy as I HAVE CAKE!
Mmm, delicious cake that tastes even more delicious as the man hands me a little fork so I can eat like one of the posh people around me instead of my natural born animal.
I scoff my cake like a lady before sitting back in my seat with my second cup of scrum-diddily-upticious tea and staring! at magazine man.
That can’t be his name, can it?
“Ummm,” well done Amelia, NOW you’re lost for words? What happened to this running commentary inside of your head? Huh? Let it come pouring our of your mouth like a broke faucet. Come on.
“You haven’t questioned me once. Why do you think that is?”
Ohhh, man has a pretty voice. No! A handsome voice!
The bleebs are back.
“Because I’m an idiot.”
The man smirks and ohhh bleebs are stronger and my thighs are wet.
Errr. I hope I haven’t just peed myself.
“You’re not an idiot, darling. . .” DarlingdarlingdarlingdarlingHECALLEDMEDARLING! Ohh god I-I-I- think. . .I’ve peed. I must have peed.
Peed in a fancy restaurant surrounded by posh people and a man FROM A MAGAZINE!
And here I though my life couldn’t get any more embarrassing.
Maybe I do need Jesus in my life . . . Or maybe the man in front of me is a vampire!
A fucking vampire . . . Wait, if he was a vampire then wouldn’t he get burnt in the sun? Would he even be able to eat his cake or drink his tea?
Yummy tea for a vampire.
Vampires have good taste.
“You have good taste in tea. More cake please . . . Wait! Why did you give away my first piece? I wanted that.”
“It wouldn’t have been anywhere nearly as satisfying as the piece I gave you. You seemed to of enjoyed it, did you?” I can only become an idiot and nod.
The man smiles and I pee again with a whimper that is audible and the man hears. He smiles even brighter and I’m on a never ending carnival ride of pee, whimpers and being an idiot.
“What are you thinking?”
“You’re a vampire. Can’t you read my thoughts?”
Well done, Amelia. You’re a credit to your kind.
I blow a mental raspberry at my mind while STARING at the vampire. He looks somewhere between amused and I dunno, aroused? What ever the hell aroused looks like?
“Why do you say I’m a vampire?”
He’s stupid for a vampire.
“Cuz I’m like,” I wave my arms while making some really stupid vampire noises and why is no one stopping me? I should NOT be all to have control over myself.
Control. Yeh like I have control over myself.
“I’m not sure what you mean, darling.”
“Because I’m turning into a moron around you, mr vampire magazine blue eyed man. Who the hell are you anyway? And I want my cake back. Can you get it for me?” The man shakes his head and awww, I want cake.
I wonder if clicking my fingers will make the cake waiter come back.
I’m about to try but I’m stopped by vampire magazine man leaning forwards to look at me over the rim of his glasses.
Over-over the top of them.
How do I have so much pee in which to pee out?
“Listen to me, Amelia,” HE KNOWS MY NAME, “there is a connection between us and it has nothing to do with me being a vampire. . .”
“Are you a vampire?”
“No.” Yeh he is, “you seem to be loosing your head a little, darling.”
“I lost that years ago. Now, tell me about this magazine. . .”
The man is ohhhh so patient and doesn’t stop staring at me until I finally button my lips shut from asking a butt load of questions. I ask and he answers and then I forget.
But I haven’t forgotten his name . . . Maximilian – if that’s not a vampire na–
“I’m not a vampire, darling.”
I often wonder if I speak my thoughts out loud.
Maybe I do and maybe I don’t.
Vampire man does.
I pee again as the man moves, coming to sit in the chair besides me. He doesn’t touch me but I want him toooo. But he doesn’t, he just stares at me again while talking obviously.
“There is something about you, Amelia. Something I wish to explore.”
SEX! He’s means SEX?!?!?!
“I’m not speaking about sex, but something deeper, more intimate. Would you like to explore with me?”
I feel like I’m gonna explode!
The man is looking at me and it’s making me pee and whimper. He hears it and smiles gently, making me smile and ohhh, he’s so pretty. Handsome. Handsome pretty. Pretty handsome.
“Explore? Explore what?”
“Something special. Meet me here on Friday, four O’clock.” I nod a little, making the man smile as he stands up.
Ohhh. I miss him already, but he only just goes after putting some money on the table, but not before saying, “no more cake. I’ll see you in two days.”
Anything for you mr vampire.
I need to go home.
Home here I come.
Okay, the other day I wasn’t quite thinking straight. I mean to be honest I was completely fucking bonkers and I’m not sure why.
But now, I’m as sane as it’s going to get and I’m ready for my little get together with Mr. Deacon.
I’ve found out a couple of facts about him; the first that he’s not a vampire and that makes me feel like a complete fucking idiot.
Maybe I should have idiot stamped on my forehead?
Nah, that would only make him think I’m even more crazy than he probably already does.
Anyway, the other facts I’ve found out are; not married, no children, never been divorced, owns a big company doing lots of stuff, has a good education, apparently loves his suits and it’s ummm, older.
Older as in forty.
I’m twenty two and he’s forty.
That’s not THAT big of an age difference, is it?
My mom seems hell bent on me ‘accommodating’ Mr. Deacon, as she put it. Accommodating? What does that even mean?
I think it basically means if he says jump I should become a frog and hop away.
The bitch is trying to pimp me out.
My own mother! Can you believe it?!
In all honestly, I’m kinda, maybe not too bothered about him being older cuz he’s been invading my brain since two days ago. Yep. Two long old days ago. . .when I acted like an idiot and peed.
Okay, I didn’t pee myself. I was just . . . wet. Obscenely wet and I feel myself getting wetter right now as I walk to Mr. Deacon.
I made sure to dress properly together. Umm, I feel kind silly but I wanted to look smart seeing as I knew Mr. Deacon would be smart.
So, umm, I’ve dressed in a long black shirt, it’s actually a mans shirt so it covers my ass properly. On my legs I have black shorts. My feet are covered in my dr martins and I have a leather jacket over my black shirt.
Umm, I think Mr. Deacon approves of my outfit as as soon as he saw me he stood up from his table to stand tallllll above me.
Oh god I didn’t realise how tall he was.
Oh god my thoughts are going astray again.
I give myself a mental slap while keeping the both of my hands behind my back, holding onto myself and umm, I guess waiting for instruction from Mr. Deacon to make the first move, I guess.
I don’t know.
His eyes sweep up and down my figure, seeing me and making me blush under my make-up.
God am I thankful I’m wearing make up; lots of foundation, cat eyes and burgundy lips. My hair is down, flowing around my shoulders and it’s a little different to last time as I’ve made my roots and a few inch of my hair darker so my hair goes from brown, to
red and down to fire.
It sounds kinda strange but it blends together really nice.
Well I think it does.
Mr. Deacon thinks my hair is nice, I feel him gently caressing a strand as I sit down. He only feels it for a second before sitting opposite me with a smile on his lips and the table already laid out with tea and the same cakes as last time.
I’m about to open my mouth, wanting to say it’s good to see him but he cuts across me and almost demands for me to remove my jacket. I stare at him for a moment, deciding if I should or not and I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t.
It’s a little warm in here after all.
Slowly, I slip my jacket down my arms, letting it pool behind me on the chair. As it pools I reach into my pocket, pulling out my phone to place it onto the table between us.
My eyes stay on Mr. Deacon, watching him as he watches me. Before watching him as he picks my phone up from the middle of the table to place it onto the corner near him.
I want to question him, ask him what he’s doing but I can’t seem to find my words, nor my strength to do anything but watch his eyes.
Seeing them almost hidden behind his glasses but visible to my eyes.
He stares at me, it’s a soft stare but it cuts me into little pieces, all of which float towards him. I feel myself floating towards him and it scares me. Scares me deeply, so deep that my hands begin to shake and my breathing hardens.
Mr. Deacon notices, I see his eyes see my changes and it makes him smile, while it makes me worried? No, not worried. Ummm, concerned he is in fact a vampire.
He doesn’t say anything, he merely pours us both some tea, making mine perfect with lots of milk and even more sugar.
Of course he’s remembered.
“Thank you, Mr. Deacon,” I say quietly. Almost on a whisper but just loud enough for him to hear but no one else.
He smiles and sits back in his chair as I keep my shaky hands on my tea cup and saucer and my back straight.
Must remember to keep my back straight.
“So, you’ve found out my name?” He questions, his voice catches me a little off guard, but I nod and bring my tea to my lips, taking a little sip so I don’t have to speak. My hands are a little shaky, the man sees and I think it pleases him.
“You’re nervous.” His words are a statement, not a question and I can only nod in agreement while praying to find my words soon.
“What are you nervous of?”
I found my words, well, word.
My word makes the man smile and it makes me bite my bottom lip in something of worry and I think hesitation. This man is making me hesitant, not because he’s worrying me or even frightens me, but because I’m unsure about his want for me.
With as much strength in my body, I lean forwards, attempting to reach for my phone but Mr. Deacon beats me to it. He places his hand over my phone, cupping it in his giant hand and making my little hand stop dead in it tracks.
“I need my phone.” I say while trying to make myself reach forwards, but I’m slightly afraid to touch him, not for fear he’ll hurt me, but fear that I’ll fly off the handle.
Mr. Deacon shakes his head and I whimper while sitting back in my seat properly to place my hands back around my tea and hold onto it.
“It’s impolite to be distracted by anything but your company. I am your company, Miss. Henderson.”
Ohhh, he can talk.
I nod a little in agreement and watch as Mr. Deacon releases my phone to place his hand back on his tea cup. He takes a little sip with his eyes on me and other hand below the table.
I’m guessing on his lap.
“Can-I’d like to put my phone in my pocket. Can-can I?” I don’t know why I’m asking for permission but it seems I am.
Mr. Deacon shakes his head, making me frown a little but I wipe the frown off my face to shake my head gently in exasperation.
“You are confused.”
“Yes. I’m not sure what’s going on here.”
“We are having tea – just like we did on Wednesday.”
The man smiles and leans forwards, coming towards me and god I’m grateful the table is between us.
“Because we wish to explore on another.”
Oh god I’ve peed and whimpered.
Mr. Deacon knows I’ve whimpered, he heard it leave my lips and saw it as well. I try to cover my tracks by brining my tea to my lips but it’s no use. He and I both know I’ve whimpered.
“You do wish to explore with me, don’t you?” I nod rather frantically but I’m confused, so confused.
Gently I place down my cup, letting it sit on the saucer for a moment so I can place both of my hands in my lap and keep my eyes upon Mr. Deacon.
“I’m not in the business of exploring, Mr. Deacon.”
I’m not even sure what I mean by my words.
God I’m confused.
Mr. Deacon smiles again, a big beautiful smile that chips away at me.
“Everyone is in the business of exploring. Tell me, have you ever explored yourself?”
Ohhh, fuck what is he talking about?!?!
“What-what are you talking about?”
Mr. Deacon looks down my body, going to my little breasts to have them thrusting out a little and a whimper leaving my lips, again.
“Exploring yourself. Your body, Miss. Henderson.”
He’s-he’s talking about . . . masturbating.
Oh this is about sex.
“My body is none of your concern, Mr. Deacon, and I don’t think it’s very appropriate tea conversation.”
“I think it’s perfect tea conversation. I like to think of it as civilised debauchery.”
Sex, drugs and rock and roll most certainly come to mind.
“I’m-I’m not. . .interested in debauchery, Mr. Deacon. I-I don’t know who you think I am.”
“Mmm, who are you, Miss. Amelia Henderson?”
I shrug a little with the bleebs in my stomach again, except there not just in my stomach but travelling a little lower and lower to get to my exceedingly wet panties.
This-this is worrying me and I want to leave, but I can’t leave. I can’t physically force myself to leave.
Mr. Deacon leans forwards, coming closer to me with a smile upon his lips and his eyes looking at me over the rim of his glasses.
“There is nothing to fear, darling. . .”
“I’m not afraid of anything. I’m confused.”
“Confused about what, precisely?”
“You. . . I-I only saw you at my sisters wedding. You was staring at me . . . Then you come to the salon and ask me to meet you for tea. For what purpose? To explore. I’m not exploring anything with you. I-I-I don’t even know who you are.”
“With exploring one another will we find out exactly who we are and who one another is.”
“You’re talking about sex. I’m not sleeping with you.”
Mr. Deacon chuckles light while shaking his head, making me frown and it only deepens as he places a book on the table and slides it over to me.
I see the beautiful red cover and good lettering, I can’t read what it says because of the lighting glare, so I just turn my eyes back to Mr. Deacon with a frog in my throat and my heart pounding.
“This book is me. Inside you’ll read about who I am, what I am, and the way I live and love. . .”
“You wrote it?”
“Yes. This is me. I am NOT only interested in sex, it obviously plays on my mind as I’m sure it does your own.” Deny. Deny. Deny. Deny. “This book is something I’ve been working on for years and you’re in it.”
How-how am I in it?
“How am I in it?”
Mr. Deacon quirks an eyebrow while taking the book back. I want to reach for it but I don’t want to touch him, too afraid, so I merely keep my hands in my lap and my eyes upon his own.
“There is something about you, Miss. Henderson.”
“There is nothing about me, Mr. Deacon.”
“I beg to differ. Even if you can’t see it, I can and I want to explore it.”
“I’m not having sex with you.”
My words make him smile and his smile has my cheeks becoming a thousand times rosier.
“Not yet you won’t.”
“Not ever, Mr. Deacon.”
“So you say. Yet, here you are, still sitting across from me. Do you not find me attractive?”
“I don’t find arrogance attractive.”
“Ah, arrogance. Is that what I am? Arrogant?” I nod a little but begin to question wither or not he’s actually being arrogant. Maybe he’s just assured? Mr. Deacon comes forwards again, leaning towards me with a little tip of his head and eyes diverting between my eyes and lips.
“I know what I want, Miss. Henderson, and I won’t stop until I have it.”
I’m slightly afraid to ask my next question but I have too.
“What-what. . .”
“What do I want?” I nod and Mr. Deacon smiles brightly while pointing a finger towards me, “you.” He says simply to have the bleebs swarming my body and my head becoming fuzzy.
It’s so wrong that I want him to reach across the table, grab me and kiss me until I pass out.
Gently I shake my head while reaching a hand onto the table, first picking up my tea to drain the reminding drops before gently brushing my index finger across the cream of my untouched cake.
“You-you can’t . . . have me, Mr. Deacon.”
Even I don’t believe my words.
My word make Mr. Deacon tip his head down, looking deeper into my eyes only to give me a little smile.
“Are you taken by another?”
He must be a fucking vampire.
I’ve seen True Blood.
Gently I shake my head, making the man across from me smile just that little bit brighter.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Married?” I frown and shake my head gently. “Have you ever had a boyfriend?” I shrug, not answering as I don’t want to. It’s none of his business and I don’t have to answer if I don’t want to.
Instead of answering I bring my finger to my lips, sucking the cream off before deciding I want to eat my cake. So I do. I bring the little plate closer to dig into it with the little fork made for children.
Stupid tiny fork.
“You are a stunning girl, Miss. Henderson and I would like to court you.”
Raising my eyes up, I stare at Mr. Deacon, seeing him looking back at me softly.
“Court? What do you mean ‘court’?”
He smiles gently, “it means to date and explore with one another.”
“I’m. Not. Sleeping. With. You.”
“No one had said anything about sex, Miss. Henderson, and the sooner you realise that’s not what I’m asking for the sooner we can begin to get to know one another.”
He’s confusing me.
“So, you don’t want to sleep with me?”
I must say I’m a little. . .disappointed.
Mr. Deacon smirks while tipping his head, “I would be lying if I said I hadn’t thought of sleeping with you. However, there are many things I wish for us to explore that are not-sexual.”
He does want to sleep with me!
“Non-sexual? You mean like holding hands and seeing movies and stuff.”
Mr. Deacon laughs gently while sitting back in his chair, still with his eyes upon my own. Making me crinkle my nose a little while trying desperately to think of something to say that could be more. . .grown up?
“Holding hands and seeing movies are apart of it. But there is something deeper I wish to explore with you.”
“Mmm, you are a good girl,” what am I four?, “and I think, with the right training you could become something spectacular for me.”
Training?! For him?!
What the fuck is this?
“What the fuck are you talking about? Training? Training for what?”
Mr. Deacon raises an eyebrow while leaning forwards. His face changes to something that resembles my dad when he’s trying to be strict with me or my brothers.
Ohh, it’s scary and a little bleeb at the same time.
“Don’t not swear.”
I frown, not liking this conversation or this man anymore. He’s just confusing me and it hurts a little.
So, with a huff I stand up, sliding my chair back as I go, to quickly grab my phone and my jacket. I don’t say anything, nor do I look at Mr. Deacon, I just walk out of the tea shop with a tiny little confused tear in the corner of my eye.
He’s confused me.
I-I-I don’t understand what he wants. I don’t understand what he’s trying to say to me. His-his words make absolutely no sense.
You know what? Fuck him.
I’m not even going to bother trying to figure him out or figure out what he wants. He can go stuff himself and leave me alone.
I make a quick stop off at home, just quickly grabbing my bag, which I stupidly left at home this morning, before heading to the most beautiful spot in the entire world.
My little hide away.
A place which is mine and mine alone, no one knows about it, at least I don’t think anyone does as I’ve never ever seen anyone here but me.
My hide away is actually a little cliff, buried deep in the woods. I have to walk for about half an hour through the woods before coming to my little clearing, a beautiful little clear that has nothing but grass and a few flowers. However if I look over the
edge then I’ll see water down below.
I’ve actually made a little path down to the water, so I can go in if I like, but I don’t want to right now. All I want to do is sit and relax in the sun.
Which is exactly what I do.
The sun is cooling down, but not enough for me not to warrant taking off my jacket nor my shirt, leaving myself in my shorts and pretty pink floral bra.
It feels. . .amazing to simply lay down, relax and think not of Mr. Deacon, but of myself, of what I want and need.
I don’t know what I want nor what I need.
I most certainly don’t.
What I do know is that I’m going to dye my hair when I get home. I’m thinking of either black or maybe pink and black.
Humm, pink at my head and black down the length of my curls.
Mmm, sounds pretty.
The only problem with dyeing my hair black is that I’ll either have to bleach it or let it grow out if I get bored of it.
Ummm, I don’t bleach my hair often so it shouldn’t cause to much damage if I decide I do want to dye it something else.
With my mind on my hair, I shift my body gently to lay on my front and push my breasts into the ground. Mm, it feels good, feels fantastic actually but I can’t help overcoming the feeling that it would feel even more fantastic if I had somebody here with me.
If Mr. Deacon was here with me.
I wonder what he looks like with his shirt off, or even naked.
Mmm, he’s tall. Very tall. So, I’m guessing his body is long; long legs and even longer torso to almost completely cover my body.
Mm, his weight pushing into me, pushing me into the ground as his lips press against the side of my throat, kissing gently but a little wetly and passionately.
Deep kisses that mark my skin. Little darkened patches across my throat to let me see where exactly he’s paid attention to me.
Pay attention to all of me.
I bet his attention is spectacular and so gentle. Humm, maybe not so gentle as he seems a little forceful, not really in a bad way but a way that gets him what he wants. Wants. . . He-he-he wants me.
He said he wants me.
Umm, why does he want me?
I-I don’t understand why he’d want me. I’m nothing special, nothing unique or anything.
In fact I’m an introverted nerd with too much time on her hands and far too many dreams, hopes and aspirations to even know where to begin.
Where do I begin?
Do I begin with Mr. Deacon?
Do I allow for him to, umm, what did he say? Ah, train me? What ever that means.
Should I let him take my lips, my body, my, umm, virginity?
God knows I’ve never thought about anyone really taking me, even wanting me really. No one has ever given me a second glance, they always look past me to the beautiful girl behind me.
I’m not the beautiful girl.
I’m the girl with too many lines on her skin, too few interested, too few hobbies that make her not leave the house or too few friends that make her sit alone each night even when everyone else is out partying, clubbing and whatever else.
I love to dance, but I can’t dance and I don’t dance. What do I do instead? I write about dancing. I write about a man and woman writhing together, dancing with their bodies, their hips, their lips and their hands. Dancing, writhing, grinding and being together
in a deep intimate way. . . Wait! Is THAT what Mr. Deacon was talking about?
Ohhh, he must have been. . . That-that means he wants to teach me to be a. . . ummm, a lover I guess.
He said he wants to court me. . . Court, not date, but COURT.
I wonder what the difference is.
Ah, my phone has all the answers.
‘Courting differs from dating as it done so with the intent to marry at the end. Courting is typically a year long affair, by which time the gentleman will ask for his brides hand in marriage. Occasional the groom will ask the brides father for her hand, but
generally speaking that practice has died out.’
Court to marry.
Hot damn. . . Wait! Do I want to marry Mr. Deacon? How can I know if I want to marry him, I may not like him. Well. . . I do like him. I like him now, I just didn’t understand what he wanted from me.
He-he confused me and I walked away like a god damn chicken.
Well done, Amelia, well done.
I couldn’t help it, not really. I didn’t know what else to do. . . What if. . . No, Amelia, no what if’s. What IF’S do not exist. The only way you’re going to find an answer is to speak to Mr. Deacon. . . Will I have to call him Mr. Deacon when were married?
I hope not as they will be a little weird.
Can you imagine him sleeping with me and me calling out Mr. Deacon in the middle? That would be a little weird.
Humm, would I take him name?
I think I would.
Mrs. Maximilian Deacon.
Mr and Mrs. Maximilian Deacon.
Very, very, very interesting.
I’m most definitely taking his name.
Whow my thoughts have gone coo-coo.
Get back on track you silly girl.
Okay, track . . . I wonder where the train is?
Wait, there is no train. I AM the train and as the train I need to figure out which path I’m going to take.
Hummm, fuck it, I’ll take a nap instead.
Story is mine. Characters are mind. Please don’t not reproduce. All mistakes are mine. No flames please.