Theater of Rules

Prologue

Curtains of hair hung between them, her blond mingling with
his black as he fucked her mercilessly. 
Their breathing came in pants and every inhale pulled more silk fine
strands into their mouths.  The air
trapped between their hair and their faces clung hot and humid to their skin,
her moans turning to breathless screams as she dug her nails into his back a
short distance from her thighs wrapped round his hips.style=\'mso-spacerun:yes\'>  She couldn't breath, couldn't scream, couldn't
stop the cries he ripped from her. 

She loved him, but couldn't say it.style=\'mso-spacerun:yes\'>  In all the times they had been together, like
this, fucking or making love or using each other's bodies for comfort she had
never said his name.  In fact, she
couldn't remember the last time she'd said his name aloud at all, nor the last
time she had heard her name from his lips, the lips he sucked inside his mouth
and bit in that endearing way that made her want to suck it into her mouth
instead.  There were no pet names between
them, somehow too intimate for their fragile connection to withstand.style=\'mso-spacerun:yes\'>  No, no names of any kind, only silence and
inarticulate moans and the surety that they were known to each other without
ever saying a word. 

In the beginning there had been more unspoken rules, rules
she had broken to keep him with her, rules about who called and when and where
they could fuck and where they could not and what could and could not be
said.  He liked to fuck in bed, his tiny
bed in his tiny cave of a room.  She'd
had a rule about that once, that they could do it anywhere but the bed, but
that rule had flown out the window the first time he'd given her carpet burn
fucking her on the rough industrial carpeting under his desk.style=\'mso-spacerun:yes\'>  It was too cold to do it outside on the grass
in the park or the graveyard where they'd first kissed.style=\'mso-spacerun:yes\'>  He never came to her house, that was his
rule, after her roommates walked in on them fucking on the couch and screamed
like they'd lost their minds. 

He never called her. 
It was his rule, too, but he got huffy if she didn't call, the burden of
initiation always hers.  He would let
himself miss her for months and not call her until she could no longer hold out
and her need for him guided her fingers on the phone.style=\'mso-spacerun:yes\'>  He had cried once, that he missed her and why
hadn't she called and that he needed her, but all she could think was that if
he had really missed her he would have called. 
Nothing in the world ripped her heart apart like the sound of him
crying, desperate for her, and yet still unwilling to meet her half way, to
call her just once. 

Their hair parted like the curtains at the theater when the
show is about to begin as she threw her head back and sucked in giant gulps of
air and screamed her climax and the terrible pain in her chest in one
breath.  He came with a whimper and
collapsed on her, his face in the crook of her neck, hair tickling her throat
as it fluttered on his exhale.  The sweat
on their bodies began to evaporate as he drifted off to sleep still draped
across her body.  It would be hours
before she fell asleep, but the interim would be filled with dreams better left
unsaid as she caressed his head on her breast and matched her breathing to his
and whispered, "I love you."