The Party in the Stairwell
folder
Angst › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
823
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Angst › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
823
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
The Party in the Stairwell
I was hanging out on the stairs and sombody said "If you love the stairs why don't you make out with them." So I started thinking and this is what I got.
The sounds of laughter and poorly imitated classical music, the tinkling of china, and the phony conversation had all been locked away- stashed behind the heavy wooden doors. Only a clock chiming the hour could be heard. Here you are all alone, just as you wish to be.
How sad. In there rages a party. A party you are certainly dressed for anf definately invited to. Yet you sit outside, looking stunningly gorgeous in a tuxedo. Nobody will see you though. You've hidden yourself on these old stairs.
You just don't feel like partying. You haven't in a while. One you found yourself all alone the need to pretend to like these people faded. Why should you paste on a perfect smile? You don't feel like smiling. Here is good. No smiling, just thinking.
You remember her. How she loved these big to-dos. How her smile was always real, always bright, beaming, and ready. Only when she was staring down death did her smile fade, did here eye lose their eternal twinkle. It's hard to smile through the pains of disease.
The disease had robbed her. She had been gorgeous. The perfect woman. There was nothing you wouldn't do to hear her laugh, to feel her warm embrace. You could do no wrong in her eyes, but you couldn't save her. You failed her in the end.
Just thinking about her though has brought you to arousal- a pleasant shock. You haven't found or sought pleasure since the funeral but now it's as though you can smell her perfume in the air, hear her laughter in the distance hum of the party, feel her warmth in the shifting air. You reach down and rub yourself through the fine linen material. Sitting on the stairs, you are able to spread your legs, lower your zipper, truly bring life you reignited passion.
You turn around. The angle is awkward but you manage without bumping your chin to align you cock firmly against he edge of the stair. Pressing forcefully on the hard corner that traps your erection, you rub. Down and up, up and down. Enjoying the almost painfull friction, the uncomfortable position until...
The tuxedop is ruined. You don't care. You don't intent to return to the party the has continued on oblivious. Instead you break down slumped on the stairwell, crying for the first time since your wife died.
Never let it be said I don't think outside the box or that I back down from a challenge. There is a scene involving one man and a set of stairs! Viola! What'd you think?
The sounds of laughter and poorly imitated classical music, the tinkling of china, and the phony conversation had all been locked away- stashed behind the heavy wooden doors. Only a clock chiming the hour could be heard. Here you are all alone, just as you wish to be.
How sad. In there rages a party. A party you are certainly dressed for anf definately invited to. Yet you sit outside, looking stunningly gorgeous in a tuxedo. Nobody will see you though. You've hidden yourself on these old stairs.
You just don't feel like partying. You haven't in a while. One you found yourself all alone the need to pretend to like these people faded. Why should you paste on a perfect smile? You don't feel like smiling. Here is good. No smiling, just thinking.
You remember her. How she loved these big to-dos. How her smile was always real, always bright, beaming, and ready. Only when she was staring down death did her smile fade, did here eye lose their eternal twinkle. It's hard to smile through the pains of disease.
The disease had robbed her. She had been gorgeous. The perfect woman. There was nothing you wouldn't do to hear her laugh, to feel her warm embrace. You could do no wrong in her eyes, but you couldn't save her. You failed her in the end.
Just thinking about her though has brought you to arousal- a pleasant shock. You haven't found or sought pleasure since the funeral but now it's as though you can smell her perfume in the air, hear her laughter in the distance hum of the party, feel her warmth in the shifting air. You reach down and rub yourself through the fine linen material. Sitting on the stairs, you are able to spread your legs, lower your zipper, truly bring life you reignited passion.
You turn around. The angle is awkward but you manage without bumping your chin to align you cock firmly against he edge of the stair. Pressing forcefully on the hard corner that traps your erection, you rub. Down and up, up and down. Enjoying the almost painfull friction, the uncomfortable position until...
The tuxedop is ruined. You don't care. You don't intent to return to the party the has continued on oblivious. Instead you break down slumped on the stairwell, crying for the first time since your wife died.
Never let it be said I don't think outside the box or that I back down from a challenge. There is a scene involving one man and a set of stairs! Viola! What'd you think?