Chapter 1 - Fuck you

Beware: slob; dark; some experimental prose; a possibly occasionally intentionally unreliable nonspecific narrator; and phrasing like that... and this.

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Like much of my work, this is one of an ongoing series; however, this series is related by theme or style, not necessarily by characters, setting, or plot.

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Until I can think of something better, I've decided to add a BDSM scale to all my stuff. It ranges from 1 to 10, where a 1 is mildly kinky and a 5 is solidly BDSM. A rating of higher than 5 is probably extremely naughty. If you aren't sure you like this stuff, I encourage you to find something with a rating of 3 or below.
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This story's BDSM rating is 4.

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Comments and critiques are greatly appreciated!

Enjoy at your own risk! 0.o ;p XD lol



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Brief Encounters - Cognitive Dissonance



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He walks in to find her lying on the bed wasting time on Facebook. She is propped on her elbows, hair a mess in a loose and careless bun that allows much of it to fall around her shoulders and face, partly but futilely shielding her from his gaze. Debris of her slovenliness lies close by: a plate that (he is sure) once held an entire small cheesecake; an empty party-size bag of chips; several other food wrappers; an empty bottle of Gatorade that lies on its side, yet left uncapped has still managed to drip a pink stain across the comforter; two empty pints, one of chocolate milk, the other vodka. 'Starting early?' he thinks to himself--no, probably only since noon. Crumbs and grime and flecks of pot are spread across their bed: She's been lying there all day. Again.

"I can smell you," he says derisively, his lips curling just the tiniest bit as he reaches for restraint. And he can, beneath her obnoxiously lovely perfume, her scent now is... disquieting... demanding.

She glances out of the corner of her eye at him, sparkling green with flecks of brown, huffing once quietly from beneath dirty blonde curls, but doesn't turn her head to him. "I've been busy. Haven't had a chance to take a bath yet."

He sighs to himself as well as he turns to walk across a floor strewn with more debris, her clothes, random bottles of girl stuff and feminine products, more wrappers and containers, some maybe weeks old now. Their stalemate continues.

"A shower. I know your baths, soaking in your own juices for an hour on an ipad with headphones and quart of mimosa. Soap is a real thing you know."

It was after dusk and she was still almost naked. In the dim lighting of lamps and old white christmas lights 4 months out-of-season, he could see what looked like crumbs stuck to the bottom of her swelling, newly-cottage-cheese-textured rear, peaking out indigently from beneath the shear, old, vintage-y pinkish teddy she now always seemed to wear, quite likely one of the only things that--nearly--'fit'. Jaw clenched, he shakes his head to himself. Barely five feet; she must now be well over 165.

She'd started wearing the teddy because it was loose, but that reason is clearly in the past. Months of sloth have deteriorated almost everything about her. And her behavior... her feet are on both their pillows at the head of the bed. Was it carelessness, or was it just to piss him off. Her soles are brown with dust and flecked with tiny bits of trash and brown, like her eyes: Somehow she's miraculously gotten them completely filthy without taking a goddamn step today.

"Looking for a job?" he asks nonchalantly, and pointedly, as he puts away his tie in the closet across from her.

"Mmmph," she mumbles, annoyed-sounding, or avoidance, or quietly dismissive derision, all of which, in turn, she must know, makes him even more ticked. Is it even intentional.

He looks down at her out of his peripherals as he changes his shirt. Her hair too is filthy, greasy. She runs a finger through it as it falls back over her face, the action seemingly pointless except to expose some shamefully-unshaven blonde fur beneath some even-more-shamefully chubby softness where, to his memory afar, triceps'd so recently been.

She catches him looking, glancing up shrewdly through her lazy curls. A small smile, perhaps naughty but not unkind, now plays on her lips as she looks back down at her screen. The lack of edge seems to annoy him even more for some reason, maybe because he takes it to mean that she thinks that, deep down, he is still attracted to her.

"Shampoo still exists too," he seems determined to make known his real as harshly as possible, managing to sound even cruel, and turning away with as much disgust as he can convey.

Too much, perhaps.

She makes a different sound, a deeper huff. A hurt and angry one this time. Good, he thinks. He hears her shuffling on the bed.

"Fuck you," she says, but he doesn't look, or speak, refusing the bait, as if now-quietly furious and yet now-twistedly self-satisfied with getting her.

When he is sure she's turned around, he glances sideways. Her dirty feet are now to him. Toneless calves meet softly-plumped thighs. Her teddy got pulled down, hiding her ass but barely. But he was wrong, he realizes, as he sees eyes staring over her shoulder at him. They are wet, yet defiant, catching him in what she probably perceives as confirmation of a physical deceit. She silently lets him know she hates him, even despises him, in this moment at least, and pulls the comforter over her wide, chunky, spreading hips as she turns back to her distractions from life, screen now propped on his pillow. Belonging to her, it was undoubtedly soiled as well.

"I guess I'm making dinner again." He pauses, pissed but unsurprised, and smirks. "It's salad."


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