Teardrops are a collection of short, slightly sad stories (but remember, there are tears of joy and of love), that exist for a brief moment before they are wiped, and shed every Sunday. Or when they are ready, whichever comes last...

Phone calls

by Antheros

To a centaur that crossed my path.



At this very moment, she is lying naked on her bed. I know it, just from the way she says hi. She called me to tell me she was horny, like she often does, with her breathing proving it to me. I know. I picture her, imagine her, her body naked and desirable, fresh, smelling of her perfume—the one whose scent is made of night and desire. She has pushed the sheets away, with her feet, and her legs are slightly open, moving slowly, still pushing the sheets that aren't there anymore, her feet feeling the delicate white linen.

“I want you,” she says, her voice raspy and needy.

I close my eyes. I'm transported to her room, the shades down making it dark and inviting, her dark hair spread around her head. I can see her breasts slightly flattened by gravity, with the nipples filled with lust, their texture strong and unique. I can see her delicate folds glistening, and the light smell full of pheromones.

“Can't you come home, just for a while?”

I can. Everybody can. It's easy, it's very easy. Stand up, run to the parking lot, drive home, in fifteen minutes I'd be inside her. I could do it. Once, at least. I wouldn't get fired; I'd get a reprimend, my boss would yell at me.

Inside, I'd be smiling. A giant grin that would threaten to explode any time, remembering it, tasting her in my mind, knowing that I was making love to a woman that I love, while my boss was there, in his office with a window, making digital bureaucracy.

“Please...” she moans. That is a moan, not a word.

I can see one of her hands—the other is holding the phone—running over her skin, from her neck to her pussy, her red fingernails giving her chills and goosebumps. She would do anything I asked.

Then I say I can't talk right now. I don't want to do it, I want to say “please, hold on, I'm running to you, leave the door unlocked for me.”

These days I wonder if we really have free will.

“It's all right,” she says, “I understand.” She says she'll hang up and we'll see each other later.

And she hungs up, but doesn't get out of my mind.

19 Nov 2006
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