Today looks to be mad, so in lieu of a scrappy mini-essay, here’s a tiny ficlet, written for the prompt ‘a minute of failure’:
A minute of failure, that’s what we called it. A minute when the guard was around the corner of the house, and a minute when the security system would be disabled, and a minute to break in. A minute to steal through the darkened house, to trace the path I’d run through on the map and in my mind a thousand times. In through the side door, through the old green baize door to the right. Down the long corridor, past windows on one side, and a row of portraits on the other. Some of those paintings were worth money, but that wasn’t what I was after.
No, I was to keep going down that corridor, stealing my way through the soft dark night. Down the corridor to the main hall, and up the stairs. Take the branching on the left and keep going. Third door on the right, it would be open. It would, hopefully, but unoccupied – ah, but if it wasn’t, I could take care of things. I was very good at taking care of things, and I knew every weakness of the owner, for all that he was supposed to be a recluse, unseen by any and all. I knew him as well as I knew his house, and that was why I was going to get the documents, and get out, and the world would change forever.
I crept down the corridor, counting doors traced out with my fingertips. And that was when I had my minute of failure, when I heard the rustle of fabric and felt arms wrap around my shoulders, bands of iron that forced me into stillness, that kept me from even the thought of moving.
“Bang, bang,” a soft voice whispered in my ear. “You’re dead. I do apologise, John, but you lose.”
“Do not. I beg you for my life, give you a blowjob, and get away anyway,” I told my lover. My lonely man, who did not like to leave his house, unseen by most. I knew him completely, held his heart in my hands. Only fair; he held mine.
He chuckled softly. “Do you? That’s rather weak on my part.”
“Unh. Michael? I can’t breathe.” The iron grip around my chest loosened immediately, and he stroked my chest. I pretended not to notice when one hand lingered, rubbing my left nipple through the thin shirt I wore, pinching softly until it was pebbled and hard.
“I still win,” he murmured, and I turned around in his arms. Michael is younger than he seems, so serious is he. I could make him smile. With these little games we played, with a kiss, with the way I slid my thigh against the front of his jeans.
“Next time, I’m making the rules.”
Granted, losing meant being pushed up against the wall of that same dark, deserted corridor, the two of us undressing one another in a manner that might be referred to as ‘ripping each others clothes off’, and being thoroughly, completely, and in all ways made love to until we were both exhausted.
My Michael is such a good winner.