The Dragonfly

Of course she meant to be alone with him, though the thought never would have made that strut between her ears. And she found herself, once again, getting what she wanted, finding that she had set it up that way, without ever really thinking about it. It had become a little sinister, this quiet agent in her that made things happen. The bad cop of her subconscious. She was with him in the woods, following him down the side of a hill that only looks steep and scary on descent, the uphill climb just dirt and toes. They’d snuck away on a pretense that would fool everyone but a toddler. You had to look for conspiracy to see it.

Their shoes made paper-on-parquet sounds in the leaves, a slip and a catch with a crackle, and though it seemed that going downhill had to be easier, they were panting, with exertion, but with fear too. They listened to each other huff, great big exhales when friction or a twig stopped a near fall, the air booming out of their lungs. He was whining a bit when he exhaled, letting out the guilt with it, she thought. She hadn’t really confirmed that he did feel guilty, but assumed he did. He had to. It was better for her to think so.

And she was looking for a place as much as he was. The leaves here were too slippery, the dip between hills too exposed. Maybe they were just looking for twigs to start a fire. Maybe he just hadn’t seen any he liked yet. The trees weren’t thick enough here. Normally, she would be enjoying the view, the next hill with its near black trees, the kind of plushness of the forest from a distance. You wanted to pet it. But here she had to keep her eyes on her feet. She concentrated on foot over foot, hoping the hypnosis would grease the guilt before it caught on her. The guilt was awful not just because it was, but if she let it in, it might work, and she wouldn’t get to fuck him. Go back to the campsite with a clean conscience and a buzzing clit.

Most of the time she could ignore him, think of him as her best friend’s asshole husband, forget about how he could press her so hard into a wall that she could barely breathe, though it seemed she could scream, could make herself raspy from coming so hard, her fingernails denting the paint, her ass cradled in his hands. She thought only of her friend crying over panties in the car, her face wet and dripping with tears, threatening to put them over his head while he slept and lighting them on fire. But today, the sun giving the sunset to the other side of the hills, there was his ass in his jeans, his sure, strong legs, his forearms like sculpture, the veins visible from here, and the fingers that had been in her pussy, practically holding her up with them.

He picked up a stick and held it up to check it for good stickness, if it passed his test for kindling. His face crinkled at the stick in profile, his mouth drawn in skepticism. A movement on a nearby tree, a tiny lizard freeze-framing its way up, caught his eye. He smiled, looked back at the stick and whipped it in the lizard’s direction. It scampered up and away, presumably to show the bruise to his lizard family. She made note of it, put her hand to the side of her face for a moment and walked on, passing him so she wouldn’t have to watch.

The dragonflies had hatched just a couple of days before, and they, drunk with the shock of their birth and the elation that they had wings, flit like common gnats in the air, unpredictable and stupid. They flew up to her, buzzed her, teased her and went away just as idiotically. There was something in her hair and she reached behind to flick it out. She found his hand instead, and her heart started up, her arms suddenly heavy and dangling. He clenched her hair in his fingers, wrapped an arm around her, under her shirt, under the bra, her nipple standing up, following its own orders, kneaded and pinched. She let out a sound, a kind of uh-hih, and she regretted letting him have that. He didn’t deserve it.

His lips, his teeth, his tongue, the cool trail of breath on inhale on her neck, was cancelled by a bite, a serious one, would leave teeth marks if she let it go on. She reached around her back and pinched him hard in the side, his skin thicker, more resilient than hers. He took the pinch longer than she would have before he pulled her arm away, slid his thumb and forefinger around her wrist and put it on the front of his jeans. Stupid as the dragonflies, she worked him into a hard on while his tongue stroked her neck. He raised her t-shirt over her breasts, pulled them out of the bra and squeezed them, still as clumsy as a fifteen-year-old. He licked his fingers and twisted them around the nipples. Her nipples were more sensitive than most and he knew it, threatened before to make her come just with that. It pissed her off that he knew, that he’d gotten a hold of every fucking weak spot so quickly, some sort of Neanderthal instinct.

He pushed her, face-down, head down on the slope, and worked at the button on her jeans. She tried slapping his hands out of the way to help, but he twisted them away just as quickly, and too hard.

“That hurt, dammit!” she said, and shook her fingers out over the dirt.

“What, you want me to kiss them and make them better?” he said, uncomfortably close to her ear.

“Yeah!” she said.

“Do it yourself,” he said, having finally made headway on her button. She saw herself then, some girl about to get fucked by some asshole, just out of shouting distance of his wife. Convenient. And it wasn’t a girl. It was a slut, some two-faced whore, no better than that. She found her way out from under him and stood up.

“Fuck you,” she said, and bit her fingers. He simply stayed where he was, figuring she’d come back eventually. His pants were down his thighs, his cock hovering under him. “Fuck you,” she said again, quieter. She looked to the ground. There was a stick. She picked it up before she could change her mind and hit his ass with it as hard as she could. He barely reacted. She hit him again. Nothing. She slid the stick under his neck and pulled his head up with it, a knot jabbing into his chin. She spat in his face. He licked it in.

She pushed him on his back, knocked his knees down, dropped her jeans to her ankles, stepped out of them and straddled him, the stick across his face. She picked his cock up, and with disgust, aimed it at her pussy and slid down on it. His hands went around her thighs, tried to control her, tried to make her raise when he raised her, and fall only when he let her do so. She twisted the stick in his wrists, wrenched them away, then took his thumb, turned it and pressed it into her clit. “Manners,” she said. He tried to take it back, but she wouldn’t let it go. He squirmed, grabbed her arm with his other hand, but she ignored it, let him bruise it if he wants. She rode him steady, his cock in, out, all the same, just friction and a digging burn.

He came, his strong neck arched up and his head rounding the dirt, but she wasn’t done yet, fucked him faster now, didn’t care about his whining. She rubbed herself with his thumb and let her lips tremble, her mouth open.

“Stop it,” he said, “that… that fucking hurts now!”

She sat on top of him, a large section of hair across her face, his cock deep inside of her and held his thumb tight until her eyes hit the clouds before they blacked out and she rippled, twisting on top of him, finally falling back on his shaking knees.

She stood up, walked to her jeans and put them on, come sliding down her thighs. It trapped in the folds to get sticky and dry.

“Goddammit, you’re a slut,” he said. She considered another go with the stick, but cradled it instead, walking off to find more. She outright swatted the idiot dragonflies. After all, they were her panties in the back seat of that car.