Troubled (short, dark erotica)

  Troubled

  V T Turner

  Copyright © V T Turner 2013

  AuthorVTTurner@hotmail.com

  Also by V T Turner

  My Paid Angel

  5 Days a Week

  Sinister Touch

  Good, Bad, Girl

  Betrayed

  Voyeur

  Forbidden

  The Interview

  1

  “You can’t leave me. I love you. Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Because you bore me.”

  Those were the last words that Maria spoke to Anthony, the thirty-year old accountant with all the personality of a thirty-year old accountant. She was with him because of his looks, his money and the lifestyle. He was a little too clean-cut and was beginning to develop a lazy body a few months into their relationship, but he had amazing eyes, a beautiful smile and gorgeous hair that swept like a small wave on his head.

  She liked the fact that he gave her expensive jewelry and bought her flowers for no reason. She liked the restaurants, the flash cars. She loved his apartment -- so cosmopolitan -- right in the middle of the city in an area she could never afford to live in. But, truth be told, she never really liked Anthony. She stuck with him for a few years, but she grew tired of him. He was dull as dishwater. He worked far too hard, went to bed early and woke up late. He moisturized like a woman, showered three times a day and spent more time on his hair than she did on hers. It was great hair, she could forgive that, but no man should spend more time on their hair than on their woman.

  Despite all the luxuries that life with him gave her, she couldn’t stand the monotony and had to finish with him; lobster dinners and diamond rings couldn’t make up for dull sex with a dull man.

  He broke down, but she couldn’t console him. She felt bad for what she had done but she also knew that she should have done it a long time ago.

  He begged her after that, left pleading messages on her answer machine. He sent her flowers, even had a singer show up at her door putting his heart and lungs into a ballad all about Anthony and their relationship. In another life she may have thought it was sweet, but she just found it disturbing. It came to a head when he showed up at her door drunk, refusing to leave unless she took him back. She got a restraining order after that and never saw him again.

  Some women would take a beak from men after such a long relationship, but Maria didn’t waste any time in her search for a new man. She didn’t necessarily want a new relationship, just a fling. She wanted to inject some excitement into her life after Anthony had spent years sucking it out.

  She went to bars and nightclubs, tried her hand at online dating. She did everything she could to find a new fling. She found a lot of men, but none of them intrigued her.

  First there was Matthew. He was strong with bulging muscles that he restrained beneath shirts two sizes too small. He had a thick jaw and a thicker skull, but unfortunately the contents of his head was just as thick as the skull that surrounded it. The sex was great, passionate and intense; the feel of his powerful body on hers was second to none. He would lift her up with great ease, thrust her against the wall and then fuck her until she was a trembling sedated wreck in his bulging arms.

  They did it like rabbits but once the sex was over, once she could take no more and he had nothing left to give her, there was nothing there. She couldn’t have a conversation with him without confusing him and couldn’t stand to listen to his endless droning on about things she had no interest in: football, body building, working out. She finished with him a couple of weeks in, her mind needed the stimulation; her body needed a rest.

  Then came Drake. He was tattooed, pierced and ripped. He had untamed hair that swept over his thin, almost gaunt, face. He wore sunglasses at all times, rarely let anything but a contemptuous look of apathy cross his face. He was cool and he was crazy. He was a wannabe rockstar and she fell for him as soon as he bought her a drink and then sat casually staring at her in his cool, placid manner.

  He wasn’t as good in bed as Matthew, but he was kinkier and he took his time with her when he went down on her, caressing every inch of her flesh, flicking her clitoris expertly with his tongue before working his fingers inside her, simultaneously working his mouth and his hands until she came. He took her in every position, everywhere they went. They had sex in the toilets, up against the grimy door; they fucked in the changing rooms of a department store; on a park bench, watched by a curious hobo who didn’t know what to do with his eyes or his hands.

  Then she heard her wannabe rockstar practice with his band and the veil fell from her eyes. He couldn't sing and couldn’t really play the guitar, and the songs were terrible. She had an eclectic taste in music, but she couldn’t tolerate nonsense. She finished him after that, but his untamed look and his occasionally wild lifestyle, left an impression on her. He was what she wanted when she was with Anthony: the excitement, the thrill.

  She wasn’t too happy with how much he drank or smoked, nor was she happy with his occasional criminality; the shoplifting, the drugs. A part of her was drawn to it, she didn’t doubt that, but she knew she couldn’t say with him if he remained like that. She planned to change him, to mould his wild-child nature into the perfect man, for her at least. And she would have done, had she not found out he was talentless and hopeless. When he stopped being a rockstar, when she stopped seeing him as Page, Slash or Morrison, she also realized that, despite his cool, calm and ‘tortured artist’ facade, he was just as dim as Matthew.

  There were a few others after that. One, whose name she couldn’t remember, she met whilst heavily drunk. She woke up the next morning in a strange bed, a snoring man flat out next to her; her lower body naked and still drying from their sex. She couldn’t remember much, could recall his sloppy kiss and some moments of brief and uninteresting sex, but noting more. She managed to get away from him before he awoke, but she suffered a similar experience just a couple of weeks later and that’s when she decided that she needed to stop the one night stands; cut out the quick fixes and find someone she could stick with, someone she could mould.

  That’s when she found Markus. A twenty-one year old stoner and borderline alcoholic who would alter the course of her life forever.

  2

  “He’s so handsome, so smart, you have to meet him.”

  Maria smiled, not really interested. Her friend Jennifer had another new boyfriend and as usual, she thought he was God and wouldn’t stop talking about him. They met through mutual friends at a party. She was drunk, he was still relatively sober, despite knocking back twice as much booze as her. That should have been the first clue to his lifestyle, but she fell for him regardless.

  Maria didn’t want to meet him. She had met Jennifer’s boyfriends before and none of them turned out like Jennifer described. There was Peter the artist, a brooding man of many talents who was actually a part-time builder and full time idiot. Then there was Ian the songwriter, who seemed to write songs purely for the soccer terraces and wasn’t averse to joining in with some occasional hooliganism. Despite her reluctance, Maria met Jennifer’s new man when she went over for a few drinks.

  She didn’t think much of him at first. He was skinny and standoffish, had a constant expression on his face which suggested he didn’t want to be there. He always had a drink in his hand, a bottle of whiskey or a can of beer and, more often than not, had a joint in the other hand. He was rough and ready and a little too much for Maria.

  Then, when Jennifer drank too much and made an idiot out of herself, Maria got talking to Markus whilst her friend hovered over the toilet bowl, unleashing a night’s worth of pizza and beer. She was surprised to find out how intelligent he was. She had slipped
into a conversation about philosophy, was about to apologize and explain herself, only to have him come back at her. When she pulled her jaw off the floor she couldn’t help but smile at him. Then she noticed the intelligence in his eyes, a deep abyss in the dark orbs that suggested something troubled and intense. She struggled to pull her eyes away from him, struggled to do anything but gawp as he spoke on the subject with the air and grace of a college professor.

  “So, what is it you do?” she asked him, once the conversation had surpassed her intellectual abilities.

  He shrugged impassively, took a long pull from a joint and flicked the ash into an ashtray on his lap. “Nothing, I guess,” he said simply. He offered her the joint, she stared at it for a while and then shook her head.

  “You don’t work?” she asked.

  He gave her a meek and almost apologetic smile and shook his head again. “The benefit system keeps me in booze and dope,” he explained halfheartedly. “But I don’t really work.”

  “Ever?”

  He shook his head then, as if to redeem himself, he said, “I do try. I mean…” he trailed off.

  “Go on…” she pushed.

  He turned towards her, shifted his body to face her. She could feel the smoke from the joint trickling into her nostrils, could smell the sweetness of the cannabis.

  “I write,” he told her, his intense eyes now alight with enthusiasm.

  Her own eyes lit up at hearing that. “You write, what, like poetry?”

  He nodded, looked a little embarrassed and then continued. “I write short stories as well.”

  “You have to show me,” she said, almost demanding.

  He looked away shyly. “I’m not sure about that.”

  “Come on. I’m sure it’s great.”

  He grinned at her, took his time to reply, “Okay. Why not.”

  She thought she had fallen in love with him at that moment. She couldn’t get over the intensity in his eyes, the darkness in his soul. She couldn't believe how smart he was, nor could she believe how much he drank. He had supped more than her and Jennifer combined and he still looked sober. He had the pallid, reddened complexion of an alcoholic and the glassy eyes of a heavy drug user, yet he had such an amazing mind. She was on the brink of falling for him.

  She was tipped over the edge when he read some of his poetry to her.

  She was even more drunk by then and he had warmed further to her. Jennifer had taken her time in the bathroom and twenty minutes after she had gone in, after they had heard the sound of retching, they heard heavy snoring filtering out from the bathroom. She had fallen asleep hunched over the bowl.

  She left a pause after he had finished reading his poems. He gave her a stained smile, wondering if she hated it, perhaps not expecting her to like it as much as she did. She kissed him, unable to hold back, unable to stop herself. His lips tasted of smoke and whiskey.

  She pressed a hand to his chest, felt the power of his beating heart as it tried to burst through his ribcage. She clambered on top of him, her backside resting on his lap. She began to gyrate, thrusting at his torso, desperate to feel his flesh pressing against her sex.

  He rolled her over, broke from the kiss with a departing nibble on her bottom lip. He ripped open her top, grabbed roughly at her breasts, not taking time to study them, to caress them. He took off his own top, tossed it to the side and then pressed down on top of her, their warm flesh touching; their hearts beating into one.

  He kissed her, harder and more deeply this time. He managed to wriggle out of his trousers, his cock springing forth from above the waistband, before he moved her knickers to one side and pressed himself upwards, through her skirt and inside her. She gasped and then remembered herself. She dug her claws into his back to suppress any further noises.

  His head was pressed into her shoulder as he drove into her, his movements were hard, forceful and quick. She came whilst clutching at his skin, feeling like she could shed the flesh from his back. He released inside her with a grunt, his body spasming as it unleashed its load.

  He pulled away looked down at her with a grin. She waited for him to climb off her and become bored with her, just like most men tended to do, but instead he remained inside her and went in for another kiss. This time it was slow, soft and gentle. He continued to kiss her until he softened inside of her.

  She was still wet when he finally pulled out, she wanted him again, wanted him to fuck her all night. She was red faced and grinning. She held him tight as he tried to pull free, let him know that she wanted him again. She moved her hand down there, felt her own wetness and his flaccid cock. She grabbed it, rubbed it gently with her fingers at first, then grasped it with her fist when she felt it harden. She aimed it at her clit, rubbed it up and down, stimulated herself with it and then pressed it inside her when he was hard.

  “Again?” he asked with a cheeky smile. “You must have really liked my poetry.”

  She nodded. “Again.”

  3

  She regretted what she had done, blamed it on the drink and told herself that it was a mistake, that Jennifer was her friend and even if she had only been with Markus for a week or two, what she had done was still wrong. She told herself that Markus was a drunk, wasn’t to be touched, ignoring the resisting voice at the back of her head which screamed otherwise.

  Then, a few days later, she got a break. Jennifer broke up with him. She said he drank too much and wouldn’t pay enough attention to her when he was drunk or stoned. She was an attention fiend, loved her boyfriends to dote on her. Markus wasn’t the sort to dote on such a happy, high-spirited woman as Jennifer. He was dark, tortured, broody.

  Maria phoned him up, knocked back a few shots of Dutch courage to get in the mood. “I know this is going to sound crazy,” she told him. “But...do you want to see me again?”

  She waited on the line, listening to the crackling silence as he blew smoke into the mouthpiece. “Yes,” he croaked. “I would love to.”

  ***

  Jennifer moved on, found a new fling. She didn’t mind that her friend was dating her ex.

  “He’s more your type,” she told her, although Maria doubted Jennifer knew what her type was. Maria didn’t really know what her own type was anymore, she used to think it was Anthony, the clean-cut professional, but he had bored the hell out of her and now he was the antithesis of her type.

  Markus still lived with his mother, something Maria hadn’t known at the time she asked him out but tried not to let bother her when she was with him. He was broke, had a lot of issues, but, drink and recklessness aside, he was more mature than any man she had been with. He had the tendency to act like a crazy teenager, but he was intelligent and deep.

  She saw a misery in his soul and wanted to cure it. She knew he was drinking to drown his sorrows, smoking to lighten his mood and she wanted to help him, to change him. She knew she could mould him into the perfect man if she could get him off the drink and the drugs, get him onto the right path. He was too intelligent, too deep to turn into someone as boring as Anthony.

  “So, what made you like this?”

  It took her a week pluck up the courage to ask him. His mother gone on a cruise and Maria had a couple of weeks off from work, she spent that time at Markus’s house, spent most of it in his bedroom, sitting on his bed sharing joints and sips of whiskey. She wasn’t a heavy smoker or drinker, but she felt closer to him when she smoked, felt that he opened up to her more.

  “Like this?” he asked with a raised eyebrows, taking the joint from her as she blew a plume of smoke in his face.

  “The drinking, the smoking,” she said.

  He shrugged, seemed to contemplate for a moment and then took a long pull from the joint. “Life, I guess,” he summarized vaguely, blowing smoke out in a steady stream.

  “Care to elaborate?”

  He shrugged again, gave her a cheeky smile. She loved his smile, loved the way his dark eyes lit up, glimmered as if his soul was on fire.

  “I
have a few issues,” he said, vaguely again. “That’s all. Nothing heavy but…” he finished with a blank stare.

  She tried to ask him more, to push him on the subject, but he stopped her with a kiss, blowing the remnants of smoke into her lungs as his tongue traced over her lips. He put his hand on her breast, felt the rising of her stimulated nipple beneath her top. He moved it down, over her stomach, onto her pussy. He kept it there, grasping as if shaking hands, feeling her heat and wetness intensify. Then he slipped his finger inside her pants, ran it along the lips of her vagina, enjoying the warm, soft, moist skin, before slipping it inside.

  She released from his kiss, grabbed his hand and gestured for him to apply more pressure. He pulled away; she frowned at him. He grinned, stood, clambered onto his knees at the foot of the bed and pulled her pants down, passing her the joint before pushing his mouth towards her clit.

  She took the joint, tilted a grin to the ceiling and slowly toked whilst he pleasured her, his tongue working to ecstasy down below, the dope supply heaven from within.