Transgression (from Anti-Prologue)

 

“I need you to address my last night’s transgression.” I walk out to the back porch with a peace offering: a tall glass of brewed tea with two lemon slices, squeezed first, then buried under a heap of ice, tea poured on top, the spoonful of honey swirling in between the fast-melting ice cubes.

The frosted glass doesn’t cool my sweaty palms. The sour smell of lemon, instead of alleviating my nausea, is making my stomach knot even tighter. Bare feet dig into the dirty porch floor, dusted with sand blown in from the nearby dunes. The sand gets stuck between my toes, wet from sweat, which only adds to the anxiety. Am I digging my heels in, or will I back out at the last minute? My mind spirals into the jittery dread of the inevitable: the addressing of the transgression.

“And what transgression is that?” He stops the porch swing with his foot, laying the book he was reading on the faded pillows, and takes the glass from me for the first quenching gulp. Oh, he hates the heat so much.

Not sure how I lured him into this AC-lacking hell, with only whizzing ceiling fans to fight the scorching heat. Well, the worn-out green velvet couch was the first reason we chose this house. We noticed the green treasure in the picture and looked at each other with identical amusement; we are still in the process of procuring one for ourselves. Reasons two and three: its proximity to the beach, so close we could smell the sea and hear the seagulls, but far enough from the neighbors to hear our daily shenanigans, a rare combination in this neck of the woods. The blue siding outside, a nod to a distant memory, and pink peonies in full bloom were a bonus. So, we booked it and, in our mutual excitement, forgot about this little detail: no AC.

I set the plate with sliced watermelon and feta cheese on the edge of a wooden table, the one and the same I plan to get bent over. Is the sweet and juicy watermelon for my own aftercare? Do I expect it to be so long and hard that I will need the whole shebang? Do I want to be spanked to tears? Is that why I put a clean tissue in my sundress pocket, to wipe my nose? Or to wipe his cum after, when it trickles down my leg. I squeak and press my thighs together; he notices and grins. The art of silent dialogue.

From Anti-Prologue

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