The Cracks In The Ceiling — Steve Calvert

He wonders what her name is but hasn’t the strength to ask, so he lies on his back among the damp, twisted sheets and counts the cracks in the ceiling instead. Whatever her name, she was easy. In fact, she was the one who did most of the chasing. That is okay; he is flattered and doesn’t mind.

It is a cheap hotel. There are too many cracks in the ceiling to count, so he stops trying and concentrates on catching his breath. While the sweat cools his skin, the girl draws little circles on his stomach with her fingernail. She can’t be much older than twenty; she is young and beautiful and fit. Too fit. She wants to go again. Trying to fend her off is useless, she straddles him easily, teases with her slickness and resurrects his penis, forcing him to rise to the occasion. The cracks in the ceiling see it all and mock him with their parody of his face.

She takes it slow at first, takes his all, even though he has already given her far more than he thought possible. The hands exploring his body are gentle, but her caresses are savage as she forces him to join her in this war of flesh against flesh until the world explodes, and he retreats once more to the sanctuary of the damp, twisted sheets.

He is no longer curious about her name. He is too tired and the cracks in the ceiling seem bigger. It is an old hotel. Too old. He tries to remember how old as he listens to the sound of his heart slamming inside his chest, and wonders why he is not at home, tucked up safely in bed with his wife.

Nibbling on his ear, the girl kisses him and wants more, but he is limp and spent from the fight. No matter. Reaching down, she administers her rough medicine and chokes him… shakes him… bullies him awake until he is forced to stand up for himself and be a man.

Again her flesh rages against his; he feels light-headed. Dizzy. Pins and needles fill his arm and the battle continues to the sound of a drum pounding out a final tattoo in his head. She is merciless. She is beautiful. There will be no retreat, no surrender, she grinds him ever onwards.

Gasping…

Frightened…

He flails his arms and tries to buck her off, but she has him pinned to the bed. It is crude, it’s the best, but it’s too much, too soon and too late in his life; he cries out for his wife and lets go.

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Steve Calvert lives in the UK. Although Steve is primarily a horror writer, from time to time he also writes in other genres and he is not afraid to pen the occasional piece of erotica. He is a member of the Erotic Authors Association and his tales of twisted sheets have appeared on the For the Girls website and in the now defunct erotic journal Unmasked Online.