Five Stages of Grief
  
Five Stages of Grief
Published:
9/2/2015
Format:
E-Book (available as PDF files) What's This
ISBN:
978-1-46300-715-7
First, it was Lucy and Adrian, then Adrian and Caroline, and then Adrian was out the door and off to another adventure. Years after the heartbreak, Caroline and Lucy have met again, still connected by the woman they once loved. But neither of them expected to feel this way about each other—and Adrian isn’t done with them yet.
Dear Caroline, The last time you fucked me, I was on the piano. Do you remember? You pressed me up against it and my palms slammed into the keys, the white ones and the black ones and the notes bounced all over, frenzied and high. And when you slid the fabric of my skirt away from my legs, the hand of mine that had steadied itself on the smooth expanse of wood slipped and struck the keys, again, and the chord that rang out was ragged and loud and followed the contours of my want so closely that I gasped. You used your fingers, then. You didn’t have to search, didn’t have to wander; as soon as I gasped you slid them into me, two of them, down to your knuckles, and worked them in and out. I begged for a third, a fourth, and you gave them to me, gladly. You are a generous woman. I wrapped my legs around your hips as the notes of the piano died, wrapped a free arm around your neck, and watched as the muscles in your arm flexed with your fucking. I pulled you in and out of me and your hand was like a cock, warm and pulsing, but smarter, better. The sound of it: your groaning, the moans being dragged from my throat, the faint, wet noises of your fingers deep in my cunt that echoed between the floorboards and the ceiling. So lost were we in that moment that we worried that your next student was going to knock at the front door, that middle aged man from upstairs who you were teaching to play “F r Elise” but he was bad, so bad. I would hide in our room while he played that goddamned arpeggio and chromatic descent over and over, that one that climbs like he’s orgasming and drops like he’s coming down from it, but then he’d fuck it up, Caroline, and plunk out some bad notes. It was awful. The third or fourth time he was practicing that damned section I decided that I’d try to get off to the sound, that if he could make that ascent and descent I’d come and everyone would be happy. So when he’d come over I’d disappear into our room, lie down on the bed that took up most of the space, slide my hand into my pants, and wait. I could always hear the muffled sounds of his voice on the other side of the door. I’d hear you ask him how his week was, offer him some water, the chatter of glasses in the cupboard, the sloosh of the tap. I could not actually hear him drink but I imagined it, imagined his throat undulating with each gulp. It was dry because he wanted you, wanted to bend you over the piano and pull his thick cock from his pants and slide it into your wet, hungry cunt.
Olivia Glass is the author of FIVE STAGES OF GRIEF. Her work has also appeared in Filament Magazine, Bend Over Magazine, and Best Women's Erotica 2012, from Cleis Press.
This book is awesome! :)
Jason 
 
 


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