unclean intentions

You roll in the dirt like the ash is paint.

Every turn smears more black onto the other—her tits against your chest, your hands on her hips, her mouth on your jaw leaving a clean stripe through the soot. It stops being accidental. You are marking. She is marking. The ruined garden is just the palette. Grass-stubble scrapes, charcoal dusts into the sweat at the small of her back, and Sandra laughs into the kiss when you both come up looking like you belong to the same filthy tribe.

You get enough leverage to pin her.

Her wrists hit toasted earth above her head, your weight settling between her thighs, and the wild edge in her finally eases a fraction—not gone, just held. You keep her there and knead her sullied breasts, thumbs brushing soot-tight nipples, leaving paler prints on skin that was already a mess. She arches into it, moaning lower now, the neighbour-performance burned down into something private and greedy. When you push back inside her she is soaked and easy and still fluttering from the ride in the ash.

You fuck her slow enough to feel it.

Deep strokes that rock her into the dirt, your mouth on her throat, her legs wrapping up around you because pinned does not mean finished. The filthy shell suits her so well it is a problem. Soot in the hollow of her collarbone. A black handprint blooming on one tit where you squeezed. Ash in her hairline. You cannot tell how much of the thought is hormones talking and how much is just true, but you wish she would never wear more than this: marked, used, grinning up at you with danger still cooling in her eyes.

You paint her insides white again.

The orgasm hits with your forehead against hers, both of you shaking in the dirt, her cunt milking you through it while you stay buried and grind the last pulses as deep as they will go. Sandra’s hands, freed now, stay in your hair like she is afraid you will sit up and become a person with consequences. You do not sit up for a long time. When you finally do, the garden looks worse. Two outlines in the ash. A trail already starting because she is tugging at you.

She drags you indoors.

No discussion. No towel. No dignity. Bare feet hit the patio, then the kitchen tile, then the hall, leaving a dirty trail of prints the whole way—black ovals and smeared toes, yours and hers overlapping, a confession written on the floor for anyone who comes home early. Jeff the Land Shark watches from the shoe rack like a witness who has seen too much. Sandra does not look back at the mess. She wants the shower. She says she wants to take her time cleaning this off you, and you off her.

She is lying.

The water is barely warm before her back hits the tile.

“Cleaning,”
you say, already knowing.
“Mm-hm.”

Her hand is on your cock again. You are half-hard from the garden and the walk and the way she looks with soot running in grey rivers down her breasts as the spray hits. She works you under the water with both hands, then turns, plants her palms on the wall, and pushes her ass back into you like the fire, the hedge, and the dirt were only the opening act.

“Of course,”
you mutter.
“Of course you want to bone in the shower.”

You will need viagra soon if this gets any worse. The thought is fond and slightly panicked. Your body has been on a week-long conscription and she is still finding new rooms to use it in. You line up anyway, because her pussy is slick even under the water and she makes that small grateful sound when you sink in, and because saying no to her has not worked once since the first night.

The shower becomes another round.

Soap gets involved only as an excuse to keep your hands on her. You wash the ash off her tits and stay there. She washes the dirt off your stomach and follows it downward. Every time you try to actually clean a streak she rolls her hips and takes you deeper, and the stall fills with steam and the wet slap of two people who have not learned a single lesson. Soot swirls toward the drain in grey clouds. Her hair sticks to her cheeks. Your foot slips once on the tile and she laughs and grabs the tap and does not let you pull out.

By the time you finish again the water has gone lukewarm and the bathroom floor is a second crime scene of footprints that escaped the stall. Sandra leans on you under the spray, spent enough to pretend the original plan was hygiene, and kisses the underside of your jaw.

“See?”
she pants.
“Clean.”

You look at the grey ring around the drain, the smeared glass, the hallway you have not even thought about mopping yet.

“Sure,”
you say.
“Spotless.”