GREEN EYED MONSTER By Claire Rowland

WARNING: Not for the faint-hearted...

Green-Eyed Monster

He checked his watch again and squinted along the dusty Spanish road, the heat shimmering above its concrete surface, cicadas filling his head with their irritating chirping. Where the hell was she? He should have gone with her, should have endured a day of trudging around cathedrals or castles or whatever old shit she’d insisted on going to traipse around. It was all a rouse he was sure of it, she was probably meeting some Spanish waiter, some Raul or Julio or whatever, she’d probably had him on the go for ages, which was probably why she had suggested a weekend in Majorca so soon into their relationship.

Against the azure blue of the Spanish sky a coach began to trundle out of the midday heat toward him. He physically relaxed and sighed with relief, he knew it was okay, he had known she would be back; she was a good girl really.

The coach pulled up with a sigh of brakes and she appeared at the top of the narrow stairs, beaming and sweating from her excursion. He lifted her down gleefully and held her, a moment too long, a little too tightly.

She looked slightly confused and removed herself from his embrace. ‘I was only gone for the day Babes, you okay?’

She could be such a cold bitch. ‘What? I can’t miss you?’ He asked amiably, kissing her cheek.

She relented to his charm. ‘Well,’ she shrugged, ‘I’m flattered. I missed you too, I wished you’d come, God it was so great. This place is so full of beautiful history. It was hot though, baking hot. I made a friend on the coach –‘

‘You did?’ he tried to keep the panic which bubbled to life within him out of his voice.

‘Yeh, yeh, such a nice guy, we buddied up for picture taking else I would have had no photos of those fabulous places.’

She was still talking but his ears were ringing, a cold sensation throbbing in the pit of his stomach, the bitter stab of jealousy. So this was his adversary, the latest man planning to take her from him, there was always someone lurking at the periphery of his vision, just awaiting their chance. Fuck sake, why did she have to be so flirtatious, all the time, with anyone? God knows, he’d seen her with his mates, laughing at their jokes and touching their arms as she threw her head back, shaking her golden hair provocatively. All part of her act, everything she did was, every move, the way she walked, all part of this package intended to entice and lure.

He bet this guy wasn’t even into that old history shit, just got on the coach when he saw her get on, sidling up to her with this whole camera photo buddy bollocks. He knew his game alright, pretending to listen when she spoke about all these crumbling old buildings no one gives a toss about. Bastard, he worked his way in and now he would probably be lurking somewhere planning his next move, how to accidentally on purpose be where she was, talking about old shit again. How could he compete with that? He hated old shit and she was so fucking pretty that it was ridiculous, women shouldn’t be that pretty, it made them a liability and made all the men around go squiffy.

‘You want to go back to the room?’ He heard himself ask her. ‘I can show you just how much I missed you today?’

Her eyes sparkled and she grinned, leaning against him suggestively. ‘Really?’

‘Oh yes, really.’

‘Let’s do it.’ She took his hand and, waving over her shoulder at her new friend, she led him to their room, past the sparkling turquoise pool. He followed her, watching the sun dance on her golden hair, her shoulders a honey brown blushed with pink from walking around in the sun today. He glanced behind him at the friend she had waved goodbye to, so casually, as if they weren’t already lovers, laughing behind his back.

She closed the door to their room, the cool shocking after the searing heat of the afternoon, her flip flops slapping against the cold floors. She blew out air as she smiled at him contentedly. She reached up and kissed him, releasing a small groan of pleasure as she did so. She was so fucking sexual all the time, everything about her reeked of sex, she was such a whore he couldn’t stand it.

‘Let me take a quick shower and you can go ahead and show me just how much you missed me.’ She turned to leave and he felt cold shivers run all over his flesh. She was washing the other guy off her, cleaning herself out, getting rid of the evidence. He couldn’t bear it, how could she do this to him? Cuckold him like this; make him look such a fool?

‘You’re not going anywhere!’

She blanched as if physically struck. ‘What? Why?’ She gazed at him in disbelief.

He quickly softened his tone, determined to get her pants off and find out if she was wet, if she’d been with the other guy, any other guy, he had to know. ‘I want you now, I can’t wait.’

‘But I’m sweaty and stinky.’

‘Don’t care.’

‘But –‘

‘Now baby!’

He grabbed her before he could stop himself and threw her back on the bed. She was too shocked to struggle and he was on top of her, pulling eagerly at her shorts, a look of utter determination in his eyes.

‘Hey,’ she complained pulling at her pants defensively, but he couldn’t stop, he dragged at her clothes and they began to heave over her flesh, turning it white, digging into her skin. ‘Slow down.’ He couldn’t, he couldn’t stop, couldn’t help himself.

Finally her shorts were in his hands, her knickers still twisted inside them and her bare legs exposed and red from the rough dragging of material. Before she could complain about her treatment or cover her nakedness he thrust his hand inside her. She squealed with pain and started repeating ‘gentle’ over and over.

She was dry. He couldn’t believe it. How was that possible? She hadn’t as yet been with another? He imagined her planning it right now, a rendezvous tonight, laughing at him as some stranger pressed her against a wall and thrust inside her.

He realised his fingers were still inside her as images of her fucked every which way from Sunday assaulted his brain. Then he realised he had a huge erection, so fierce and hard. He pushed her back and thrust inside her, covering her mouth as she screamed in anguish, each thrust like knives stabbing inside her. But then the pain began to pass and she was moving with him, seeing this as just overly urgent, him too keen, a lesson to be learned was all this was. She moaned gently in his ear with pleasure, now wet and welcoming. Her acquiescing infuriated him and he thrust harder, determined to make her sorry, so fucking sorry, but she just moaned louder and dug her fingers into his shoulders. Despite himself he began to feel the stirrings, the taking over of himself and they came together, violent and urgent, and moaning with pleasure.

He lay on top of her, panting and hating himself, hating her, hating the other guy, all the other guys. Then he rolled off and lay back, staring up at the whirring fan above him, the cool on his sweat soaked skin making it prickle.

She leant on one elbow and sighed with something like gratification, her cheeks flushed. She dragged a hand through her damp hair. ‘Wow, you did miss me that was …’ she giggled girlishly and he felt fury bubble within him, she was laughing at him, she thought him a ludicrous lover. ‘I’m not sure I shall be walking right for a week!’

He couldn’t be close to her any longer and stood up, frustration pumping through every muscle in his body making them burn. Bitch, bitch, bitch, he screamed in his mind. She was so wanton, she was a slut, and she was jezebel, Delilah. She was Eve, filled with original sin, making him bad, making him wrong. He didn’t know it but he was mumbling, repeating the word ‘wrong’ over and over.

She sat up in bed feeling a trickle of alarm run down her spine.

He continued to pace, repeating in a hushed whisper that she was wrong, this was wrong. She would leave this room and run to him, the guy from the coach who pretended to like the old shit, the castles and cathedrals. Wrong, wrong, wrong. He couldn’t let her leave. She wouldn’t come back.

She was sliding off the bed, her eyes wide, and the whisper of panic turning into a screech inside her. She could see he was wrong and she would leave him, he just knew it.

He couldn’t let her. Fuck, why did she have to be such a whore? Why was she making him feel this way? He couldn’t let her leave, disrespect herself, laughing at him, at how he loved her and wanted her only for himself.

‘What’s wrong?’ she was asking. ‘What is it? Talk to me?’

He glared at her, she was playing him, she knew what was wrong, she was the one who had been fucking the coach guy all day, and the Spanish guy, the reason they were even here, why she’d wanted to come to this stupid country. She looked so innocent, so full of concern for him, her eyes watery and her brow furrowed. She was good, he’d give her that, but he saw what she was, she was filthy, she could not be trusted.

She was edging across the room away from him, her eyes wide in fear. ‘You’re scaring me,’ she said.

He sniggered and in one huge step was across the room and seizing her arms as if she were just a weightless doll. He thrust her onto the bed and she screamed in genuine alarm now, she was afraid of him, there was fear in her eyes. He would show her, he would give her the fucking of her life. She would never want anyone else after this; no other guy would do after he showed her what he was capable of, how he could give it to her. Not walk for a week; she’d never walk again once he was finished with her. He was blind with fury and determination to prove his virility and power to her. She’d spend the rest of their lives begging him to do her again, like he did all those years ago in Spain when he showed her what a real man could do. She’d never look at some other guy, not even one who liked that history bollocks, no one else would ever do after this. He loved her with all of him self, more passionately than he had ever thought possible and after this she would never leave, never leave.

He looked down and that was when he realised: he had crushed her. That was curious, he thought as he looked down at her staring blood stained eyes, her death mask, he hadn’t really meant to do that.  He touched her cheek and rocked her head, mouth gaping, it dropped to the other side. Now she really would never leave him. She looked so beautiful, god she was perfect, she looked like an angel. He couldn’t help himself, he clutched his fingers around his cock and began to massage up and down, moaning involuntarily with pleasure. He became hard quickly as he looked down at her, frozen beneath him, his face the last thing she had seen in this life, the thought of their passionate lovemaking still hot in his head. Then he slipped his erection into her mouth. It felt so good, still so warm and welcoming. He thrust into her throat, groaning with pleasure, his cock battering her mouth mercilessly, his buttocks tensing and thrusting eagerly. He came quickly and it bubbled from her mouth, dribbling down her motionless chin. He sighed and shuddered with euphoria. This was so perfect; she would never leave him now. He lay down next to her; she was a good girl really, he’d always known it.

BIO:

Claire Rowland is the proud author of ‘Piroska’, a collection of fairy tales for adults, produced in association with ‘Naked Snake Press publishing house’ and currently available for download or in printed format. She has also been included within the ‘Shadows and Nightmares anthology’ produced by Nightfall publications due for release in the summer of 2011. Claire has recently had work included in the ‘Mirador Fantasmagoria’ collection which is currently available on download or printed format.

She is a fledgling author based in Bristol and currently working on her first novel. She has had several short stories published in various British publications including exciting new online magazine, ‘Paraphilia’.

 She has also worked on several exciting projects with the Bristol Evening Post newspaper. Claire has also won first place in the renowned ‘Meridian short fiction’ competition twice along with the ‘Sentinal’ Poetry prize and several other well known and prestigious contests. In 2009 Claire displayed work as part of the Tate modern’s apocalyptic display and has had featured on the ‘writing raw’ website.

She is trained in ancient history, marketing and sales, and is currently working at a Bristol sixth form college. Claire is also involved in a writing group working with Bristol University along with several other literary ventures. 

She is now actively seeking representation and publication.