Touched

By Olivia Barrington-Leigh

This is who we become at the hands of men.
A girl thinks back on the sexual encounters of her past. Starting with her first kiss, forced on her by an older man and ending with a random man she picks up in a club (a things she's done on numerous occasion).
Each earlier encounter shapes her into what she feels is a sexual predator, which is how she sees all the men and boys she'd trusted as a young girl.

But all alone she has waited for her true love. The one that loves her despite the things that have happen to her and the the things that she's done.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Olivia Barrington-Leigh
• Release date: Oct 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301868148

Olivia Barrington-Leigh

Wife, mother, sister, lover...and one day, a damn fine storyteller.

Book preview

Touched

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By Olivia Barrington-Leigh

Copyright 2012 Olivia Barrington-Leigh

Smashwords Edition

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Touched

A story of pleasures untold and promises never made

The secret truth of a love never ending told over and over each time you touch me

The feeling of countless butterflies

That take flight in my stomach

As I lay in sweet nirvana each night in your arms

And a passion that burn bright

Like a million fireflies that light a hot summer's night

Endless tears shed while whispered prayers fall from my lips

Lay unanswered in a puddle around my feet

In the ocean of sadness where

I ride each wave of black desperation

Where death is my only salvation

I yearn for a kind word

your touch, your hands, your mouth

In the abyss that has become my life since I have met you

In a different time, in a different place I could have been someone else.

Instead – here – now – I’m just me

Early 198-

There is a nice old lady who lives down the street from me (when I say old, think eighties). She has a boyfriend. The idea of this lady having a boyfriend is weird to me. Why don’t they just get married?

I don’t know what takes me into the home of this lady today. It’s not really important. She plays no part; she isn’t home, only her boyfriend is. I guess he asked me to come in -- tricked me into coming in.

It’s summer, maybe fall. The inside of the house isn’t hot but the window unit air conditioner is not on. The lights are all off but there’s nothing strange about that. The lights in my own home stay off most of the day.

The light coming in the open front door and windows provide all the light needed in the middle of the day. Or maybe it’s early in the morning.

The furniture is older than the furniture in my own home, but is nicer. There’s also a large rug in the front room. For reasons I don’t remember I am asked… escorted…called into the kitchen. I walk through the sunlit living room towards the darker, but still not sinister kitchen, before I am beckoned one step further. This one will take me away from the line of sight of the open front door.

The old man is as old as the old woman. I imagine older since that’s usually how it works. He’s short, and his skin is wrinkled and leathery. His hair is white, thin and looks soft. It’s wild and uncombed, sticking up all over his head. He has on pajamas pants and I can see the white of his wife-beater t-shirt poking out of the top of his robe. Or maybe it was dark blue pants and a plaid shirt. The wife-beater stays the same.

His thick jointed and disfigured arthritic hands grab my face. They are surprisingly strong or maybe I’m just too surprised to move. The kiss is rushed and rough and very, very, wet. I stand there as he licks my face before he forces my lips open with his tongue, licking my teeth, forcing its way into my mouth. His spit is thick and nasty. It tastes like snuff or stale cigarettes and pepper and coffee, like old man.

I’m too shocked to be scared. When he let’s go of my head I leave. I don’t remember leaving the kitchen, walking back through the living room or leaving the house. When I’m back outside I wipe my mouth and face with the back of my arm. I can still smell his spit on my face and I go home to wash it off.

Early 199-

The room is dark and the soulful sounds of Prince play loudly as I search for my panties. The single naked red bulb in the center of the ceiling is my only light. Taking a break from my hunt I decide to smoke a cigarette.

How is it that I’ve managed to lose the one piece of clothing I allowed myself to remove? Standing up I throw the covers back for one last look, reaching down between the mattress and footboard I find my underwear.

The door opens and my partner walks in. I’ve been drinking but I’m not drunk. I remember everything leading up to me leaving the club. I remember the mutual agreement of sex. I remember the feel of him as he entered me, and the small patch of hair that is on his lower back right above his ass. What I don’t remember is his name.

He walks past me not making eye contact and goes into the bathroom. I put out my cigarette, put on my panties and grab my keys.