Cherry Blossoms: A Losing His Wife Novel

by KT Morrison

  “That hurts me, Rocco...”

  “Beg to feel it.”

  “I want to feel it, Rocco.”

  It prodded at her, that fat gummy end, his foreskin squishing on the seam between her anus and her opening, sliding then, low, pressing her. His size alway punished, pummelled before it parted.

  “Mm,” she grunted.

  “What’s that?” he said, digging it against her and his mouth coming close to her ear again.

  “Ow, it hurts...”

  “Beg me, Nia, beg me.”

  “Rocco...can you put on a condom?”

  “What?”

  “A condom. Please.”

  He sat back on his heels and she felt cold in his absence.

  “Why?”

  She stayed bent over like she was, her finger still inside herself. “Please.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re fucking someone else.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re fucking some other girl. It’s okay, Rocco. Please put on a condom. That’s all.”

  “I don’t have one,” he said.

  “I bought some. I got you some big ones. They’re in the bathroom.”

  “Fuck, Nia.”

  “I’m sorry. I know I should have had them out here. I was thinking about other things. Please, Rocco.”

  He got up and she heard him walking on the carpet behind the couch.

  “Where?” he said as he went into the bedroom.

  She slipped her fingers out and got on her elbows on the padded arm. “Top drawer on the left,” she said. Listened to the sounds of him in there, his bare feet on the tile, the drawer opening, shoving things around, opening the cardboard box.

  He was back, coming around the couch to her side. His cock was engorged, heavy, hanging and swinging between his legs like a horse’s cock. He came to the arm and presented it to her while he fiddled with the wrapper. She gripped him, peeled him back to expose the head of his cock and she sucked on him. Stroked his shaft and squeezed his huge hanging balls. He ran it up her face while he tossed the foil wrapper aside. Let it go up her cheek on either side, thrust it against her lips and she kept her teeth clenched, let him mush her pouted lips apart with his cock, looking up into his eyes, wanting him happy. He stepped back and gripped it, held it and tapped it against her pouting kissed lips. A chuckle came from him, looking down on her, he took the condom then and stretched it over his glans. She touched his balls for him while he struggled to stretch it over his girth. He got it then, and she flicked her hair over her shoulder watched him get back in position behind her. His hand wrenched her wrist, pulled her back, her head falling onto the cushion, a grunt forced out of her. He tugged her hand back into place behind her and she knew what he wanted. Her finger prodded at her anus again, slipped inside herself. He grunted an affirmative satisfied sound, his club end mashing against her now, slipping along her sex with spermicidal lubricant. He pressed it into her, she hissed with his painful penetration.

  “Sit back on it,” he said.

  “What?” she said over her shoulder.

  He guided her, sitting back on his heels, pulling her wrist so she came to bear her weight against his intrusion, forcing his weapon to bury itself inside her.

  “Oh,” she moaned, liking the feeling when she took him.

  “That’s it,” he encouraged. Guiding her to work up and down. She fucked him, taking some time to build a rhythm but finding it. He stayed rigid. Sitting back with his impossible cock thrust up between his legs. She flexed her ass, up and down she went, her muscles driving her hips up and down his shaft, her fingers inside her anus. Her pussy gripped him, squeezed him and stroked him, so familiar with the shape of his cock now it was like her pussy was holding it, gripping it like her hand would, manipulating the shape of the head of his cock, her girl muscles swallowing and squeezing his size.

  “Fuck it, Nia, fuck that cock,” he said, his voice a low gravelly growl. It turned her on. His size, his deep voice, his brisk and brutish manner. Even after all this time it put a tingle in her and brought a sweat out in her interior, excited lubrication to accept his man’s cock.

  “Fuck, that’s it Rocco,” she gasped, “Mmm, make me come, make me come.”

  “Slow, Nia, Fuck it slow.”

  “Mm, no, Rocco, I want to come, please...”

  His weight fell on her. His hands locked around her neck. He pressed her to the couch with his three hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and it made her cry out—her cry trapped behind the grip around her neck. His cock pried her apart, taking him deep, his wide base forcing her apart painfully, her body trying to reject it at first. He squeezed her neck, made her go dim.

  Pounded her then, growling in her ear. “You wanna come? You wanna come? Come on my cock, come on this cock, Nia, come for me...”

  That was about all it took, his words, his strength, his masculine uncaring sending her off like she had a jet pack on her back. It was like the top of her head opened and her insides were spilling out with his thrusts. She felt a tickle run through her—cold, chilly like the door of the fridge left open, passing up her back and over her shoulders. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t expel, couldn’t inhale. She chugged, her body rocking, trying to do one, inhale, exhale—something, but she could do nothing. He thrust her face into the pillow while he fucked her, whipping her up and down while he thrust that massive dong in and out of her, tearing her, splitting her membranes.

  She wanted to scream when she came but it was a brittle creak that escaped. Saliva rolled freely from her open mouth, down her chin, down her neck, her cheek slipping through the wet on the cushion. She came hard and fast and it was like the strike of a hammer, an anvil dropped on the floor. Abrupt, powerful, forceful, and over in a second. She beat her hands on the pillow and on the arm of the couch. He didn’t let her go. Got up to his knees, pulling her with him by her neck. When he had her upright, his cock still inside her, he growled in her ear, “You come for me?”

  She nodded, gasping for hoarse breath, coughing and choking, her fist came up so she could hack wetly into it. He pounded her. Rocked his hips powerfully into her, shaking all her soft bits. Her ass shook against him, her breasts slapping against each other. Her fingers dug claws into the leather of the couch, held on for her life while he fucked her, coughing still, vision blurry with the wet.

  He pulled her hair, yanked her head back, arching her back and thrusting her rump out to him, letting him fuck her painfully deep. She coughed high pained sounds and it made him work her harder, made her shout louder. This was how he fucked her now. It felt honest. This was Rocco. Sweet Rocco was an illusion. A moment in time. Wasn’t sure if she even liked that Rocco. Their hearts seemed to come together at one time. He was her dream. Dark night youthful conjuring. Men like she knew men. Men that turned her on. Men that were dangerously and unequivocally masculine. Maleness that sweat motor oil and testosterone out of every action they did. From territorially taking off their boots at the end of a work day, half an hour in the bathroom after their morning coffee, bad moods, snarled retorts, misogynistic rants, lifting up young Nia in one hand, bouncing her on their knees, warm caress and love, brutal barroom head stomps, and overwhelming back scratching fat cock sex. She loved it all. She loved men. She hated men. It was an illusion.

  Geoff was the greatest, strongest man she'd ever met. Kind and caring, mild and sweet but he had character that would embarrass the men she fantasized about being between her legs. Too kind. Kindness to a fault. To destruction. Allowing her those men, thinking she knew better. Thinking she knew what she was doing. Maybe no one knew what they were doing. Everyone out eating a shit sandwich every day, pretending the world is full of love and roses, chewing and smiling, afraid to admit to one another life is suffering. Even her Geoff was vulnerable. Thinking a slut like her could have a piece of cake and not try and devour the whole thing. He gave to her and she thought she gave back. Maybe it could work if they'd done it different. Truth was sh
e’d buried them a long time ago. He wanted to know who she was and she'd been pretending she was worth his love for years.

  Rocco shook her by her neck. Her nails scrabbled across his iron arms, looking for relief. She would be sore tomorrow. Rocco hurt her, but every time he did she wanted it. Wanted more. When he’d leave her she would limp the next day. Her pussy avulsed and stinging. Her neck sore. Her back sore. Every ache and pain earned. Payment for her sins.

  That cock of his swelled to steel inside her, pushing that poor latex to its limits. He grunted rapidly, her pussy wetly smacked, latex crackled, her breath choked past his grip. She felt the cable under his cock turn hard and pronounced, knew he’d toss her to the couch. He did. Thrust her so she fell to the cushions and she rolled with it, landed on her back, bouncing on the cushion, her hair swinging. She had her breasts clasped together before she was still. Rocco’s thing these days was defiling her. Maybe he was working things out. She’d ruined his life. Tempted him from his family. Now he lived in an apartment, alone, his wife was seeking to take everything he had.

  The condom was ripped from him as he walked on his knees to hover over her. It stuck on his girth, the rolled edge hanging up on the wide flared ridge of his corona. Then it snapped free, disappeared somewhere over her shoulder. He stroked himself and she waited to see it come out of him. She presented her squashed breasts and he came on them. Roaring and huffing, stroking wetly, foreskin puckering and yawning. White hot streams plopped on her, stinging her for an instant before they went cold. They trickled the seam of her pressed breasts, down to her collarbone and the hollow there at her neck. He didn’t produce much. It didn’t launch out of him, not on her face nor in her hair. Just dropped lazily onto her despite the intensity of his twisting strokes and his animal growls. He strangled the last out, squeezing his cock hard in his big grip, turning his glans red, producing only one lone bead that swelled in his urethra but didn’t drip. She wondered if he’d fucked someone at lunch today. Maybe he’d fucked some woman before he’d picked up dinner.

  “Shirt,” she said, holding her breasts together, her shoulders pointed forward so his seed wouldn’t spill onto the leather. He sat back heavily onto the cushion, one hand gripping her calf, the other searching the floor for one of their shirts. Found hers and he got on all fours over her, holding the shirt onto her and cleaning her. He didn’t look in her eyes, just watched his hands work, watched her breasts sway and jiggle as he wiped his evidence off them. He rolled it as he went, giving her clean dry fabric each time. He worked down her belly where he’d left a few drops. Wiped them away, pressing down into her soft flesh.

  “Mm,” he groaned, “I like you with weight, Nia. You were hot as shit when you was a rail, but fuck me, you’re still hot with a bit for me to grip.”

  “Thanks, Rocco.”

  He laughed. “It’s a compliment. You look hot no matter what. What’d I say? Have another slice of pizza, eat a couple of those arancinis, give me a handful when I fuck you.”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  His lips puffed air like he’d been struck. He didn’t show her any expression after that. Sank back on his heels and tossed the shirt to the floor, averted his eyes. They sat in uncomfortable silence like that for a minute. She didn’t know what to do. Felt vulnerable and scared. Her legs were open to him, his view was of her spread legs and what lay between them. She wanted to sit up but was worried that if she broke this silence he would get up and leave and she couldn't be alone.

  “How does that happen, Nia?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yeah, you do. You were on the pill.”

  “And for a while I wasn’t.”

  “You fuckin trap me?”

  “We were in love.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “You loved me.”

  He shook his head, sat with his back on the couch and looked at the muted TV. “This is unbelievable.”

  It was an opportunity to sit up, so she did, bare on the couch. The blue, knit cushion was pulled over to cover her lap.

  She said, “I don't want anything from you, you know? Just told you cause sometimes I feel alone.”

  “How far along?” he asked, watching some news reporter saying things he couldn't hear.

  “Far enough it’s real.”

  “Fuck me,” he stormed, jerked up suddenly, stood between her and the TV. One hand ran through his hair, his jaw worked and his eyes stared. “Why, Nia? Why the fuck? When?”

  “Italy. We were happy in Italy.”

  “Fuck...you stopped taking your pill? I gotta get outta here.”

  “Don't go, Rocco.”

  “Jesus, Nia. Another kid? With you?”

  “Fuck you, Rocco. With me? Why not me? You wanted to give me babies. You were going to fuck me full of babies, big man.”

  “I gotta go. Holy fuck,” he said. His clothes were snatched from the floor, and he tore them over himself, his face twisted in bewildered anger. Stomped into the bedroom and came out with jingling keys. He stood at the bedroom door, she watched him over the back of the couch.

  “Nia...” he said, eyes troubled and wide. Shook his head then, went to the hall and thrust his feet into his boots and he left.

  A laugh escaped her, sounding funny and foreign alone in her apartment. Didn't even shed a tear. Didn't want a thing from Rocco, didn't want money or support, maybe just a friend, a big strong shoulder to cry on. Turned the TV off and slipped her yoga pants up, grabbed the soiled shirt, went into the bedroom and tossed it into the hamper. Got a clean tank from the dresser and pulled it over her bare breasts. Walked to the three broad apartment windows that looked out over dismal Downsview. Looked out at the highway in the distance, wondered if Rocco was on it, wondered then what her husband and daughter might be doing right at this moment in the Big Apple. Watched a while at the people doing late night halide-lit shopping at the Ikea across the street, watched them go in, watched other people coming out, carts with boxes strapped over top.

  Turned to go to bed as she heard a sound in the hall. Remembered the last day she was in the studio how she lay on the couch after Geoff ran off and dreamed of him coming back through the doors and taking her away to wherever he wanted to take her. A slice of yellow light slashed across the wall in the foyer from the apartment’s hallway. The door closed and it was returned to dim blue. She dreamed it was Geoff again, fantasized for a moment before she saw the huge man in the hall come to her open doorway. She was happy to see him too.

  She got on her bed on all fours and lay down. Put her head in her pillow, tucked only one leg under the duvet, watched the man watching her. He watched for a while, long enough to make her uncomfortable. Then his boots were kicked off and he came into the bedroom got naked and crawled into bed next to her. She looked in his eyes but it was too dark to read them. His hand went on her hip and that was enough. She gave him her back, snuggled herself against his big strong warm body and he put an arm over her and held her, his hand over her belly.

  GEOFF

  The book launch for Laetitia’s Growin’ Up was far different than Jenny’s launch for Choo. The day started with a spot on Winnie which he’d almost collapsed from anxiety over. The afternoon was spent at Siegel’s, the august Brooklyn children’s bookstore (drawing for kids but mostly staying out of the way of all the cameras as they clicked and stuttered over Laetitia as she posed and smiled with almost one hundred different kids). Now it was evening, and they were at a mostly grown-up launch at Sleighride, an avant-garde restaurant in a hollowed out factory with ceilings high enough there was a trapeze artist working some magic up there as the guests had arrived. Dinner was sous-vide and science, tables cleared at 7 P.M., and a DJ spinning records now, encouraging those with children to shuffle off, it was time for the adults.

  Still couldn’t believe he’d been on Winnie. It was surreal. He’d been part of the media entourage today. Lurking in the background while the beautiful Laetitia did one-on-ones with some of the enter
tainment shows. Hung in the background with wide-eyed Odie while they were shuffled from point-to-point. Krista was there, charming and graceful, at ease with all these media giants. Tim did most of the talking though. Old pro.

  Then, at Thirty Rock, Krista said they would put him and Odie on Winnie for a funny segment. She’d warned that it could happen a few days prior but not to count on it. He wasn’t sure if he wanted that. When they said Odie would be on, he flipped. Odie would love that. After he told O, his hands tingling with excitement, Krista told him it was off. Odie was disappointed. Twenty minutes before the show, a murder of college-aged writers stormed the room. Makeup was there, producers. It was chaos. The bit was back on. Odie acted like this was all just the way the business worked, darling. A pretty twenty-something writer sat with her while she had her makeup done and went over how the bit was going to go. She nodded, repeated her lines, her instructions, the directions. The writer smiled at Geoff. Yes, Odie was as special as they come.

  “Quite the event.” A male voice behind him, friendly but simultaneously administrative.

  He turned and it was Tim Lonergan, giving Geoff a big but helplessly narrow smile, vodka tonic in one hand with a lime wedge.

  “It’s sure something,” he agreed, the two of them turning to face the room and put their backs to a wall affixed with welded toboggans. Hottest day of the summer and here he was in a room decorated with things from cold old Canada.

  “You be able to make the one in L.A. next week?”

  “I’d be crazy not to.”

  “You would,” he agreed with a laugh. “You looked good on TV today. Winnie liked you. It went well, despite what you might think...”

  “You heard?”

  Tim said, “The paramedics?”

  He smiled and took a sip of his own vodka and cranberry. Right before he had to go on camera he’d slumped in the green room, collapsed on a couch. He was enervated. It seemed like an emergency. Winnie had EMTs on set and he was given oxygen and they took his blood pressure. Through the roof. Anxiety like he’d never felt before. In the end, he waved them off. Said he was fine. The show would go on. And it would.