Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
The screen fills with her shy smile. She’s blushing. Her hair is fanned out on the pillow and she’s trying to hide her face. She’s wearing her sunflower nightshirt and her skin glows, so do her eyes.
Jesus Christ, she’s beautiful.
Nah, not beautiful. She’s stunning. Ethereal. An angel. A goddess.
A goddess who used to be mine before I blew it.
“Abel, stop. You’re an ass,” she says, her gaze touching me through the camera, and I lose all carefully-constructed control of my emotions.
With trembling, heated fingers, I reach out and touch her smile on screen. It’s fucking cruel how disappointing it is. To touch the cold screen when I wanna touch her. Her warmth, her flesh, her silky hair. I wanna feel her breaths on my skin, tickling my throat when she sleeps beside me. I wanna smell her first thing in the morning when she’s all warm and sleepy.
I want the real Pixie.
My wife. The girl who loves chocolates, who gave me a hard time when I told her I loved apples. The girl who told me that I stop time, that I can never be invisible because I was too talented. The girl who left everything for me.
The girl who called our love a legend.
“Pixie,” I whisper or try to. But no sound comes out. The air is as silent as ever around me. On screen, she hides her face with her hands and the camera shakes as I tickle her ribs.
“Come on, Pixie. You can’t hide from me,” I tell her as I make her laugh, mercilessly.
“Abel, stop. Oh my God,” she gasps, her cheeks red and water clinging to her lashes.
We tussle innocently for a few minutes before things turn sexual. They always do. We were insatiable. Always hungry. Always horny.
Then, I’m fucking her. The screen-me didn’t even wait to take all of her clothes off; he was that desperate. I hate that. I hate that I didn’t even take the time to worship her body when she was right there with me. I hate that I didn’t kiss every inch of her pink, warm skin.
I was an asshole.
Even so, when her moans fill the room, my dick wakes up. It begins leaking from the tip as things progress, as I hear myself say how pretty she is, how pretty her pussy looks, how obscenely it’s stretching over my cock. That makes her come and she shivers, undulates on the bed, her face scrunched up in an erotic frown.
Jesus, I’m gonna come in my pants, but somehow, I control myself.
I don’t stop after that. I can’t. I watch video after video. Until her happy smiles turn into vulnerable ones. Until her needy eyes turn into sad ones.
In one video she holds out her arms, staring at me with such love that in this moment, I’m pierced with it.
“Abel, hug me?” she asks.
Her sweet voice stirs my heart, fucks up my breathing. I ache with the need to bust through the screen and hug her, fulfill her wish. Fulfill all her wishes.
But the jackass in front of me says something completely different, completely bullshit.
“Jesus, Pixie. You look so fucking sexy like this. I can’t mess up this shot, baby.”
I say something else but I can’t hear. I’ve lost the capability. All I know is that I didn’t hug her when she wanted me to. I didn’t give her what she wanted. I was too lost inside my head.
How could I be there with her and not really be there?
It’s like I’m watching myself make the biggest mistake of my life. I’m watching myself jump off the cliff, but I can’t do anything about it. I’m doomed to fall. I’m doomed to slip over the edge no matter how many times I pause the video, rewind it and watch it again.
Dread is seeping into my soul but I have to do this. I have to watch my complete and utter destruction. I can’t look away. I don’t want to look away. I deserve to watch this.
I open the internet browser and search for the Skins website. I hunt down our videos and watch them one by one. Like a madman, I watch them over and over. I watch Pixie, and then, I go back to the beginning and watch myself.
I watch my face, my body, my expressions. I watch how tight my muscles look. With anger. How mean my expression seems. Again, with anger. How black my eyes are. It appears as if I’m running a fever; my flesh is so flushed and sweaty. I hear my words. Obscene, rude, mean words, asking Pixie to look in the camera, asking her to tell me how much she loves me, asking her to tell her parents how much she loves fucking me. They’re not spoken with an erotic intent, no. I’m not trying to create a fantasy like I did that first time we went to that room. I’m not trying to get her hot. I’m trying to vent.