Hanging On – SM 2019 Story #10

Reflection:

In the tenth and final round of the Smut Marathon 2019, we were tasked with writing a smutty Whodunit in which the killer isn’t revealed until the end. Below is a brief reflection about my submission, Hanging On, followed by the story in its entirety.

The pressure was on as the stakes of this round felt really high for me! It was the finals, but also as a mystery junkie, I know a bad one when I read one. What I struggled with the most was how to incorporate smut into a murder that didn’t portray sex in a negative light. Once I settled on telling the story from the perspective of the victim, that became easier, and the challenge shifted to avoiding common murder mystery tropes. I’m not quite sure I accomplished that last goal entirely, but the final result was better than the hokey ideas I’d first toyed around with. Another good stretch for me was switching between 1st and 3rd person narration without inadvertently switching point of view. Some readers commented that the story was hot, but also made them sad. I’m fine with that because I know that much of my writing tends to be at least a tad bit melancholic. It’s part of who I am. Many of my favorite stories have a sad tinge, like Patricia Cornwell’s Scarpetta series — not smut but emotionally evocative crime fiction. Ultimately, I had great fun writing this submission once the storyline became clear in my head and I’m thrilled that it helped me place in the top three of the competition. I also enjoyed incorporating elements of things I love — guitars, whiskey, and sex in cargo holds. Here’s the story…

Hanging On

It’s quite a thing to be back in my living room amidst the sunny drapes I picked out and the bookcase that always looks a bit askew in the space. It makes me smile to see my favorite hardcovers still on it, even more than one month later. I wonder if there’s a word in one of them that could ever accurately describe what comfort and familiarity feel like once they’ve been tainted with dread.

In my last moments, once I knew I was dying and my final breaths whispered past the belt compressing my windpipe, my mind wandered to what might be next. Heaven? Hell? Nothing? Entropy always fascinated me. But I was still surprised that the universe’s propensity for chaos dictated I should be stuck here — not of this earth, not of the heavens either — but here all the same. Perched beside my killer. Hanging on every word.

~

 “So, when did you become aware that Angelina was sleeping around?”

The question came rapid-fire from the detective who sat back against the armchair centered in the living room. Robert handed him some coffee then sat next to Carmen who was parked stiffly on the opposite couch.

“As I told your colleague at the station, Detective Russo, Angelina wasn’t ‘sleeping around.’ We made an arrangement that we thought might spice up our marriage,” Robert explained. “There were no secrets regarding our respective lovers.”

Russo leaned forward and placed the steaming mug on the coffee table, turning his attention to Carmen.

“Is this your understanding of it, Ms. Lopez?”

Carmen cleared her throat.

“Yes, I was aware that Angie and Rob have…had…an open marriage.”

She dug in her pocket for a tissue and dabbed at her eyes before continuing.

“I’m sorry, Detective, but why do you guys insist on asking the same questions over again. This is hard for me.” She looked at Robert. “It’s even harder for Rob. Why aren’t you out there looking for my sister’s actual killer?”

Robert placed his hand on Carmen’s shoulder, snatching it quickly away when Russo’s eyes darted to the gesture.

“I understand this is hard for you, Ms. Lopez. And for you, Mr. Garcia.” 

Russo focused on Carmen again. 

“As the people who knew her best, however, it’s important we have every detail so we can find whoever killed your sister. Angelina was likely murdered by someone she knew. So, as hard as this is, I’m going to need you to go over it again.” 

Carmen sighed. Robert shifted deeper into the cushion. They nodded, resigned.

Russo continued. “Tell me about the young guy you described to my partner — this Flynn. Where’d she meet him?”

“Angie said it was over at Blondie’s. About two months ago.”

~ 

Ah, Blondie’s! I fucking loved that place. I knew to arrive before ten to snag the prime spot at the far end of the bar. It was the best vantage point to enjoy the local bands that frequently played there. It was also where Sheila, the bartender, liked to lean whenever she could sneak in a break. I always looked forward to her witty banter and that night was no different.

“That boy is one hundred percent fuckable,” she mused as we looked upon the brooding young man tuning for his set.

I sipped my whiskey.

“Too young, don’t you think? I’d fuck the shit out of his Silverburst Gibson though. Damn, that’s one sexy ass guitar.” 

Sheila smirked.

“You and guitars, Angie. I swear, when you started coming here, I pegged you as having a thing for musicians. Who knew your thing was actually guitar porn!”

I drained my glass.

“And why can’t it be both, again?” I retorted as she walked away to greet the newest patrons.

I turned my attention back to the young buck. Sheila wasn’t wrong. Despite the positively sapling face he hid behind the dark hair cascading over his right eye, his chin belied a sculpted quality that women would drool over in a few years. Curiously, his song selection centered around 90’s Alternative. I was pretty sure he couldn’t have been more than five years old at the end of that decade. He sang well, but his real talent was in the way he picked out the richest tones from that Gibson. It made me wonder how those hands would feel strumming me.

When the last bars of Green Day’s Basket Case began, I knew it was time to take leave of my barstool and freshen up in the bathroom. Then, lipstick refreshed, I walked out the back door to the parking lot. The young buck was there, loading up his van, and beamed impishly when he saw me coming. 

“So, do I look like my pictures?” I asked, leaning against the open door of the van.

“Yeah, you absolutely do. And you weren’t kidding about how much you like your whiskey.”

I feigned attrition before retorting, “And you weren’t kidding about that gorgeous Gibson. Did you already put her away?” I peered into the van. “I’d love a closer look.”

“Sure, hop in and I’ll take her out again.”

I guffawed in response. “You want me to hop into the back of a sketchy van in an isolated parking lot? Isn’t that more like a second date kind of thing?”

Confusion shone on his face and he stammered, “I’m, I’m sorry. I’m…not trying to do anything.” He scratched his head. “But, wait, I…I thought this was how you said you wanted it to go?”

I grabbed his arm and smiled to put him out of his misery. “No, you’re getting it right, Flynn. Perfect actually. I’m just teasing.”

Moments later, I sat on the hard drum case near the back of the cargo hold. Flynn kneeled in front of me, placing the Gibson on my lap. She was still warm to the touch, much like my pussy felt at the moment, soaked with the heat of arousal. I slid my hand over the frets, past her neck, and then over to his chin.

“Are you nervous, Flynn?”

He didn’t pull his face away.

“I mean, I’m a little nervous. But we’ve been texting for so long that I kind of feel like I know you. Crazy, right?”

Cradling the Gibson against my belly, I brought my hands up to his scalp and smoothed the hair down onto both sides of his face. He continued. 

“Thanks again, by the way. Really appreciate you hooking us up to play here. We’ve been kinda hurting for gigs.”

I pulled my hands away. I had to clarify. 

“You know that wasn’t contingent on fucking me, right? I did that because I like to help people and they know me here. The rest…of…this…is only if you’re down. If you really want it.”

His lips turned up in a slanted grin I hadn’t suspected he could make based on the serious expression in his pictures.

“Oh, I want it. Want you, I mean.” 

Then, his lips were on me. The force of their landing had me leaning back over the drum case, crushing the Gibson between our bodies, his pelvis grinding against my thigh. There’s much to be said about the slow buildup of a mature, familiar lover. But just as much can be said about the vitality and vigor of young lust. 

I clawed at the back of his t-shirt, damp with the sweat of his musical exertions, but he pulled my arms off of him and over my head. Planting warm, wet kisses and nibbles to my neck, my ears, in between the folds of my arms, he pulled up on my blouse to continue the trail over my bra. When he bit down firmly on my nipple through the fabric, every electric impulse that could be generated between the synapses of my brain fired along my skin. I pushed him off and sat upright. 

“Here, take the Gibson,” I demanded, and then pulled the bra up clean over my breasts, but left it fastened and bunched up against my clavicle. I didn’t need the constriction to feed my frenzy, but it was a welcome addition. When his hands were free, I motioned for Flynn to lean back on the case where I promptly straddled him before grabbing his hands and placing them on my breasts.  

Flynn didn’t need much instruction, or at least, any more instruction. We’d been chatting about this for weeks. His intense curiosity about what I liked and how I liked it was the thing that convinced me he was worth meeting. It had also convinced Rob, whom I always consulted before a rendezvous with anyone new. I trusted his judgment implicitly, and in this case, he was right.

I’ve never been one to linger the first time with a new lover. The intoxication of new attraction normally has me insisting for it right away, balls deep and hard, because we can focus on the other stuff the second round. I don’t even orgasm from penetration, but there’s a different kind of satisfaction that comes from compelling that first orgasm from someone new. There’s power in taking it from him and leaving no doubt about the desire, want, and need to have him inside of me. Not all new lovers catch on to my ways. Those who don’t risk falling into the lazy habit of assuming I won’t expect and demand every last bit of reciprocity in the long run. I could already tell that Flynn wasn’t of that ilk as he meticulously and thoroughly worshipped my breasts and nipples with his hands, his lips, and his tongue. I felt the jolt of his susurrations in the tips of my toes.

“Scooch up and straddle my face, woman. Let me taste you.”

My response was to reach down between us and make quick work of his belt and the zipper of his jeans. Ever so carefully, but swiftly, I freed his erection, pulled out the condom I’d tucked in my handbag, and ripped it open with my teeth. Flynn tensed under me as I unrolled the latex down the drippy tip of his cock to the base. Holding his gaze, I lifted my skirt, quickly pulled the lace of my panties to the side, and with the next motion, guided his firm head fully into me. Properly impaled upon his cock, I began with slow rocking motions so that our bodies could adjust to each other and my wetness could combat the friction from the sheath. And then, I set about to take what I wanted. What I needed. I rode Flynn long and hard and heavy, eliciting nonsensical mumblings from deep in his throat. He anchored me by gripping my hips, my ass, my bouncing breasts. I felt the intensity of his climax from the heat of his cock inside me, from the force with which he grabbed my hair, and from the way he brought my ear down to his mouth so he could speak the words I wanted to hear as he crested.  “Angelina…fuck…Angelina”

~

“Angie liked Flynn,” Robert explained. “I know she saw him a few times. But, as I said, I’d been overseas on business. We couldn’t talk as often while I was away, so I don’t know the last time she saw him. Kills me that I hadn’t talked to my Angie in almost twenty-four hours when Carmen finally reached me with…the news.”

 Russo nodded. 

“All of this is helpful. We got that guy, Flynn, coming down to the station tomorrow for a formal interview. Now, Ms. Lopez, you told my partner that there was a new guy, a more recent guy? Tell me about him.”

Robert leaned forward and put his head in his hands, trailing his fingers through his salt and pepper hair.

Carmen cringed. “I’m sorry, this is hard for Rob. He didn’t know there was a new guy until Angie’s texts finally came through on his phone once he landed back in the states.”

“Yes, I saw the transcript of those texts,” Russo responded. “Didn’t say much, though. Not even his name or if she’d decided to actually meet him. Did Angelina say anything more about him? Describe him?”

“No,” Carmen piped in quickly. “I wish she had, but she didn’t. And I didn’t ask. Wish I had.”

“Ok,” Russo declared and rose to his feet. “I’ll be back in touch after I talk to that Flynn. Pity we don’t have Angelina’s phone to run through forensics, but we’re still working on her computer.”

“Thank you, Detective Russo,” Robert said, reaching to shake his hand. “My Angie would have wanted us to stay hopeful. That was her way. Please. Help us find her killer.”

“I’ll do my very best,” Russo responded as he made his way out. “And please, call me Christopher.” 

~

Yes. The new guy. Also the last guy. I’d been attracted by Flynn’s openness, but with the new guy, it was all about his mystery. His dating profile hadn’t shown his face, however, the picture of his Boston Terrier disarmed me. I’ve always been a sucker for big ‘ol puppy eyes. And as another Friday night loomed last month with Rob still away, the impending solitude of the weekend got the better of me. I had agreed to a quick face-to-face on the crowded street a few blocks from my job. He’d looked pleasant enough. Very neat, if not a bit reserved. When he offered me a ride to the nearby coffee house for a chat, his police cruiser disarmed me, too. With only a brief hesitation, I’d hopped in. Nowadays, I spend much of my time in it, with him, because the universe has seen fit to tether my restless soul to my killer.  

Christopher has been getting nervous. I think he’s begun to sense my presence, which doesn’t stop him from talking to himself when sleep eludes him most nights. And he’s getting sloppy. My cell phone still sits in his glove compartment. My heart catches as we drive away from my house, but I suspect it won’t be the last time I see my favorite crooked bookcase. Those sunny drapes. Rob’s sorrowful expression. Carmen’s tear-stained face. 

Yes, I’m sure we’ll go back at some point, so he can dig deeper, find an angle. He’s intent on finding someone to pin this on so he can move on to the next woman. Fuck, I hope he never does. I’m worried about Flynn and Carmen.  At least my Rob is safe. But, as ever, I’ll stay hopeful and ask the universe to keep me right here until Christopher gets caught or dies. What a morbid existence for my nostalgic, wanderlusting soul. In more ways than one. At least the music he plays over the radio isn’t bad. It’s Metallica today as we drive down the road. Damn, that Kirk Hammett can shred. And there’s Blondie’s! I wonder who’s keeping my stool warm. 

Post Image Credit: Carolyna Luna