The Apartment
F-solo, mast, sad
(C) 2003 Astyanax Waynewright
Astyanax_Waynewright at Yahoo dot com

	Keys rattle, the lock turns, and the heavy door opens inward. A small, young girl enters the dim apartment, backpack slung over her left shoulder, purse over her right. She closes the door behind her, takes her shoes off, and places them on the rack next to her sandals, her slippers, and two pairs of dusty black men’s business shoes. Moving into the living room, she doesn’t bother looking at the answering machine. She knows there won’t be any messages.
	Backpack on the couch, purse on the coffee table. Soft socks pad their way into the kitchen, on the cool linoleum floor that was waxed by a cleaning service earlier this morning. The lemony scent still hangs in the still air. Refrigerator open, and pause to look at the contents.
	Mustard, ketchup, mayonnaise, relish, Tabasco. A lone stick of butter, sitting on the bottom shelf above the box where vegetables should be. A handful of wine coolers, some beer, and a Tupperware container full of... Something.
	A slim wrist reaches in, pulls back, grasping a pina-colada flavored wine cooler. It’s large in the small hands, and the condensation glistens on the fingers, polished nails looking on. Close the refrigerator, open the freezer. Microwave dinners. Frozen hot dogs. Hot pockets. The freezer door is nudged closed by a shapely thigh. Eyes flick over to the countertop, looking at the roll of bills that is her food and allowance money, calculating. The eyes glance back at the refrigerator.
Looks like Pizza Hut tonight.
	The socks pad back to the living room, pausing briefly to set the drink down on the coffee table, then move down a hall and into a bedroom. As the socks move, the girl reaches back, grabs the cotton of her shirt, and pulls it forward over her head. As she enters the bedroom, she tosses it carelessly into a large bin in the corner. A moment later, a pink brassiere joins it.
	The girl stops to admire herself in the mirror. Her breasts are young, firm, and not quite filled out. Her hands reach up, feeling her cheeks, the smooth skin of her face maintained by a careful regimen of creams and moisturizers. The cool air of the apartment begins to chill her skin as her hands move down to her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. She clasps her arms to her bosom for a moment, staring intently at herself.
	She is not vain, not much more so than any of her classmates, anyway. She takes care of herself, but is not obsessive. But she does recognize herself, her image, her body, for what it is. An object of lust. Desire. Passion. Sexuality. The boys that ogle her at gym, the male teachers that stare at her chest, and even the women that occasionally stare, entranced, she knows the effect she has on them, and enjoys it. But she wants more than simple attention.
	Her legs become raised in goosebumps as she pulls her shorts and panties off, then tosses them in the corner. Kneeling down next to the bed, she reaches beneath the mattress, the silk sheets caressing her arms up to her elbows. Her arms pull back out, holding a small brown bag.
The brown paper bag unrolls and opens as the socks pad their way back into the living room. A slim black dildo falls into her hand, followed by another, smaller, plastic bag. There is a soft sigh as the couch feels her weight upon it, the fabric cool in the air conditioned apartment. A quick twist, and the bottle is opened, cap tossed carelessly onto the table next to the purse. Remote control, power on.
Pornography.
	Again.
	She takes a long, deep, pull on the bottle, savoring the sweet, fruity drink as it dances across her tongue, cascades down her throat. She retrieves a small lighter from the brown paper bag, and lights the slim joint of marijuana, inhaling deeply, holding, holding, holding, exhaling. The joint finds a familiar resting place on an ashtray, shared by many of it’s kind. The dildo begins to tease her, gently moving along her inner thighs, as she leans back, the socks resting on the edge of the coffee table.
	On the television, sex. Groaning, moaning, grunting, sweating. Cries of pleasure, pleas for more. Her vision begins to dull slightly, her eyes unfocusing as the cool drink mixes with the inner warmth it gives, dances with the heady sensation from the marijuana, and caresses the warmth slowly beginning to spread from her thighs.
	The movie keeps playing, the bottle empties, the joint disappears, and eventually the noises from the television are drowned out by the girl’s own cries, as she drives the rubber toy deep within her, her body spasming in ecstasy as a powerful orgasm shudders through her slim frame. She is covered in sweat, a tight sheen of moisture along her belly, her thighs, her forehead. Her juices have dampened the sofa cushions, a wet spot that leads from her warm sex, running down the black rubber, along her fingers and hands, down the front of the sofa.
	She keeps thrusting at herself with one hand, more violently and passionately, as she desperately rubs herself with the other, willing a second orgasm to come forth. And come forth it does, a second frenzy of rubbing as her back arches in ecstasy and she screams in pleasure, tears streaming from her eyes and mixing with the sweat on her flushed face.
	Her hands go slack, and the rubber toy falls to the carpet with a soft sound. She turns on her side, drawing her legs up to her chest, the sweat-dampened socks resting near her buttocks, and she begins to cry. Long, desperate, wracking sobs as she slowly curls into a ball, the waves of pleasure slowly receding before a deeper, darker force.
	She lays in her sweat, her tears, and her juices as she cries herself to sleep, tears burning in her eyes, the smell of pineapple and coconut on her breath. She will stay in this position, nude on the couch, the television blaring sex, until she awakens, in the middle of the night, to shower and order a pizza. 
	She doesn’t bother to turn the television off. She doesn’t bother to dress herself. She doesn’t bother to check the four other rooms in the apartment for anyone else who may be here. She doesn’t bother to worry about what her parents would say if they saw their daughter, sleeping nude on the couch, pornography blaring on the television, an empty wine cooler bottle on the coffee table, the smell of pot in the air and a dildo laying on the floor. She doesn’t bother to worry because she knows her parents aren’t home, and won’t be home any time soon.
	Her parents are never home.