Disclaimer: Not mine - none of it.

Sunflower Dress

There is no relief from the warm breeze blowing in from the sea.

The sun is set high and it scorches down turning the air into a thick and sickening simmer of liquid humidity. Like being locked into a sauna with a hairdryer blowing hot air in your face. Locked into a sauna with your least favorite people.

He is irritable, sweaty and in an abysmally aggravated mood. Damn the sun and damn the nitty-grittyness of sand getting in everywhere. He throws a glance her way. Bitch. He can't remember whatever drew him in before. Now, as he looks at her, all he sees is a trivial, screwed-up selfish female, of not much worth to humanity. He snorts to himself.

She looks weird today. Dressed in a silly sundress with large yellow and black blotches all over. He imagines they could be sunflowers. The odd innocence of the dress is a perversion on her. Her voice as she calls out sounds sharp and nasal to him now. He shudders and looks away. The intensity of his antipathy towards her is irrational and unreasonable. But heck if he cares! He just hates, yes hates the mere sight of her.

He braces himself using his arms, shakily getting up on his legs. Better try to find some sort of shelter from this bitch of a sun too. He starts off towards the tree line. Knowing that he will find little else than the clammy, muggy heat combined with the itch of insects inside the jungle but needing to get away, away from her. He'll take the creepy-crawlies or the bugs any day rather than this. Being around her.

He finds a spot under some tall trees, after a futile check for obvious signs of annoying fire ants or other unwelcome creatures, he makes himself comfortable with his book. He holds it in front of his eyes, leans his forehead against it, absolutely unable to read. His mind is continuously detouring. He cannot believe that after having traveled so far he is back right where he started. The only difference being that now he has someone to miss. The longing is at the opposite end of the spectrum of his hatred for the other one. It is a calm, unemotional, completely rational yearning for what has been lost.

She, in his mind, is almost motherly, with her beautiful, tranquil strength. He suspects that her maternal qualities are at the core of his love for her. Oh hell, whom is he kidding? She was a mother-figure to him. She had filled a void left a long time ago and it had helped him heal some. She had never asked about all that nastiness in the past and he had never told her. His love for her had been one of humbled gratitude and a warm steadfast affection. No fireworks, no insane irrational passion, though he hadn't missed that either. Honest to God he hadn't. It had fulfilled him in a way that he did not understand. Normally a man with needs and cravings for a fast and easy fix, he had settled into a life that he'd have sneered at in the past.

Now she is gone. And her absence has caused him to regress back into irate hostility, into not belonging, not owning a purpose. While the other one, that useless girly-girl, is always around. He wishes her to hell's end. But she is omnipresent, the incessant reminder of his loss and the enormity of that loss. She seems totally oblivious to the wreckage she has caused and the lives that she has ruined with the same reckless inconsideration that has shaped her own destiny. Her life permanently in shambles, she does not even seem to have the decency to feel remorse. Oh, may she rot in hell. Or anywhere, just not here. Not in front of his eyes.

Infernal heat! He shifts edgily on his spot. His shirt is itchy and adhering to his clammy skin. It is almost unbearable. Even his own skin feels like an appalling burden to wear. The vision of a lizard shedding its skin comes into mind. Yeah thats right, he thinks to himself. He is back to being no more than a reptile. He is a lowlife, with no guilt, no real emotions, just survival instincts and self-interest to guide him.

He really is no better than her. Not much. For a while he had thought so. He had really managed to convince himself that he could be more. Could be a better man. Aw, sod it all. He gets up on his feet again. The heat making him slightly nauseated and disoriented. He sets off towards the path but realizes that he must have taken a wrong turn among the dense bushes at the periphery of the jungle. And then, a step out in nothingness, in a flash he sensed falling into darkness and oblivion.

He must have lied there forever. When he comes to on the moist forest floor with a ledge looming above him, it is already late. It is near dusk, and the last of the days rays lie low between the trees. His head is pounding and wetter than the humidity warrants. He pats his fingertips against his scalp, red as he draws them down towards his eyes. Injured but not too bad, he thinks. Got to get back to the beach before total darkness falls. Rickety legs like a newborn calf as he swears while he pushes his way through. Finally he stumbles out in sand, the familiarity of his beach.

And there, what seems like a lifetime away, lies his shelter.

Its dreary tarp flapping annoyingly in the wind. He spots the doc then, far enough away, sitting by the newly lit evening bonfire. A dull, pathetic figure, his elbows resting on his knees with his back curved desolately. In spite of the fading sunlight and the distance, he can see from here that the doc is a disheveled, unwashed heap of a man. At first he thinks to call out but then catches himself. The doc is the beach-village idiot now. An empty eyed, catatonic shell of a man to be cared for, to be pitied. Withdrawn into whatever meager inner world still exists in his unkempt thick doctors skull. No longer a hero. He feels a strange compassion for the shaggy-bearded doc now. Though logic tells him that what has happened is the docs fault first and foremost, he still cannot feel anything else but deep inexplicable pity for him.

She - she is different.

He blames her. She is guilty, no doubt about it, both for ruining the docs life as well as his own. His head is throbbing and blood is still weeping out of the wound. He wavers there at the spot for a moment. Not knowing exactly what to do next. His body twitches back involuntarily as he feels a slim arm, snaking forward, encircling him from the back. His instinct is to push, to hit, hurt, get away, because anything, anywhere, would be better than this. Here with her. Because he knows who's arm it is without even turning to face his attacker.

He can smell her.

He sees red, not knowing if it is his flaring anger or true honest-to-god blood dripping down over his eyes. The wooziness, a moment of vulnerability, allows his enemy to draw close. He falls forwards, almost bringing her down with him. But she catches him, heavy as he is, by the power of the sheer innate stubbornness she possesses. She does not speak a word. Just drags him onwards towards his own shelter. She sets him down there at the back of his tent, outside in the sand on an upturned bucket.

She seems prepared for this somehow. As if she knew he would come stumbling with a bloody scull, disoriented and weak, through the woods. He watches as she pours some fresh water from a bottle into a plastic container. Her body, girlishly lean and muscular, is looking odd in the frilly sundress. She has a clean rag in her hand. At least he hopes it is clean. She throws two more in the water of the container where it splashes up on his trousers.

She is strangely docile and placid while dabbing feebly with the wet rag at his wound. It freaks him out. Had he not been overcome by the nausea and dizziness he would have kicked her to the curb like the dog she is. Bitch. He mouths the word. She doesn't see, or chooses not to. Busying herself with his scalp wound. Her hair is messy and loose, defiant curls falling in her face, sticking to her skin, getting in her way.

She looks worn-out and her forehead glossy from sweat. He derives a deep pleasure out of this. Knowing that she has suffered under the sun all day, just like he has. He realizes that he must be pretty cut up. He can see pink in is hair as water drips from it, visible at the corner of his eyes. She tries dolefully to clean out the worst, working slowly and ineffectively. He wonders if she does it out of guilt. As if a hair-wash would wash away her sins. As if it would make screwing up his comfy life alright.

As if!

He clinches his jaw and looks straight ahead. His eyes wander off on their own accord towards the edge of that idiotic dress skimming the water-container as she struggles to clean him up. She balances gingerly between his thighs, careful not to brush up against him. Her skinny fucking knees visible as she stands up. The evening is taking over now, and the only light reaching here is the warm orange glow of a crudely made torch she or somebody else has placed in the sand nearby his tent. Still, and he doesnt know how he manages to make this out, he notices that she has freckles on her knees. If he had felt anything else than pure repulsion towards her, he might even have found it endearing. Now it is just infuriating. He feels himself glowering there, sitting on his bucket, angry with himself for not having the strength to tell her to bugger off, to shove her away and throw her silly bucket after her.

His eyes travel upwards. He knows this is a mistake. Damn his eyes to hell for not obeying. Her breasts are moving under that obnoxious sundress as she breathes. She must have borrowed it, stolen it perhaps, but he knows for sure that it isnt hers. Stupid, fricking sunflowers. Who does she think she is fooling? He senses the shape of her nipples moving under the fabric. No bra, figures.

Trashy.

It was such a long time ago. All cream skin and freckles in places where there should be none. Oh fuck. She sure is taking her sweet time with him. What the hell is she playing at? Hands annoyingly slow and gentle. It pisses him off more than he can explain. He lifts his own hands up to swat hers away like you take a swipe at an annoying insect and surprises himself when instead his hands pull at the top if her dress.

The elastic easily giving way, her breasts tumbling out in front of him. She is still finally. Her hands hold on sheepishly to the hair by his temples. He has managed to catch her off guard completely, and frankly, himself too. She draws in sharply. A little 'huh' escapes as she catches the air in her mouth. That will teach you to wear a bra, he thinks and then his thoughts are not his own anymore. Skin on skin. Wayward hands that don't want to stay still, roaming, wandering. Nipples that he can feel but not really see clearly in the sparse light from the torch. But he remembers a shy shade of pink. Hands that travel apprehensively, slowly over her. Barely touching. Full round little breasts bobbing slightly under his hands. Goosebumps. It makes him feel smug.

Her skin remembers.

He reaches down in the bucket, picks up one of the wads, not really knowing what he is doing. Not owning this moment. Leaning on his haunches , his hand lifted upwards where he lets the cool moisture drip down her front, the water making little rivers across the light skin of her breasts. She watches him, eyes in wide surprise in the dim light. She is completely still as he catches the trickle from the tips with his mouth. Lips and tongue that find their way there, soft at first, hesitant even. Her smell uniquely hers; sweet, tangy and intoxicating. Ripe plum, vanilla and the salty sea breeze intermingled.

The cloth, dipped again in the chilly water only to travel up a different route under the hem of her dress. Still she doesn't move, doesn't make a sound but he can feel her grip in is hair tightening. She doesn't protest and he hates her for it. Like a bitch in heat, letting anyone or anything in. He finds her center, slides his hand inside the flimsy underwear, pushing the fabric to the side. Cool wet fingers and soaking cold water against her. Now she stirs, sliding legs apart to let him reach better. Horny little hussy. Silky smooth skin and peach fuss.

He knows he shouldn't.

It is about control, it has always been, and he realizes that he has never been in control of her. It has always been at her initiative, at her premises and on her conditions. Giving just so much and not a fraction more, just to turn around and take it all back. He tugs her underwear down, letting them fall in a wet sandy heap at her feet. He lifts the edge of that ridiculous dress, stroking cool fingers against her feverish skin. She makes a little sound then and he lowers his mouth there.

It feels like retribution.

For what, he doesn't know. Light tentative kisses on the waiting skin of her inner thigh. His hand pries them further apart. She tastes of sun and sweat and woman. The one. Two words that float by in his consciousness. He doesn't know what they mean. Doesn't want to know. Lips teasing, tongue running over her delicious wetness, dripping water down her thighs until she squeaks something that sounds like please. His chest is full, angry and aching, his lips on her, fingers inside, smooth and wet and wonderful and he wonders if he has turned into a fucking romantic.

He glances upwards, seeing the insane curve of her breast heaving under his touch, the girlish tips taut, pointing upwards. Her hands grips his head firmer now, shamelessly pulling him in, opening herself up indiscriminately. He dips his hand in the bucket, cold dripping fingers stroking at her, parting her folds for his mouth. He breathes up on her, blows light feathery puffs, he breathes her in. He allows himself a little moment of giving into her.

Someone calls out then from beyond, further along the beach.

"Hey, we can see you from here you know!"

Miles maybe? Hell - he doesn't care. This is her humiliation, not his. She is so close, and she chooses not to hear. Flaunting herself to him and the world, holding up her own dress now. Shameless bitch. She knows she is beautiful. She pushes herself closer to the apex, with small movements, soaking wet from water and her own moisture. Who knows what is what? Who cares? Her head falling forward, her chin pointing downwards, her dark hair loose around her face, hiding her from him.

He thinks with contempt, that he can have her there and then if he wants. Just lie her down on the sand, open her thighs wide apart and fuck her senseless in front of whoever cares to watch. But he doesn't. He doesn't want to give her that. Can't afford to give her that. She is too damaged, too screwed up, too selfish. So he pulls away, deliberately cruel. His mouth, lips and hands abandon her. He leaves her gasping, unfulfilled, frustrated, he hopes. He is reminded of his headache as he pulls himself up towering above her.

It takes all his energy to get his feet to obey, to lead him away from her.

She just stands there. Dumbfounded. Skirt hiked up showing smooth, slim thighs, the soft white of her breasts still spilling out over the top of her dress. The urge to pull her back in again is overwhelming. Stupid sunflowers. Even in the sparse light he can see the flush on her face. The hurt and the lust intermingled in her insipid green eyes. He sees water dripping down between her legs. He cant look at her eyes. He mustn't.

"Why? Why did you do it?" comes her strangled whisper.

He turns with a forced smirk and pretended animosity.

"You seemed like you needed cooling off. Now scram! Git!"

He crouches down, lifting the tarp of his tent, ducking inside, his heart pounding frantically. Horny bitch, he thinks as he tries to gain control over his own racing pulse and the regret that fills him up.

He dreams about her that night. The one. Green catlike eyes and skirt lifted wantonly, parted legs hinting a glistering wetness. A sweet goofy smile and thighs spread, just for him.

All fluid cream skin and freckles

The one. The only one.