I'm in love. The secret's out. She had a sneaking suspicion!

News article on our house burning down: dailyme.com/story/201004280000…

I found this in my text folder. Might turn into something, but I also found something ELSE that caught my attention and am working on now.

"She lived in the apartment right above him. They would meet each other sometimes, entering the building.
When she smiled at him, he smiled back but it was always a consciously closed mouth response.
He would see her in the dim hallway, holding grocery bags; the white of the plastic contrasting with purple bruises across her wrists. At night he could hear her rough thumps and sometimes she would come down the second floor stairs and  kiss a man goodbye in the morning.
He didn’t make eye contact with her on those days.
At work, between the time it took for the computer to dial a number for a survey, he wrote about her because she was his crush girl. There were girls he thought were pretty at work, but they didn’t notice him. A few of his friends were pretty also, but they were in relationships and so were just ok for the occasional fantasy.
There were notebooks full of poem doodles, of terse vignettes. Sentences about blonde hair and goddess eyes. He’d finish a survey, the computer would look for another number and he’d think about what her lips must feel like. The smell of her cuddled up against him.
And how he’d never push her around. Bruises scarring her beauty.


*****

She saw him some mornings. He was cute, in a shy puppy manner. Intimidated by her smile. Never looked at her on mornings she’d kiss her Master goodbye. Silly subbie boys.
She would think that maybe she should be more switch; it might be fun. She thought of herself as mentally domme, but physically sub. To get inside a boy’s head and then have him hurt the fuck out of her.
It had been  amazingly boring at work. Hardly anyone checked out books in the summer, so she mostly spent her hours reading. Vonnegut, Miller, in the kids section because they had the comfiest cushions.


****

To say her gun was sexy, was like saying the sun was bright. It was everything. Man in metaphor. Hard. Cold, but warmed when inside her. Danger. The power to destroy her while making her feel like a goddess.
It was a 500 S&W Magnum. Silver metal, with a barrel length of 8.75 perfect inches. Only half an inch in diameter, but it made that up with its attitude. And sometimes the grip. It was black textured rubber, and when she fucked herself, her fingers wrapped around the grip like she was holding rosary beads in prayer.
She had shelved about a million books to buy the thing. Feeling like a secret whore –blood rushing to her lips as she brought order to her section of the library.
It was so much better than fisting. Her Dom was good at that, but it was like scratching an itch on your leg through your jeans. She didn’t tell him about her gun fetish; that kind of power, you could only keep for yourself. Sometimes after he’d leave, she’d have to do herself to get the ambition to start her day.
"